“There’s only one thing a romance book absolutely must have, with no exceptions,” my boss explained to me seriously, spreading out a bunch of the types of titles we published and sold – regency romances with dashing princes on the cover, paranormal erotica with sultry vampires and butch werewolves, and our speciality: rockstar romances with shirtless tattooed men clad in leather.
“Fucking,” I answered. “Or, you know, at least general horniness. Foreplay?”
