The other day I was at Walmart - I know, I know, it's a form of self punishment - when Miss Dub headed over to a bookshelf, grabbed a book and brought it back to me. It was a Harlequin romance titled Dead Sexy. I laughed at the cover and wondered if she had any clue about its contents - namely bad writing, cliché plots and an overdose of sleaze. (Though I must admit I've never read one. Perhaps they're brilliant, albeit raunchy.)
But on Saturday we were out at Barnes and Noble when Miss Dub, who started walking that same day, sauntered away from the children's area, grabbed a book off a shelf and opened it. As I came around the corner, I saw the title: Wild Child, another Harlequin romance from its raciest line of novels.
Uh, should I be worried?
