Happy St. Paddy’s Day
Leprechauns are out, sexy fae tricksters are in. And, apparently, so is discovering at the worst possible moment that your Secret Santa has unknowingly reignited your long-dormant love affair with romance novels.
See, like every good romance writer, I devoured the spiciest of mass-market paperbacks way too young. Middle school me? Living for the clandestine, dog-eared pages of something far too mature for my 12-year-old soul. (It was the 1982 racy classic Lace by Shirley Conran. IYKYK.) But then, somewhere along the way, I took a long break from them—life, academia, and a general desire not to be scandalized in public kept me safely on the path of literary fiction and memoirs.
Then came Ireland. The trip that changed everything.
I spent a summer roaming the wild, misty landscapes, the green so rich it hurt, the folklore so deep it felt like stepping into a fairytale. That trip left an impression—one that followed me all the way to my first year teaching. So when our staff was invited to a Secret Santa gift exchange, I confidently scribbled down my interests: "ALL THINGS IRELAND."
My hearts, my Secret Santa understood the assignment.
For a full week, small, magical gifts appeared in my mailbox—Celtic knot earrings, a little shamrock charm, a bar of Irish chocolate that absolutely slapped—and then, on the final day, there it was. A mass-market paperback with a sweeping Irish landscape on the cover. This is it. My next read.
So, naturally, I brought it to class.
Every Friday, my ninth graders and I indulged in Sustained Silent Reading. A gift afforded to us by our glorious 90-minute class periods. They read manga, dystopian fiction, sports biographies, and—let's be real—probably some wildly unhinged Wattpad-level smut they’d found online. I, their inspiring young teacher, sat down at my desk, flipped open my brand-new Irish novel, and began to read.
And then…
I got to page 183.
PAGE. ONE. HUNDRED. EIGHTY. THREE.
It was a romance novel. By Nora Roberts. And NOT the closed-door, polite euphemism kind. Oh no. It was Nora Freaking Roberts.
I gasped as though I'd been caught doing something unspeakable—by whom? The spirits of the Irish countryside? The ghost of Yeats himself? My students, who were absolutely not reading over my shoulder but were instead deep into whatever was happening in Attack on Titan? Didn’t matter.
I yeeted that book into my desk drawer like it had personally betrayed me. Sat there, sweating, trying to regain composure while my students (again, not paying attention to me) blissfully read on.
And yet… a part of me thought, Wait. This was kind of fun?
That moment single-handedly pulled me back into romance novels. Now, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, let me recommend three Irish romance novels starting, of course, with the book that almost got me caught:
Jewels of the Sun (Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy, Book 1) by Nora Roberts, narrated by Patricia Daniels (The culprit. The legend.)
Forget the Feckin' Wellies by Genesis Bird (Title alone = 10/10. Plus, Bird is an indie author and a Bookstagram buddy!)
The Irish Goodbye by Amy Ewing, narrated by Keval Shah & June DeBorahae (Come for the rolling green hills, stay for the broody Irishmen and steamy 'oops-we-hate-each-other-but-now-we're-making-out' moments.)
May your March be filled with sexy fae, brooding Irish heroes, and absolutely no accidental classroom scandals. ☘️🔥
