“It will never, ever sell,” Sofia decreed in her Doge of Venice voice, shaking her head as she ate the last shrimp on her $22.95 seafood salad platter.  “Trust me. Nobody will read it,” she continued, taking a sip of her Chablis.

                I didn’t respond and, instead, took a bite of my $6.99 burger, wondering why I had let a chance meeting, after five years of not seeing each other, lead to a ‘catch-up-on-old times’ luncheon two days later.

                “It’s simply never, ever done.  It’s all wrong.” she insisted.

                Perhaps Sofia was right. Maybe my historical romance set in the Florida Keys in 1880 was all wrong. But I’ve never been a great fan of drafty English castles or misty moorlands. Give me a steamy swamp or a mangrove jungle with alligators any day.

I want egalitarian heroes and heroines, and not Dukes and Earls burdened with cumbersome pedigrees.

But at that moment none of this was on my mind, I suddenly remembered why I had let five years go by without getting in touch with Sofia—I had never, ever liked her.

Damn if I was going to pay for her lunch! Never, Ever.