I grew up in a loving family of workaholics who often had a hard time trusting in their inherent worth. That is, no doubt, the root cause of why I now insist with all my being that hardworking, imperfect people deserve a happily ever after, and why I write romances about strong women and gritty men learning to love themselves and each other. And yes, they get some high heat, because steamy sex is good for the soul.

Woman in baseball cap and sunglasses standing behind a four-foot tall plastic lobster pained to look like a sea captain.
On a research trip to Plymouth, Massachusetts, getting sidetracked by a big, red lobster.

My family has some very juicy history and has been part of just about every major historical event in the Northeast since the Mayflower landed. Doesn’t mean most of them did anything noble, since much of that history is pretty sketchy by modern standards. And in 1661, one got arrested for treason for saying he wanted to use the king’s head as a football (true story), but they were there, doing the best they knew how. Between my occasionally embarrassing ancestors and the intricate landscapes, industrious, quirky residents, and multicultural legacy of New England and upstate New York, I have endless inspiration for books. The treasonous football aficionado deserves a romance, don’t you think?

I am an uber-nerdy history wonk, I eat too much, I run long distances, while listening to history audiobooks, to attempt, unsuccessfully, to compensate for the eating. Things that make me happy include videos of wombats, the Mets winning, and mint chip ice cream. I am eating mint chip ice cream as I type this. When not working, you will find both my husband and me spoiling our fur-children, who are all certified geniuses (ok, except one, but he makes up for it by being extra sweet), and we are their devoted acolytes.