They say you never forget your first.

Grade nine. Middle of June. In a darkened corner of a school hall. I have no idea what I was wearing, though it might have been bubblegum jeans, or what song was playing in the background, though it was probably Milli Vanilli.

My first historical romance. Handed to me by a girlfriend who tearfully sobbed that it was the most romantic thing she’d ever read. I just had to read it, she sniffed. Now, given that my girlfriend had made an art out of teenage angst and sobbed over a great many things, I was skeptical. She’d bought it at her neighbor’s yard sale, she went on to tell me in a hushed whisper, as though she couldn’t believe she had only paid a quarter for the secret of life.

I examined the novel. It had a bright red cover, a medieval gauntlet clutching a yellow rose, and a blurb proclaiming the story was the ‘epitome of every woman’s fantasy’. It was worn, though it still sported the $2.50 price tag from some long lost bookstore. In the inside cover, someone had scrawled in pencil, This book is Really Good! -Leesa.

I tucked the book into my backpack, fished out a tissue for my friend, and carted it home to read. Who was I to argue with a blubbering friend, every woman’s fantasy, and Leesa?

I still have that book. It sits on my bookshelf amid others I have read over the years and have hoarded because they are worth reading over and over. And as I prepare for the release of my own first novel, I think about the one that captured my imagination and still holds it now.

So thank you, Ms. Deveraux, for writing A Knight in Shining Armor. For writing a beautiful love story. For understanding the heart and all of its desires.

Turns out my girlfriend really did pay a quarter for the secret of life.

Pass me the Kleenex.