Page 1 of The Romance Rivalry

virgin romance

As a perpetual people pleaser, having a pair of very annoyed, possibly angry, definitely humiliated eyes glaring at me is

my worst nightmare.

It’s my senior prom. And honestly, the last place I thought I’d end up is in a limo with a group of mostly strangers. To my

left is my cousin Jamie, technically the reason I’m in this mess, who is currently straddling a guy I’m not sure I’ve ever

even seen around campus (though, granted, it’s a very large school), with her tongue down his throat. Next to them, the class

president has his hand up the dress of the shoo-in for valedictorian as she moans and oh my god s... honestly a little too loudly for such a small, occupied area if you ask me. There’s another couple to my right, but after catching a glimpse of an indecent amount of bare skin in my peripheral vision, I’m actively trying very hard to avoid looking in that direction.

And then, sitting directly across from me, in a space so narrow our knees are almost touching and where I’m certain I can

feel the heated fumes of his angry breathing, is Liam Davis.

Liam and I were freshman lab partners and, in the years since then, he’s had just enough of a glow-up to be in the group of

popular guys at our school, but never the main character. He’s the classic second lead—or in the case of our prom night, the

fourth lead, I guess—charming and lovable enough, but never gets the girl.

Especially if the only girl left in this scenario is me.

Jamie and I aren’t even that close. She barely acknowledges me at school. So when she asked me into her group for prom, I

was not only shocked, but pretty certain it was a pity invite.

“We’ll be each other’s dates,” she said.

“Girls’ night, just the single ladies,” she promised.

That didn’t sound too awful.

“Plus , everyone else will be there...” she pointed out, letting me come to my own conclusion as to what it would mean if I didn’t

agree to come along. “And who knows, maybe you’ll finally hook up with someone.”

So much for just the girls. But I appreciated her concern for my social and romantic statuses, I guess.

And maybe I should have expected it. That the moment we got to the prom, my group of single girlfriends immediately found a group of single guy friends. People started pairing up within minutes of arriving. And there I was, stuck with the one remaining unclaimed guy.

Liam Davis.

There’s nothing wrong with Liam—there’s just plenty wrong with me. I’m bad with social cues, I don’t like anyone crowding

my personal space, and I’m tortured by making decisions without ample thought and a solid plan.

So when Liam waggled his eyebrows at me, then started following me around the dance, getting handsier as his contraband flask

of tequila got emptier, I didn’t have time to think of what the best approach might be with someone I had to spend the next

few hours with. I just politely told him I wasn’t interested.

Okay, so the words might have more accurately been “Absofuckinglutely not.”

That didn’t go over well with his fragile ego, and he’s been pouting ever since.

Across from me, he releases a deep, frustrated sigh, followed by “What a prude. She’s not even that pretty,” mumbled under

his alcohol-laden breath loudly enough for me to hear. He lifts his flask to his mouth, trying to capture the last drops within

to drown out his bad fortune.

The word “sorry” sits at the tip of my tongue. I say it all the time. It’s my go-to when I think there’s going to be some kind of confrontation. But I force it back, not wanting to bring any more attention to myself.

Good times.

I should be loving all of this, right? Dancing. Drinking. Hookups. The freedom of one last high school hurrah?

I don’t think I even had a first high school hurrah, or any in between. I’m not a “hurrah” type of person, I’m finding.

Instead, I’m trapped in this limo, twenty years past its prime, trying hard not to succumb to my curiosity of what happened

in here to have certain parts of the leatherette patched together with duct tape that looks like it’s holding on for dear

life. I do not want to know the details. The smell of Axe body wash mixed with the slight sourness of stale breath and bodies

forces me to breathe through my nose. Crooked bow ties. Flakes of dried mascara on cheeks.

I feel like I’m trying to cram my life into a shoe a half size too small.

It doesn’t fit.

I don’t fit.

I knew I should have stayed home. I’d be in my comfiest pair of sweats right now, reading the newest alien romance book I

have on my e-reader.

In fact...

I pull my phone from my purse and check the connection speed, a huge smile spreading across my face. I open the reading app and scroll through the pictures until I find it: a big, blue, muscled hunk o’ lovin’ with an enraptured wavy-haired redhead in his grasp.

Download.

Page 1.

Welcome to my happy place.

I am a self-professed romance-genre enthusiast... one might even say expert. I read on average about twenty or so books

a month. And though I might not know a lot about romance in real life, I can tell you everything there is to know about it

on these pages.

If the heroine in this book can put up with the hardships of an unknown planet with guts and determination and eventually

find love with a ginormous blue alien, then I can, at the very least, survive my disastrous senior prom.

My time to be the main character will come.

For now, I’m building character. I’m figuring out my wound. I’m ripe to be misunderstood and then finally seen by the man

of my dreams. And after experiencing a heartbreaking third-act breakup, we’ll find our way back to each other. This is just

another step toward my own eventual Happily Ever After. I’m certain of it.

I swipe my phone to the next page and continue to read. Just one chapter. Maybe two.

I can hide from this awkward situation like I always do... behind my book.

“Oh my god, Irene! Are you reading? In a limo? On prom night?”

I raise my eyes to see Jamie, dress hiked up to her waist, still straddling her date, but now with a look of total disbelief

on her face. Her lipstick is smeared and her hair’s disheveled. I open my mouth to answer her, but it’s kind of obvious that

yes, I am reading, in a limo, on prom night. And whereas this behavior seems utterly ridiculous to her, it’s totally fine

in my eyes.

But that’s always been the issue. Most people in my life don’t get my passion for reading, and they definitely don’t respect

my right to do it wherever and whenever I want.

“Irene is one of those book people,” Jamie tells her partner, whose glassed-over look and impossible-to-miss hard-on make

it clear he has no idea what she’s talking about and would rather get back to making out.

“Figures. Total nerd,” Liam says, his tone dripping with judgment.

“Well, to clarify, I’m a book reviewer,” I say. “You know... online?”

“God, Catcher in the Rye changed my life,” says the valedictorian. Sounds like something a valedictorian would say.

“Well, I read and review mostly romance novels. Tropes and HEAs. It’s the highest-selling genre,” I explain.

Silence.

“I have over a million followers,” I add.

I don’t want to come across as too arrogant about it, but I felt it needed some more explanation. When I hit a million followers,

I finally admitted to myself that this was a big thing and I should be proud of it. Plus, I’m this close to landing one of the largest brand sponsorship deals of any online book influencer... ever.

Liam spits out a laugh like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “So, you mean smut,” he says, barely able to contain

himself, the mocking in his voice clear as day.

Hello, Neanderthal.

“Porn for chicks,” the guy next to me adds.

And we’ve got a misogynist here, too.

“Oh, I thought you meant you were a real reader,” the valedictorian tacks on.

Seems the literary snob didn’t want to be left out.

Weren’t all these people busy getting busy just a second ago? Why are they all suddenly so interested in judging me?

“It’s all she thinks or talks about,” my cousin adds.

It’s not all I think about. I also save space in my head for thoughts about the downfall of the US political system, the catastrophic

effects of climate change, and the entirety of Taylor Swift’s dating history and its correlation to her music catalog.

“I should’ve gone with Allie Jensen’s group instead. The chicks were hotter,” Liam says.

“You seemed interested right up until I rejected you,” I say under my breath.

“I wasn’t interested,” Liam protests. “It’s a rite of passage to get laid on prom night and I just needed a warm, willing

body.” His self-satisfied smirk is my last straw.

And this is where I’m reminded how romance novels have served me. I know what a hero looks like. I know the kind of love and

respect we all deserve. Why am I wasting my time here?

As gracefully as possible while decked out in a fitted prom dress in the back of a moving stretch limo, I crawl to the divider

between us and the driver and knock. The glass lowers.

“Could you drop me off right there in front of the In-N-Out?” I ask, pointing to the big red-and-yellow sign on the corner

at the upcoming stop light, where a long line of cars is wrapped around the parking lot.

“Wait, Irene, what are you doing?” Jamie asks.

“I’m outta here, friends. Have fun at the hotel and the after-party. I’ve got some smut to get home to,” I say, looking directly

at Liam. He can try to use that word as a derogatory term, but I won’t let him.

“Why are you always so dramatic? It’s no big deal. No one meant any harm by it. Don’t go. Come party with us,” Jamie says.

My time in high school has always been laced with being disregarded, misunderstood, and not taken seriously. I don’t need

to feel special. I just want to be seen. I can’t wait to get out of here and start fresh in college.

“No thanks. I’m just gonna grab an Uber here. Have fun, though,” I say.

The limo stops, and I open the door, step out, and head home.

“You’re home early,” my mom says from the kitchen as I unsuccessfully try to sneak into my house without being noticed.

“She went to the prom without a date, Mom. What did you expect? I can’t believe you and Emo guilted Jamie into taking Irene

with her and her friends.” That would be my older sister, Cybil. She’s a skincare model, meaning her face is on the brand

packaging of some big Korean skincare brand. She’s a joy to have around.

And while she may be blunt, she is not a liar.

“You guys made Jamie invite me?” I ask. Well, that explains the out-of-the-blue invitation. They probably paid her, too.

My mom tilts her head and her face scrunches into a pained, apologetic smile.

“Never mind, it’s done with. And you’re right. It was a good experience just for me to go,” I say to appease her guilt. No

use in both of us feeling crappy about this night. I’ll take one for the team.

“Kiss-ass,” Cybil says under her breath.

“Did you make funny faces while taking pictures?” my little brother, Eugene, asks. And as long as we’re giving out résumés

for my family, he’s ranked number one in the country in junior golf. A prodigy.

“Come have ice cream with us, Irene,” my dad shouts with his head in the freezer. He uses his hip to close the door, arms

full with a variety of flavored pints.

I let out a long-suffering sigh, toe off my incredibly uncomfortable sparkly sandals, and head to hang out with my family

for a few.

They’re not awful; well, Cybil most definitely is awful. But, I love my parents, and Eugene is the freaking cutest thirteen-year-old

you’ll ever meet.

But whenever we’re all together, it’s impossible not to be reminded that in the grand scheme of my family, I’m the ordinary,

unexceptional middle child. My sister is gorgeous, and her face is all over Ulta, Sephora, and Olive Young in Korea. My brother

is incredibly gifted, and you can hear sportscasters on ESPN and KBS talking about how they’re amazed at what he’s able to

do at such a young age. They’re both regarded as the best in their respective fields.

And then there’s me.

I’m an online book reviewer. And though I’ve managed to make my hobby into a pretty successful gig, my family still doesn’t quite understand the importance of what I do and the amount of work it took me to get here.

But all of that could change with this pending brand deal.

SKCupid, South Korea’s biggest dating app, wants to sign me for a huge paid content deal. Six figures to start, with an opportunity

for more. I’d get to talk about romance novels and plug their product as a way for people to find real-life love. I’d kinda

be the face of the brand, the face of romance, in the motherland. I might become more recognizable than either of my siblings.

It’s a dream partnership and would make my years of hard work building up my platform worth it.

Then my parents will have the best skincare model, the best junior golfer, and the best romance book expert out there. I won’t

just be the awkward middle child who they think “plays too much on the internet.”

My mom, an avid reader, thinks it’s fun that we can read books together and squeal over our favorite book boyfriends. And

my father? He likes to brag to everyone he knows about the one thing that I, the middle child, bring to the table: I’m going

to college at his alma mater in the fall. Still, fact is, I’m just not as interesting as my siblings, and that’s possibly

most obvious when we’re all gathered together around the table. They do their best to include me in all the conversations,

but the struggle to keep their interest is real.

“So, were there no Prince Charmings at the dance? No messy-haired cinnamon rolls? No growly alphas looking at you intensely?” my mom asks, talking to me in romance lingo.

“Not even close,” I say, shaking my head, trying to remove all thoughts of the limo ride from hell.

“I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time,” my dad says. “Still, you look beautiful. Those high school boys don’t know a good

thing when they see it. Don’t worry, once you get to Brighton, there will be plenty of smart and ambitious young college men

standing in line to get your attention.”

Dad, talking about Brighton like it’s the best place on Earth again.

“And you look like a princess,” Eugene says.

“I can’t believe you went to prom without a date,” Cybil adds. “Anyways, as I was saying before Irene got home, I need the

car tomorrow for my casting—the Mercedes, not the Honda.”

“Eugene has a tournament tomorrow and we have all his gear. We’ll need the bigger car,” my dad explains.

“Mom, I can’t show up to the casting in a Honda,” Cybil whines.

I stand up and grab my bowl of ice cream. Guess my three minutes of being the center of attention have ended. Now on to yet

another family discussion I’m not involved or interested in. “I’m gonna go upstairs and change,” I say.

The argument over transportation continues without a word in response to me. Per usual.

I head up to my room and close the door behind me, blocking out the sound of my family. Silence. Bliss. I put the bowl down

on my desk and fire up my laptop.

I pull off my very uncomfortable prom dress and trade it for a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and my favorite oversize sweatshirt

that says “Never f*ck with Nora, Debra” on the front. My battle armor, if you will. The signal that I forever stand with my

queen, Nora Roberts, on any and all issues.

I bet Nora could’ve come up with an eviscerating one-liner for everyone in the limo.

I plop down in my desk chair, pulling one knee up to my chest and resting the foot on the seat while the other leg dangles.

I interlace my fingers and pull, cracking my knuckles.

And I get to work.

I open up the seven platforms I use most frequently for posting my book reviews, either via text or video. And for the first

time all night, I let my shoulders relax and exhale a soothing breath.

This is where I come to life: in my online circles, with my followers, my fellow romance readers.

Some people are studied in the arts or sciences. Some have bodies that can be used to create magic in dance or sports. Some

have faces that look good in pictures (yay, you, Cybil). But me? My brain was meant for romance novels.

And from the first time I received a DM from a follower telling me I was the one who got them into reading romance and to keep up the good work, I knew: This is my calling.

I will fight for the HEA till my last breath.

I will discuss the nuances of romance tropes until my voice is gone.

I will read young adult, small-town, romantasy, dark, monster, mafia, hockey, and everything in between.

When I’m finished, I put my heart into reviewing them. And after posting all my reviews, I go back and respond to every comment,

answer every question, and make recommendations for books as requested. I’m good at this. Maybe only this.

I scroll through my feed, saving some new trending sounds for future posts. I like and comment on a few posts by other reviewers.

I download some book covers to use as thumbnails on my next monthly reading wrap-up.

Then, finally, I look at the response to my latest review, posted earlier today.

I had specifically worn a pink top to convey a carefree, unintimidating vibe for the video. I also made sure to smile from

the very first moment I pressed record. I find this helps instill trust in my viewers about the content. I knew this debut

author’s virgin romance might not hit for everyone who reads it. But I wanted to make it clear why I loved it.

I think this review is a winner. The view count is growing, though not quite as quickly as I had hoped, and for the most part, the comments are kind, agreeable.

But then I see it.

The name.

@aidentheguyreadsromance

I close my eyes for a brief moment and try to gather myself.

Aiden Jeon appeared in the online romance review circles a few months ago and has already built a huge following. For some

reason, it’s the hot new thing for a guy to read and love romance. And if he’s good-looking (I mean, I guess Aiden is objectively

decent in the looks category, though I refuse to be wooed by those dimples), then forget about it... he’s gonna take off.

He’s also the bane of my existence. The thorn in my side. My nemesis.

Because where I like to be as positive as I can about books in my reviews, Aiden takes a more critical approach. I like characters.

He likes plot. I love books that make me feel. He prefers books that make him think. I will squeal over a good epilogue. Aiden

finds them superfluous. Worst of all, he’s unpredictable. I never know what he’ll like or dislike.

And all our disagreements and opposing opinions would be just fine if he didn’t enter my space and comment on my reviews,

challenging my take on the trope in question. When he does, his followers always come along to troll me.

When I finally feel fortified enough to face it, I open my eyes and read his comment.

@aidentheguyreadsromance: While I agree with you that the author did a good job of not falling into the love-as-a-savior angle,

I still felt we needed more explanation as to why the heroine put off love for so long.

She put off love because it wasn’t a priority! She was living a life of struggle where there was no room for love!

I let out a shaky, fury-laden breath and brace myself for a showdown.

As I’m getting ready to form my response, a new notification appears. I look down at the reply to Aiden’s comment.

@spoilerqueen: Takes one to know one? Makes you wonder why Irene always loves the virgin romances. Ha

Excuse me. You don’t know me. So I’m a late bloomer. There’s no shame in that.

The next comment appears in thread.

@TheBookWasBetter: Irene reviews romance like a person who only knows it through a book. I like how Aiden reviews romance

like someone who’s lived it.

Um. Ouch.

What? Is Aiden Jeon some dating expert or something?

Followed by another.

@SilentBookClub569: This book didn’t work for me at all. It was weird that the FMC was a relationship therapist but had never been in a relationship. Don’t you think that lacks credibility?

Aiden’s one comment challenging my point of view opened the floodgates for others to not only question my review, but to question

me and my experience, or lack thereof. Why, all of a sudden, does it feel like everyone cares about my love life?

My hands start to sweat and my veins are thrumming like I’ve been jolted by a live wire. My anxiety spikes as I read the accusations

and wonder...

... are they right?

How many times have I worried in the back of my head that the fact that I’ve never fallen in love, that I don’t know what

a true HEA feels like, might affect the way I review romance books?

Do I lack credibility? What if people start to see me as a fraud?

And with this potential brand deal looming, one where I’m being selected for being an expert on the romance genre, someone

who knows it best, I can’t afford to be questioned or doubted. This could put the deal with SKCupid at risk.

Here, in my safe space, I’m suddenly feeling anything but safe.

I quickly close my laptop and shut out the harsh words from my sight. I grab my journal and a pen and go sit in my bed. I need the hug of a pillow and a warm blanket for this.

People wanna question my ability to review romance books because I’ve never experienced love? Well, I’ll show them. No one

knows and understands these books better than me. And I’m more than willing to fall in love to prove it.

I open the journal to a fresh page and write my motto:

The answer to all of life’s questions can be found in romance books.

And this is where I begin to plant the seeds of my foolproof plan to find love.