I have a confession to make: Most of my friends don’t read romances. For one reason or another, they simply…don’t read romances. Period. Either they’re worried about being judged by the racy covers, or they think all that romance stuff is “a fairy tale,” or they prefer to read exclusively about serial killers, or they’ve tried one (just one!) romance–possibly a decade ago, or more–and have decided the whole genre just isn’t for them. That’s okay with me. I mean, there are occasionally awkward moments between us, I’ll admit that. Because I’m passionate about reading and writing romances! I think they’re awesome. I like to celebrate the power of love, the thrill of attraction, and all the wonderful differences between men and women. At the same time, I’m a live-and-let-live kind of person. I don’t think it’s up to me to try to “convert” anyone to my favorite genre. I wouldn’t like it if someone tried to force me to take up lawn bowling or sushi eating or PlayStation playing (it would be futile; I’m a Nintendo Wii gal). Our dissimilarities make us uniquely interesting, and the world would be a boring place if everyone liked the same things. That…