A personalized romance novel, written for you.

From chapter one

At four minutes past ten, the iron gate at the brick sidewalk groaned against its hinges.

Clara did not move to the front window. She stood beside the heavy soapstone sink in the kitchen, filled the kettle from the cold tap until the water level reached precisely two inches below the rim, and set it on the smallest cast-iron burner. She adjusted the blue ring of flame so it did not curl upward around the kettle’s black base.

Footsteps took the granite stoop: slow, heavy, broken by the metallic clink of luggage hardware. A flat, double rap sounded against the oak exterior door.

Clara dried her palms on a cotton towel, folded the cloth once lengthwise over the stove rail, and walked down the runner into the hall.

Julian Thorne stood on the threshold between the open storm door and the jamb. He wore a dark, heavy wool coat with frayed cuff threads, a mustard-colored scarf looped twice around his neck, and a pair of scuffed Blundstone boots that were already shedding fine dried gravel onto the stone sill. At his feet sat two black Pelican cases with reinforced composite corners, their surfaces scarred by international transit stickers, luggage barcodes, and pale chalk marks. A nylon shoulder pack hung from his left arm.

"Ten o'clock," he said. He did not extend a hand. His gaze drifted past her shoulder, tracking the curve of the mahogany staircase that rose into the dim center of the house. "You're Clara."

"Miller," she said. "Please step inside. The draft pulls straight down to the parlor."

Julian dragged the larger case over the threshold. It made a low, rumbling groan against the fir threshold strip. Clara’s chin lifted a fraction of an inch, her attention dropping to the rubberized wheels.

"Rubber-coated," he said mildly, noticing the look. "Won't bite the varnish. I know the sound of floorboards giving up."