Be My Valentine by Debbie Macomber

her.”
    Sniffing, Dianne said, “I have the strangest sensation that this woman has trouble recognizing a prince when she sees one. For a good part of her life, she was satisfied with keeping a frog happy.”
    â€œAnd now?”
    â€œAnd now she’s…now I’m ready to discover what happily-ever-after is all about.”

MY HERO

 
    For Virginia Myers, my mentor—thanks for your friendship and encouragement!

One
    T he man was the source of all her problems, Bailey York decided. He just didn’t cut it. The first time around he was too cold, too distant. Only a woman “who loved too much” could possibly fall for him.
    The second time, the guy was a regular Milquetoast. A wimp. He didn’t seem to have a single thought of his own. This man definitely needed to be whipped into shape, but Bailey wasn’t sure she knew how to do it.
    So she did the logical thing. She consulted a fellow romance writer. Jo Ann Davis and Bailey rode the subway together every day, and Jo Ann had far more experience in this. Three years of dealing with men like Michael.
    â€œWell?” Bailey asked anxiously when they met on a gray, drizzly January morning before boarding San Francisco’s Bay Area Rapid Transit system, or BART for short.
    Jo Ann shook her head, her look as sympathetic as her words. “You’re right—Michael’s a wimp.”
    â€œBut I’ve worked so hard.” Bailey couldn’t help feeling discouraged. She’d spent months on this, squeezing in every available moment. She’d sacrificed lunches, given up nighttime television and whole weekends. Even Christmas had seemed a mere distraction. Needless to say, her social life had come to a complete standstill.
    â€œNo one told me writing a romance novel would be so difficult,” Bailey muttered, as the subway train finally shot into the station. It screeched to a halt and the doors slid open, disgorging a crowd of harried-looking passengers.
    â€œWhat should I do next?” Bailey asked as she and Jo Ann made their way into one of the cars. She’d never been a quitter, and already she could feel her resolve stiffening.
    â€œGo back to the beginning and start over again,” Jo Ann advised.
    â€œAgain,” Bailey groaned, casting her eyes about for a vacant seat and darting forward, Jo Ann close behind, when she located one. When they were settled, Jo Ann handed Bailey her battle-weary manuscript.
    She thumbed through the top pages, glancing over the notes Jo Ann had made in the margins. Her first thought had been to throw the whole project in the garbage and put herself out of her misery, but she hated to admit defeat. She’d always been a determined person; once she set her mind to something, it took more than a little thing like characterization to put her off.
    It was ironic, Bailey mused, that a woman who was such a failure at love was so interested in writing about it. Perhaps that was the reason she felt so strongly about selling her romance novel. True love had scurried past her twice, stepping on her toes both times. She’d learned her lesson the hard way. Men were wonderful to read about and to look at from afar, but when it came to involving herself in a serious relationship, Bailey simply wasn’t interested. Not anymore.
    â€œThe plot is basically sound,” Jo Ann assured her. “All you really need to do is rework Michael.”
    The poor man had been reworked so many times it was a wonder Janice, her heroine, even recognized him. And if Bailey wasn’t in love with Michael, she couldn’t very well expect Janice to be swept off her feet.
    â€œThe best advice I can give you is to re-read your favorite romances and look really carefully at how the author portrays her hero,” Jo Ann went on.
    Bailey heaved an expressive sigh. She shouldn’t be complaining—not yet, anyway. After all, she’d only been at this a few months, unlike