The author
Hi. I'm C. H. Forge.
Three things you should know about me.
One: hockey is my religion. I play, actively, and I'm unbearable about it. If I'm not writing, I'm on the ice. If I'm not on the ice, I'm talking about being on the ice.
Second thing: I set out to write dark romance—the brooding, the obsession, the morally gray kind. I have the size for it. I have the swagger for it.
What I apparently don't have is the heart for it: every time I reach for menace, my decency gets to the page first. I tried to write dark romance. I wrote dark romantic comedy.
I'm still not admitting it.
My books are for the danger-curious—readers who want obsession, surveillance, and a man who would break bones on her behalf but never break her. The danger is real. So is the safe landing.
Lastly, I'm told I'm the fictional character of a bestselling steamy romance author. My creator—Her Royal Spiciness, allegedly benevolent—says struggle is good for me. That every book I fail to make dark is character development.
I don't know what she's got planned. I found out the way nobody should—from a preface. About me.
I've started flinching when she opens her laptop ever since.
The danger is real.
You're safe here.