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for Helen Brubaker.
    â€œBut aren’t they . . . I mean, come on,” I say, keeping the flush at bay.
    â€œHave you ever read one?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen you can’t say anything.”
    â€œI just—”
    â€œWhat I find is that the people who insult romance novels the most have never tried to actually read one.”
    â€œI haven’t tried letting a wild dog bite me in the face, either, but—”
    â€œUh-huh,” Sasha says, her eyes narrowed.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat’s your favorite movie of all time?” Sasha asks, now sitting on my desk.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œJust answer the question. What is your favorite—”
    â€œLadyhawke.” No doubt.
    â€œLadyhawke?”
    â€œIt’s this 1980s cheesefest with Rutger Hauer, Michelle Pfeiffer, and a very young, adorable Matthew Broderick,” I say, my voice now animated.
    â€œI’ve never even—”
    â€œ Isabeauuu! ” I say, my fist shooting into the sky.
    â€œWhat now?”
    â€œOh, that’s what Navarre yells. He’s the captain of the guard and she’s the beauty that the evil guy coveted. But she loves Navarre! So”—I dip down and my voice becomes serious—“the evil guy cursed them. By day she is a hawk and by night he is a wolf.”
    â€œShe’s a ladyhawke. Ah. I see,” Sasha says, laughing. I shoot her the side-eye as I try to decide if she’s making fun of me or not. Hmpf .
    â€œHe had this amazing black horse,” I say, sighing.
    â€œDid he now,” Sasha says, taking a delicate sip of her water.
    â€œAnd there’s this brieeeef moment at sunrise and sunset when they can aaaalmost touch each other, but no ! It cannot be!” I say, exhausted by it all. I lie back in my office chair, succumbing to the utter brilliance. “I’ve been waiting for Navarre my entire life. Navarre or Han Solo.”
    â€œSo, that’s what it’s like to love romance novels,” Sasha says.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat if I told you Ladyhawke was stupid?” she says.
    â€œUm, what?”
    â€œYeah. It’s cheesy and lame and who cares,” she says.
    â€œBut Isabeauuu !” I wail. Sasha just looks at me. “Also, you just said you haven’t even seen it, so . . .” Sasha arches an eyebrow. She waits.
    Oh. Wait.
    â€œAh,” I say. Sasha smugly eats another piece of her sashimi and lets her genius wash over me.
    â€œAnd before you say it’s not, it is exactly the same thing. I’ve been reading romance novels since I was thirteen. And the way you lit up when you talked about that Ladyhawke movie?”
    â€œThat Ladyhawke masterpiece, you mean,” I say.
    â€œI’m just saying.” Sasha shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with thinking men should be a bit more like Navarre and a little less like”—she motions to the bull pen—“guys who only want one thing.” She looks down at her lap and starts picking at her fingernails. “Nothing wrong with a little honor.”
    â€œNo, I guess not,” I say, unable to look at her.
    Sasha hops off my desk and motions for me to get up out of my desk chair. “My turn.” I stand, take my sushi, and settle in one of the client chairs on the opposite side of the desk. “Okay,The Brubaker is going to be there for . . . it looks like a whole one-day workshop. That would be so amazing.”
    â€œWe’re just calling her ‘The Brubaker’ now?”
    â€œI still don’t get what this has to do with Lumineux,” Sasha says, her eyes flicking over to me between orgasmic outbursts about something else going on at this year’s RomanceCon.
    â€œI don’t know, either. I almost have it. It’s . . . it’s part empowering women. Part seeing yourself as a heroine. Part escapism. Part of it can be that honor you were talking about. Maybe it’s a little bit