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ask.
    â€œFingers crossed.” Sasha smiles. It’s taken her all morning to loosen up, but even then it’s still only confined to my office. Whenever Sasha walks out to get coffee or make a copy of something, I can see her purposefully shove her shoulders back with a little shake of the head and a huffed breath. I watch her walk through the bull pen, not actually looking at anyone yet completely aware that they’re all looking at her. And then she closes the door to my office and she takes all those airs off like a heavy winter coat.
    â€œBut, at its core, the book is about becoming your own heroine,right? It’s supposed to be empowering. I mean, isn’t the title based on that Nora Ephron quote: ‘Be the heroine of your life, not the victim’?” I say, flipping through the pages.
    â€œI mean, maybe—but Brubaker’s is better. Be the heroine, so you can find a hero. Be the heroine—”
    â€œFind your hero, yep. Wouldn’t want to . . . sure, I got it. But if we used this book as a jumping-off point, we might have something,” I say.
    â€œWhat . . . I mean, how would that work?” Sasha eyes the Chinese takeaway container of rice but takes a long drink of her bottle of water instead.
    â€œClearly, this book is what women want right now. Whether it’s the book itself or the message. If we could tap into that trend . . . that idea of empowering women or seeing ourselves as romance novel heroines or whatever it is. That’s it. It’s exactly what we’re looking for, don’t you think?”
    â€œThat’s brilliant,” Sasha says. She smiles and I can see her mind start working.
    â€œWhat else do we know about this Helen Brubaker?” I ask. I find her website and click around.
    â€œShe’s kind of a legend,” Sasha says.
    â€œSeriously,” I say, reading the biography. I click on the tag Books . “She must have written over a hundred books.”
    â€œThat’s why she’s such an expert,” Sasha parrots. I click on Events to see if there’s one where we can see her speak or if she’s into that sort of thing at all. I don’t know what I’m looking for yet, but I know it’s somewhere down this rabbit hole. I scan through her various speaking engagements, book signings, and Be the Heroine retreats, and find an event coming up where Mrs. Brubaker will be.
    â€œWhat’s RomanceCon?” I ask, clicking on the link. I turn the computer screen so Sasha can see it, too.
    â€œIt’s the annual conference for romance novels in Phoenix,” Sasha says, leaning forward.
    A click and my entire computer becomes a circus of reds and blacks. Large, flowery script writing announces RomanceCon all along the top of the website. I flick through photos of lines of fans wending their way around hotels, huge romance novel covers blown up and hanging aloft, and beautiful men in various states of undress like some kind of debaucherous slideshow.
    â€œIt’s a conference about romance novels,” I repeat.
    â€œAll the famous authors are there. They have tons of panels and workshops. A huge book signing, nightly parties— theme parties—and then? They have a pageant for the guys on the covers.” Sasha takes the Be the Heroine book, closes it up, and points to the ridiculous he-man on the cover. “Him. Those guys. Can you imagine?” Sasha has now draped herself across my desk and is speaking more animatedly than I’ve yet seen her.
    â€œNo, I cannot. I can’t imagine what any of that would actually look like outside of my nightmares.”
    â€œIs Helen Brubaker going to be at this year’s?” Sasha pulls my computer screen toward her, helping herself to my mouse as she ably clicks around the website.
    â€œDo you read these? Romance novels?”
    â€œOf course. I love them!” Sasha finds the schedule of events and begins scrolling through