One of the reasons I love writing small-town romance is because small towns don’t let you forget your crushes.
Ever.
I was reminded of that recently while thinking about high school and some of the stories that eventually find their way into my books.
One memory stands out.
It was my senior year. I was squeezed into the front seat of a pickup truck between two country boys who were a year or two younger than me. (If you grew up in a small town, you already know exactly what kind of truck I’m talking about). Dust on the floorboards. Country music on the radio. The kind of vehicle that had probably seen more dirt roads than paved ones.
I had a crush on one of them.
Naturally, I thought I was hiding it brilliantly.
I was not.
At some point, he figured it out. Maybe someone told him. Maybe I turned bright red every time he talked to me. Whatever happened, he knew.
And I was mortified.
The funny thing is that he was probably one of the sweetest boys I’ve ever known. Quiet. Kind. The type who listened more than he talked. Looking back, I realize I always had a weakness for the quiet ones.
In fact, I eventually married one.
But at seventeen, all I knew was that my crush knew I liked him, and I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.
Then he tried to hold my hand.
(Cliffhanger, I know! Hopefully you'll be back for the next installation!).
