Unguilty Pleasures: My Year of Reading Romance Novels ‹ Literary Hub

I paced the shop, feigning interest in snow globes of Times Square and travel-sized doses of Pepto-Bismol, all the while stealing furtive glances in the direction of the trade paperbacks. When I heard my boarding call over the intercom, I knew it was now or never: I grabbed the book, practically threw my money at the sales clerk, and rushed to my gate with a fresh copy of the inspiration for the Netflix series Bridgerton, Julia Quinn's The Duke and I.

By the time my flight landed, Quinn's book had prompted a major literary revelation. While the tale of Daphne Bridgerton didn't exactly alter my perception of space and time (there were, frankly, far fewer descriptions of pretty dresses than I had hoped), I realized I had never read a romance novel. How many times had I walked past an entire section of the bookstore or library, subconsciously passing it off as unserious and therefore not worthy of my time?