I don't know the name...it was a category romance someone left on a bus. I picked it up and flipped through it--and then read it For Real. The hero was a blind musician maybe? The heroine was his nurse. He regains his sight and naturally this is not good for the heroine. I think she flees because she's 'not good enough for him.' She might have even been a size 11 and therefore too fat?
Ooops gotta stop, dog is puking on the rug. No, really. Logan's letting loose on the family room floor. bwww bww bwwww aaaaaaack.
Okay, back to the first romance. Not that there's much left to say. All I can recall about the end of the book is that the heroine's bedroom contains a huge smiling camel sculpture with real eyelashes. The hero, who apparently turned into a peeping Tom once he got his eye-sight back, thinks the thing expressed her whimsical nature. I thought ewww.
This story inspired me. I read it, enjoyed it more than I thought I should** and left it on another bus--but it was too late. I'd been left with that horrible inspiration that eventually leads so many well-meaning people down the garden path, past the pergola of good intentions, to the ha ha of doom:
Huh. I can do better than that.
**I was a rotten snob. Rotten in all senses of the word. My upbringing gave me the background and training but not the intellect of an effective snob.