No matter what I have going on during the day – packing my kids’ lunches, chatting with fellow commuters on my train, working at the day job, doing laundry, yada, yada, yada, I have romance on the brain.

There’s just no getting around it. Everyone I encounter is a potential character. Every snippet of overheard conversation is vulnerable to a literary adaptation. And nearly everything that happens can be morphed into a potential plot point.

It’s like a curse, really.

A few weeks back, I had the privilege of addressing a local troop of Girl Scouts in the midst of earning their Scribe patch. When one of young ladies asked why I don’t write kids books, I explained that romance novels are like kids’ books for adults because we need happy endings, too.

I thought my husband had the corner on romance. Always ready with chocolate and flowers on big days, he goes out of his way on the rest of them to make sure I know I’m loved. By him. For the past 25 years.

I’m never left wanting for good morning kisses, hugs when I least expect them, warm food to eat when I get home, my favorite wine at the ready, and a steady supply of my favorite chocolate.

And that’s like a blessing, really.

Now, if I could just get him to hand over the remote.