Chapter 1

My name is Anna. I have long grown tired of this house on the upper end of the East Village in the great New York City. I am a bestselling romance novelist, however, I am sad to tell you that I’ve never felt true love in my life: I’ve only ever been with pessimists, liars, cheaters, and even stealers, but what can I say?

I love to write and at least I adore the characters contained within these pages I labour away at day by day: Currently, I am working on a book titled, “Harry and Sally’s One-Night Stand.” It’s about two individuals who have a one-night stand and fall in love immediately as a result: fiction at its finest, but, like I said, it pays the rent and it is far better than the multitude of jobs one could have in New York City.

Sometimes, it’s an ailment for my heartbreak, yet, other times, it seems to make it worse. I have a torrid love affair with romance writing: a passion that has turned into a profession. A possession of sorts, really. Perhaps I see men as knights in shining armour when I walk down the bustling streets of the city. Afterall, I suppose someone has to.

Here I am, alone, in my apartment, writing my romance novel. This is the story of my life. My agent calls and I dial his number: Andy McNober is his name. He’s quite a little fox, he is.

“Hello, Miss Annette Baker?”

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to change the first three chapters of the novel about the princess in England. It just doesn’t fit with the rest of the story. The heroine’s fit about not wanting to be with a certain man makes her far too unlikeable, and I think more readers would buy it if we cut that out.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you!”

I say, forcing a professional tone over the phone while I’m reeling on the inside.

I cannot believe this! Honestly! The nerve. The absolute nerve of this man. That was the whole point of the story. Isabella did not want to marry Henry, that’s why she liked Joseph, but whatever...I’ll change it.

I sigh, acknowledging that this is my lot in life since I’ve chosen to be a writer: I can only hope, one day, that I won’t have to edit large chunks of my story out of my work in order to change it. That is torment at its finest, I tell you: torment at its finest!

I sip on some lavender tea to relieve my feelings of complete and utter frustration and then I decide I will go shopping.

Retail therapy has always done the trick, and I have more than enough money to buy as many clothes in the world as I could ever want, so why not? Why can’t I do that? There’s nothing wrong with treating myself.

I head over to the mall and I park as far away as I can: I sit enough as it is and I like to fit in as much exercise as possible when I’m out on the town: after all, I don’t know what will happen next in New York City; it’s quite hectic here and I ought to be prepared for the worst.

I strut inside. I’ve worn my stiletto heels, my lipstick, and my best dress in case I run into any fans. A young kid runs up to me and says, “Hey! Annette! I love your work! I just finished your story about the woman who falls in love with a chef in Paris! It’s amazing! I want to go to France now! My parents aren’t too thrilled about it, but I’ll take them into it!”

She grins and I can’t help but smile.

I have to admit that this is one of the few perks of the job these days.

I continue walking and I see a man who is following me. At least, he seems to be. He’s quite handsome, and looks like he’s Spanish, or maybe Italian. I can’t seem to tell which is absolutely shameful.

I continue walking, picking up my pace. He nonchalantly stops, as if he’s noticed that I have picked up on what he’s doing, and then walks into….Victoria’s Secret….the nerve.

I suppose he has a wife back home….or maybe it’s for his mistress?

I begin formulating a scandalous narrative in my mind.

I continue walking and he catches up to me once more. I see him from a quick backwards glance but I pretend not to notice.

I continued walking and eventually I headed to my car. He kept following me and said I was beautiful. I told him thank you, and said I had a lot of work to do so I had to head home.

“It’s alright,” he answered, “I just wanted to let you know you look absolutely gorgeous in that dress!”

I blushed.

“Thank you!” I answered.

I drove him, unable to get the man out of my head, but I wasn’t sure if this was good or bad.

Who does that? The nerve.

I went about my life and everything was fine. I kept writing, going out to eat by myself, and, sometimes, with my girlfriends.