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Trope Round-Up
Rose
Iperuse the shelf in front of me at Mood Reader with a discerning eye. Here at the adorable book store where I work, we’ve got books in every genre, but my attention lingers on our romance titles. The trope gang is all here: enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, mutual pining, co-workers. The list goes on and on.
My gaze snags on a new release with a bright, red and green illustrated cover, and I feel a familiar tug of longing. Not, as you might assume, to have a whirlwind holiday romance like the one this story promises to deliver, but to write a book of my own.
Too bad I gave up on that dream a long time ago—about five years ago, to be exact. Right about when some of my favorite romance novel tropes hit too close to home…and blew up in my face.
If—and that’s a big if—I ever manage to write my romance novel, let me tell you the tropes that willnotbe included.
Number one. There will be no sports. No professional athletes with chiseled muscles for days and charisma and charm to boot. No swooning, screaming fans and high-stakes games. None of that garbage.
Number two. There will be no royalty or celebrity characters. Talk about making things complicated. No way. My book will include normal, everyday, common people.
Number three. This is a big one. There absolutely, positively will be no spies. No undercover work. No secrets and intrigue.No cloak-and-dagger shenanigans. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be…trust me.
Finally, number four. Perhaps the most significant trope I plan to avoid—miscommunication. Lying, hiding feelings, keeping secrets…that’s the absolute worst.
“Hey, Rose.” Mia, my boss and the owner of Mood Reader pops her head around the New Release shelf I’ve been organizing, stirring me from my thoughts. “You sure you don’t mind closing up for me when you get done?”
“No problem at all.” I wave her off. “Get out of here. Patrick is waiting.”
Mia blushes, and if I had a normal heart, it would do a little pitter-patter, squeeze in my chest, or take off in a gallop at the sweetness of it all.
Something like that.
Objectively speaking, Mia and her husband, Patrick, are darling. He adores her. We’re talking hearts shooting from his eyes, showering her with constant attention as if she’s the only person in the room. The stuff of all these romance novels I’m surrounded by.
But even though I recognize the love between Patrick and Mia, I don’t have a normal heart. I’ve got a heart that’s been locked down and suffocated under so many layers of deceit I can barely find my own pulse most days.
“I owe you.” Mia gives me a side hug before she floats down the aisle toward the check-out counter and retrieves her winter coat. She’s so in love she’s glowing.
A horn honks from Main Street, and I follow Mia to the door.
“You kids have fun,” I tell her.
“Always do. Don’t work too hard.”
“So bossy.” I pout. “It’s like you’re my boss or something.”
“Nah. That’s me being your friend. Good night!”
I smile as Patrick hops out of the driver’s seat and jogs around the front of his truck to open Mia’s door. She climbs in, andhe makes sure she’s situated before closing it and hurrying around to his side again. They drive off, and I sigh, flicking the lock on the front door before turning around and slouching against it.
Mood Reader is my happy place…my sanctuary in Cashmere Cove. My sister, Poppy, and I moved to this small town that sits on the Wisconsin peninsula, along the Bay of Green Bay, a little over a year ago. Our younger sister, Noli, followed us shortly thereafter. The whole Kasper clan now calls this charming, waterside town home. I never thought I’d find a position like the one I have at Mood Reader. My work is fulfilling, and Mia is the best boss. So much of my adult life has been spent jumping from odd job to odd job, taking whatever is available. I thought coming to Cashmere Cove with Poppy would be more of the same, and my position here would be another in a long line of mundane jobs that serve only as a front. None of them are my real job, after all.
My real job is a secret.
How’s that for ominous?
I push off the door and glance at the clock.
I’ve got about thirty minutes to get things organized before my real job collides with my book store job.
I finish arranging the New Release display, straightening out a stack of library card gift tags Mia and I made to give to anyone who buys a book from us between now and the holidays, when my phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans.
