He almost runs her over, she breaks a shoe in a drain.
What else can he do but play Prince Charming?
I'm an author of contemporary romantic fiction; I've recently discovered my first interest in 'published' writing was in a small way not far from the genre in which I now write. My brother while clearing out his attic went through numerous boxes containing items which belonged to our mother that he stored when widowed several years ago she moved from the family home to be nearer to him (I live in a different country). He had never looked into any of these, until this day when he took from a larger carton a shoebox marked PRISCILLA, the box with an illustration of child's sandals. Interested, he found not sandals but several yellowing sheets of paper cut, not torn, from an exercise book and covered in handwriting, and sent them to me. The handwriting is that of a child who has learnt a simple cursive, so I guess I was about nine or ten, since on starting high school I deliberately changed this style that I considered childish, and developed a personal one.
My venture into creative writing did not survive high school; sadly, this was not on the curriculum, and there was no time outside study. Once, however, an English literature teacher wrote 'Very creative' on my work, accompanied by a zero mark. This sarcasm was a consequence of my response to the essay topic 'What does the poet mean by...' Never enamoured of poetry anyway, I wrote 'I have no idea and as he's dead I can't ask him.' Stupid question.
And then, from this somewhat unfocused background, as an adult I found my place in authoring contemporary romance.
Here's to many happy reading hours, love Priscilla