I love redheaded men. Yes, redheads. Any shade from strawberry to bright sunset to hot-rod red. I love gingers and they love me. I love the way their freckles stand out. I love the way their necks get red when they get hot, sunburned or turned on. I love the way I can spot one in a room and know they’re going to be mine.

I love them so much, I’ve earned a nickname: Pumpkin Pounder. (I’m not going to put that on my resume, but it suits me.)

The one thing I love as much as redheads is ...
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I love redheaded men. Yes, redheads. Any shade from strawberry to bright sunset to hot-rod red. I love gingers and they love me. I love the way their freckles stand out. I love the way their necks get red when they get hot, sunburned or turned on. I love the way I can spot one in a room and know they’re going to be mine.

I love them so much, I’ve earned a nickname: Pumpkin Pounder. (I’m not going to put that on my resume, but it suits me.)

The one thing I love as much as redheads is Halloween night in New York City, so when my friend invites me to a wild costume party aboard an old tug boat, I’m ready for anything...especially meeting the perfect guy.

The perfect, redheaded guy...with an Irish accent.

Problem is, what if I want him for more than one night?
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