Confession. I’m a PK. For those of you unfamiliar with the acronym, I’m a Pastor’s Kid. A pastor’s granddaughter, too. So, in the church world, that’s like a double-dog whammy of either hell raiser or goody-two-shoes. Because in the eyes of most people, PKs fall into two groups: sinner or saint. There’s no in-between. And by “in-between” I mean, normal. Growing up as the granddaughter and daughter of pastors was…interesting. For the most part, my twin sister and I fell into the goody-two-shoes camp. And more so because my mother could shoot a “If You Cut Up Even the Lawd Won’t Be Quick Enough to Save You” look from the choir stand to the back of the church in zero-point-two seconds. I could read my death in her eyes from that distance, and yeah, it kept me in line. But when my sister and I did have moments—and we did—it seemed as if people were just waiting with the, “Aha! I knew they were bad seeds!” Man. If those people could see me now. A good number of romance authors, who are also Christians, wrestle with how their religious beliefs square with what they write. Myself included. Yet, the one…