Instead of trying to find your perfect match in a dating app, we bring you the “Author-ReaderMatch” where we introduce you to authors as a reader you may fall in love with. It’s our great pleasure to present Naima Simone! Writes: Sexy, contemporary romances with broken but honorable alpha heroes, perfectly imperfect heroines who take zero mess, family drama worthy of a reality TV show, and aaaall the swoony passion. And sex. Hot sex, too. 😀 In BLAME IT ON THE BILLIONAIRE, a city-wide blackout provides the perfect backdrop for a CEO and a beautiful stranger to indulge in naked shenanigans. But when daylight reveals she’s his employee, he’s determined to keep his distance. Until his matchmaking mother and a persistent vengeful ex pushes him to ask her to be his fake fiancée. What’s supposed to be pretense is suddenly feeling all too real. . . About: 18ish author. . . Okay, fine, I won’t start our relationship by catfishing you. 40ish author urgently seeking readers who acknowledge sarcasm as another language, don’t mind my hermit-like tendencies or potty mouth, agree that Jessica Fletcher is a certified, MENSA-level genius, will bring incense to burn at my alter devoted to Nalini…

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…

I remember buying my first Christine Feehan book over fifteen years ago—DARK GOLD, Book 3 in her Dark series. I also remember almost not buying it, and the reason was entirely superficial. The hero’s hair was horrible. Like a pompadour and mullet got together and had all kinds of crazy wrong off-spring. Yeah, that bad. But my twin sister, who’d already read it, shoved it back in my hand, saying, “Don’t worry. He looks nothing like that. His hair’s long.” She could totally read my mind. So I bought it, and thus began my love affair with all things Christine Feehan. Just think… I could’ve missed all her wonderful goodness over a hairstyle. Hair on a hero is important to me. Great eyes, great body and yes, great hair. Because, I’m just sayin’… No hero should have a mullet. Or the Zach Efron-High School-Musical fringe bang. Or that Beatles-Ike-Turner bowl cut thing. Just a big bucket of nope. To me, a man’s hairstyle says a lot about his personality. When I start my characters sketches before beginning a book, I carefully choose the hero’s name and his appearance, which includes his hair. Here, let me regale you with my wisdom……

Can I just say this and you not think bad about me? I love to curse. Have ever since I was younger and would giggle when my very proper grandmother would lob the F-bomb when someone just really got on her nerves. She would deny it, but I learned the art form of swearing at her knee. She is a true connoisseur. But out of necessity I had to clean it up. The first time I realized I needed to watch my potty mouth was about eleven years ago. I was sitting in bed reading, and my three year-old son trotted in, jumped up on the bed beside me, and started playing with his Spiderman action figure. About ten minutes go by and then I heard… “S**t!” I jerked my head up, and he was staring over the edge of the bed where he’d dropped his toy. I was shocked. Yeah, of course, hearing his high-pitched baby voice grumble the curse word was surprising. But I was more stunned that he’d used it properly! I didn’t even have to ask myself where he got it from. This girl, right here. So, from that night forward, I made the conscious decision…