In my life, the concept of time has always been a double-edged sword. I either feel like it’s fleeting by or want it to pass quickly. I’m equal parts the wistful nostalgic and hopeful prophet. Slamming the brakes or pressing the accelerator. I don’t do idle well. Being present eludes me. At work some days, the minutes crawl past. A slow torture of sorts. I look at the clock, thinking an hour has passed. But it’s only been twenty-six minutes. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job.

I never thought I’d actually write a book. I loved the idea, but it seemed like an impossible feat. My mind held stories galore- just ask my best friend. I remember countless sleepovers where she’d listened to my ridiculous narrations. They usually involved one or both of us riding into the sunset with a particular boy band member *coughTimberlakecough* But that’s a story for another day. Anyway, I wrote romances in my head loooonnnngggg before I ever picked up a pen (read: c