I re-read Nobody’s Baby But Mine again last night. I’m not sure how many times that makes, but probably more than 3, at least.
I’m reluctant to re-read romances. I often feel like reading romance is a gross binge that I don’t want to look at too closely on the other side, like the cheap chocolate I might gorge in a funk, only to realize that it’s objectively disgusting when I’m not a complete mess. Continue reading