Hello, my dearest, most unfairly patient readers,
If you're reading this with one eye twitching in mild resentment and the other scanning for answers—I get it. Really, I do. You have every right to be a little miffed. Or a lot miffed. Somewhere in between throwing your e-reader across the room and composing a politely threatening email.
And here I am, sauntering back in like the emotionally unavailable love interest in every enemies-to-lovers plotline I've ever written. Classic.
Let's address the elephant in the inbox: I disappeared.
Like, full-on ghosted. The kind of literary vanishing act that would make Houdini whistle in admiration.
Three years.
That's not a hiatus. That's an entire degree. That's a baby being born and learning to say "book" before I even touched mine again.
