When it comes to books, my reading diet is usually a chaotic blend: psychological thrillers, generational epics that rip your heart out, short stories that leave you blinking at the wall, and the occasional deeply strange little novel that makes you question everything. But after finishing something heavy, I crave contrast — like biting into a ripe strawberry after too much black coffee. That’s when I reach for romance.
It started, like many slippery slopes, with a recommendation. A friend casually handed me A Court of Thorns and Roses — yes, the infamous sexy fairy book — and said, “Just try it.” And try I did. I found myself tearing through 200 pages, all anticipation, all yearning, just to reach that long-teased cross-species hookup. And when it ended, I thought I was done.
Then another friend appeared, eyes wide, urgency in her voice: “No, no, you HAVE to read the second one.” So I did. And oh — she was right. The second book? Five times hotter. I was reading it on the beach last summer when I noticed a woman bobbing along in an inner tube nearby, the same teal paperback in hand, completely oblivious to her children screaming bloody murder in the sand. She was deep in the zone — and I totally understood why.
That was the gateway. After a spooky season spent with The Shining (as one does), I found myself slipping another romance novel into the mix. Then another. And another. I realized that these books weren’t just frothy fun — they were helping me remember the sheer thrill of attraction. The swoony delight of infatuation. The slow burn. The teasing buildup. The sparkle of a good kiss on the page. Even if it’s all happening in your head, it can still give you butterflies.
Some recent standouts? Emily Henry’s Funny Story, which takes place in a cozy Michigan lake town that mirrored the very place I read it — Traverse City — creating this odd little story-within-a-story immersion. Rochelle Bilow’s Ruby Spencer’s Whisky Year charmed me with its food-filled narrative, like falling in love while simmering something rich on the stove. Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston transported me into a kind of royal-meets-political fantasy that reminded me of the lavish allure of Crazy Rich Asians, but with more snarky banter and stolen glances.
Then came The Seven-Year Slip, which my book club picked as a “palate cleanser.” It was whimsical, gently nostalgic, with a dash of time-travel and a wink to Auntie Mame. A perfect weekend read.
But all this reading started raising a question I couldn’t shake: Was I turning to these books to fill a void? Was my subconscious telling me something? Or is romance fiction just helping to keep the spark alive — a quiet, nourishing flame in the long, steady game of female desire?
Romance novels, after all, understand something critical: arousal begins in the imagination. We need buildup, suspense, context. We want to feel something before anything happens. On a Reddit thread for romance readers, I noticed someone asking if a particular book was “HEA” — shorthand for “happily ever after.” They just wanted a guaranteed good time, no messy heartbreak. It was oddly comforting. Like a spoiler you welcome.
In my book club, I posed a different question: What’s the most romantic book you’ve ever read? Not the hottest. Not the most escapist. But the one that stayed with you. The one you think about years later in the car, or while brushing your teeth. For me, the answer was a tie: Waiting by Ha Jin and Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx. Neither ended in bliss. Neither was a fantasy. But both taught me more about the weight and ache of love than any tidy ending ever could. No HEA, but oh, the emotional residue they left behind.
Maybe that’s the real beauty of romance — and all its iterations. It spans from swoony lake towns and flirtatious meet-cutes to devastating truths and longing that never quite resolves. It can be sexy, sweet, painful, or profound. And sometimes, it’s all of those things at once.
So here I am, in the thick of Sexy Book Season, switching between emotionally heavy narratives and fizzy romances like alternating bites of salted chocolate and sour cherries. Reading stories that give me a crush, make me blush, or quietly devastate me. Sometimes it’s not about choosing one flavor. Sometimes, the best reading life is a buffet — and romance belongs right there, front and center.
