Harper Reid left a life that looked right on paper and moved to a town small enough to remember her coffee order. She arrived with two suitcases, a cat who judged everything, and the kind of heartbreak that makes a person either cynical or honest. She chose honest.
She writes contemporary romance because she believes in love—not the easy kind, not the kind that arrives finished, but the kind that shows up at three in the morning without being asked and holds a flashlight in a barn and doesn't explain why. The kind that gets it wrong first. The kind that stays.
She has had her heart broken. Most people have. The interesting part isn't the breaking—it's what you build in the place where the break was. That's the story she keeps telling.
When she's not writing, she drinks coffee with both hands, argues with a cat who considers all flat surfaces her jurisdiction, and drives past the same pothole every morning without swerving.
