I’ve always believed the most romantic moments aren’t the grand, cinematic gestures–but the quiet ones. A hand brushing yours when you least expect it. A letter slipped between the pages of a book. A soft look across the table when no one else is watching. That’s the magic I chase–on the page and in life. 

My name is Vera Everhart, and I write love stories to help us all believe a little more in love. 

I live part of the year in a sun-warmed apartment overlooking olive groves in Umbria, and the other part in a cozy cottage perched in the misty hills of Marin County, just across the Golden Gate from San Francisco. Between those two homes, I’ve found the perfect rhythm for writing about love.  

When people ask what inspires me to write romance, I usually laugh and say everything. And I mean that. Inspiration is a persistent little thing. It follows me through the winding cobblestones of Assisi, where lovers carve their initials in ancient stone. It clings to me on foggy morning hikes through redwood forests, where I imagine two souls stumbling into each other beneath the trees. I write because I’m hopelessly in love with love–not the flawless kind, but the messy, beautiful, real kind. The kind that forgives and surprises and asks you to be brave. 

I write in the early mornings, usually just before dawn. That’s when the world is still velvet-soft, when the line between dream and waking blurs. In Italy, I leave the windows open so I can hear the birds begin their tentative songs and smell the first breaths of rosemary and warm stone rising from the walls. In California, I light a candle and wrap myself in my father’s old fisherman’s sweater, the sleeves nearly covering my fingers as I type. That’s where I am now. 

There’s something sacred about writing when most of the world is still asleep. I sit with my expresso or a strong English breakfast tea (depending on which continent I’m on), open my laptop or journal and step into the lives of the characters who’ve been waiting for me all night. Sometimes I have to coax them out, but usually, they meet me half-way. They’re impatient, those lovers in my head–always stealing kisses or arguing about something or falling for each other when they least intend to. 

And right now, they are clamoring to be seen and heard, so I will bid you farewell for today.