Culture
Steamy Romance Books To Cozy Up With This Winter
As far as I’m concerned, there is no bad time to read a cozy book, especially a cozy romance. But winter seems particularly perfect, doesn’t it? When it’s cold out, our bodies remind us that our ancient ancestors spent the season slowing down, recharging and cocooning themselves in warmth, and a chilly night is the perfect time to curl up at home with a book that helps you do just that. Here is a list of books that warm the heart and heal the soul — and some of them are steamy!
By Talia Hibbert
We’re off to a strong start with one of my favorite novels of any genre! This is the final book in Hibbert’s trilogy of romances about the Brown sisters (you don’t have to read them in order), and I love them all, but Eve’s story has the biggest place in my heart. She is the messy baby of the family, with a sunshine soul and a lifetime of well-suppressed hurt from feeling like an outsider in her overachieving family. When her latest business venture crashes and burns, she’s desperate to prove she can stand on her own. Enter Jacob, the perfectionist owner of the Castell Cottage bed-and-breakfast, who reluctantly hires Eve as his new chef … after she accidentally runs him over and breaks his arm.
There’s a lot to love about this book — the cozy setting, the supporting cast, the incredibly hot sex scenes, the humor, every single appearance by Eve’s grandma — but what makes it so special to me is the tender and realistic way Hibbert portrays her two neurodivergent protagonists.
By Freya Marske
In this dazzling historical fantasy, Robin, a young baron saddled with his dead parents’ debts and completely unaware of the secret magical world running parallel to the Edwardian England he knows, meets Edwin, a magician with a complicated relationship with magic and an even more complicated relationship with his magical family. Adventure, mayhem and murder naturally ensue.
Alongside a beautiful, steamy and moving romance, expect a plethora of beautiful settings and delightful supporting characters (plus two sequels to dive into when you’re done). If you’ve ever wished for Georgette Heyer’s wit in a more queer, inclusive and magical story, this is the book for you.
Read our review.
By Aiden Thomas
A book about death, ghosts and a cemetery might sound like the furthest thing from cozy. But Thomas’s beautiful debut, set in a Latino community in Los Angeles, combines magical realism, teen drama, family conflict and first love into a novel that’s warm, moving and relatable.
Yadriel is a trans boy looking for acceptance from his family of brujx, or sorcerers; determined to prove himself, he taps into his ancestral power to summon a ghost. Of course, things don’t quite go according to plan, and he finds himself stuck with the specter of Julian, his school’s resident bad boy, who needs Yadriel’s help solving the mystery of his death before he can move on. But the longer the pair spend together, the less Yadriel wants Julian to go.
Read our review.
By Alyssa Cole
Frankly, all I needed to hear about this book were the words “hot mess of an heiress starts an apprenticeship with a sexy sword maker in Scotland” and I was sold. At first glance, this sounds like a historical romance, but it’s actually a delightful, sexy contemporary novel packed with Cole’s signature wit, a spirited and vulnerable heroine and a very hot and very reluctant duke.
By Evie Dunmore
Now this, on the other hand, is a historical romance. The first volume in Dunmore’s magnificent League of Extraordinary Women series, “Bringing Down the Duke” introduces readers to Annabelle, a working class young woman, and her three unapologetically political and unconventional best friends, who are in the first cohort of female university students at Oxford. Annabelle is there on a scholarship, in exchange for which she has to recruit prominent men to support the growing women’s suffrage movement. Her target: Sebastian, an icy, influential and inconveniently handsome duke.
Sebastian has a lot of privilege and prejudices to unpack over the course of the book, but his story is a joy to read, as is his and Annabelle’s growing attraction. There are a lot of laughs (and tears!), the supporting cast is absolutely stellar, and the romance is a deliciously steamy slow burn.
By Sarah Beth Durst
As much as I adore grumpy men as love interests, I have an enormous soft spot for grumpy women as protagonists. The heroine of “The Spellshop,” Kiela, is a taciturn, reclusive librarian. She’s also loyal, generous and deeply lonely.
When her city is destroyed, Kiela flees the burning wreckage with as many precious books as she can carry and finds herself in the only place she could think to hide: her late parents’ cottage. Expect slow days in a sleepy coastal village, baked goods, winged kittens, a sentient spider plant and a hot man who builds bookshelves for our heroine. I, for one, couldn’t ask for more.
By Mai Mochizuki; translated by Jesse Kirkwood
I have to admit that I’m cheating a bit here: This is not actually a romance, at least in the traditional sense. But if you’re anything like me, you read romance not only for the love stories, banter and smut, but also for that soft, joyful sense of healing a good romance gives you. And few books lately have made me feel as soft, joyful and healed as “The Full Moon Coffee Shop.”
It’s best to go into this book knowing as little as possible. All you really need to know is that it’s a charming contemporary fantasy and, as you might have guessed from the cover, it does involve cats.
Read our story on Mai Mochizuki and the rising popularity of “healing fiction.”
By Suzanne Walker; illustrated by Wendy Xu
For all the comic and graphic novel fans out there, this one is a real treat. “Mooncakes” is a cozy, adorable, casually queer and gorgeously illustrated adventure about a teen witch named Nova, her magical grandmothers, her werewolf crush, horse demons, spell books, food and family. If you were a fan of “Sabrina the Teenage Witch,” you’ll love Nova Huang.
By Diana Wynne Jones
And finally, here is another of my absolute favorite novels of all time: the whimsical and wonderful “Howl’s Moving Castle.” Fans of Studio Ghibli’s film adaptation will be familiar with the adventures of Sophie Hatter (young, feisty and cursed with the appearance of old age), the wizard Howl (adorable chaotic disaster), the fire demon Calcifer (snarky and full of secrets) and the titular moving castle (my dream home!). But believe it or not, the book is even cozier, funnier and lovelier than the screen version.
Now that we’ve memorized the first half of our poem, let’s learn a little more about the man who wrote it. (Haven’t memorized anything yet? Click here to start at the beginning.)
For most of his life, Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-73) was a star. He was widely read, quoted, argued over and gossiped about, achieving a level of fame that few writers now — and not many then — could contemplate. His New York Times obituary did not hesitate to call him “the foremost poet of his generation.”
Celebrity of that kind is ephemeral, but Auden’s words have continued to circulate in the half century since his death. Maybe you’ve heard some of them before. In the 1994 film “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” his poem “Funeral Blues” is recited by Matthew (John Hannah) over the casket of his lover, Gareth (Simon Callow).
In the Gen-X touchstone “Before Sunrise” (1995), Jesse (Ethan Hawke) regales Celine (Julie Delpy) with an impression of Dylan Thomas reading Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening.”
In both these scenes, the characters use Auden’s poetry to give voice to a longing for which they otherwise might not have words. Auden’s poetry is often useful in that way. It speaks to recognizable human occasions, and it isn’t always all about him.
“The More Loving One” might not be something you’d quote at a funeral or on a date, but it is almost effortlessly quotable — the perfect expression of a thought you never knew you had:
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Ken Burns, filmmaker
The word “I” occurs five times in this stanza, but we don’t know much about the person speaking. His personality is camouflaged and revealed by craft.
Auden, born in the northern English cathedral city of York, began practicing that craft as a schoolboy, and honed it at Oxford. Not long after graduating in 1928, he was anointed by critics and readers as the great hope of modern English poetry. A charismatic, divisive figure, he gathered acolytes, imitators and haters.
He swam in the intellectual and ideological crosscurrents of the 1930s, drawing Marxism, psychoanalysis and mystical nationalism into his writing. Assimilating a daunting array of literary influences — Old English and Ancient Greek, French chansons and Icelandic sagas — he forged a poetic personality that was bold, confiding and seductive.
His love poems of that era were candid, discreet dispatches from a calendar of feverish entanglements, wrenching breakups and one-night stands, usually with other men. He also wrote about the feverish politics of the time — class conflict; the rise of fascism; the Spanish Civil War — in ringing rhetoric he later disavowed.
In 1939 Auden moved to America, acquiring U.S. citizenship after World War II. In New York he fell in love with Chester Kallman, a young American writer who became his life partner.
It was a complicated relationship, starting as a passionate affair and enduring through decades of domestic companionship and creative collaboration. Kallman’s refusal to be sexually exclusive wounded Auden, a dynamic that poignantly shades this poem’s most memorable couplet:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Yiyun Li, writer
In America, Auden distanced himself from the radical politics of his earlier career and embraced Anglican Christianity. His intellectual preoccupations shifted toward religion and existentialism — to the kinds of big questions we think about late at night, or when we look to the sky.
Making the leap from wunderkind to grand old man without seeming to stop in middle age, he became a mentor for several generations of younger poets. He was a prolific and punctual contributor of reviews and essays to various publications, including this one, for which he wrote a rave of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Fellowship of the Ring” in 1954.
Through it all, Auden devoted fanatical attention to the finer points of poetic technique. His notebooks are full of numbers, word lists and markings that show just how deep this commitment went. He counted every syllable, measured every stress.
He gathered rhymes and other words with a lexicographer’s zeal and a crossword puzzler’s precision.
The third stanza of “The More Loving One” is a miniature showcase of Auden’s skill. Of the four epigrams arrayed before us, it may be the most technically perfect.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
W.H. Auden, poet
The rhythm is flawless, without an extra syllable or an accent out of place. The grammar is also fastidious. Here is a single sentence, springloaded with equivocation, beginning with one idea and sliding toward its opposite.
This quatrain is the poem’s ideal formal representation of itself, a kind of proof of concept: four lines of impeccable iambic tetrameter in an AABB rhyme scheme. The by-the-book regularity of this stanza should give you a leg up in memorizing it, and you can test yourself below!
But the rest of the poem is an argument against perfection, just as it is a celebration of uncertainty and humility — as we’ll see tomorrow.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.Your first task: Learn the first two lines!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
PERMANENCE, by Sophie Mackintosh
Sophie Mackintosh’s novels are always speculative in some way, with either the author or her characters forging a world governed by its own logic and rules. In their boldness and their ability to convey the violence of patriarchy, they recall the work of Jacqueline Harpman — not only the cherished “I Who Have Never Known Men,” but also “Orlanda,” her wild riff on Virginia Woolf’s “Orlando.”
Like Harpman, Mackintosh has a spare and confident hand. Her work is sometimes described as dreamlike; certainly, its contours are sketched with rapidity and confidence and relatively little detail. Her prose operates according to the same principle, at once lyrical and precise, like this from her second novel, “Blue Ticket”: “On the ground was a dead rabbit, disemboweled. Still fresh, the dark loops of its insides glistening like jam.”
When Mackintosh writes about masculine power, she does so in a way that articulates both its seductions and its terrors. Her newest novel, “Permanence,” is less explicitly concerned with the structure of patriarchy, but it has the same erotic charge as her earlier work, the same preoccupation with social prohibitions and the thrill that comes from breaking them.
Like “Blue Ticket,” “Permanence” turns on a highly pronounced binary. In “Blue Ticket,” adolescent girls are issued either a blue or white ticket on the day of their first period. A white ticket denotes a future of marriage and children, a blue ticket one of work — even, it seems, a career. The divide is stark and self-evidently faulty, its coarseness an expression of the brutalizing regime the characters are trapped in.
“Permanence” features a similar opposition, neatly delineated. Clara and Francis are conducting an illicit affair. One morning, they wake up in an alternate reality where they are openly living together. The novel shuttles between these two worlds, one ordinary and familiar, the other a curdled paradise for adulterers.
The thinness of this “city of impermanence” — “fluid, cohesive and yet disparate” — emerges at once. The sky is “uncannily blue,” the newspaper bears no date, the edge of the city is marked by “a slick ring of water, as far as the eye could see.”
Still, a boundary cannot keep the other world from seeping in. Initially, elegantly, this is a problem in the structure of desire. Having been provided the life they dreamed of, in which their longing for each other is fully met, Clara and Francis begin to experience, to their uneasy surprise, boredom and discontent.
Without absence, the intensity of their desire for each other wanes. They even begin, or at least Francis does, to long for the relief of their ordinary life: “Another day ahead of them of petting, giggling, lying around. It seemed insubstantial suddenly, though only the day before he had felt he could do it forever.”
Soon enough, it becomes clear that the problem between Francis and Clara doesn’t lie in the outside impediments of the world they live in, but in their relationship itself. Francis remains troublingly himself — a married father of a small child, reluctant to leave his family, however much he is in love with Clara: “He did love her, and he did want to be with her. … But he already had reality elsewhere, reality which he sometimes felt trapped by, he would admit, but which he could not truly imagine cutting loose.”
“Permanence” might seem like an outlier in the current array of articles and books about open marriages and polyamory, and at first glance the line of distinction between the two worlds, much like the division between blue and white tickets, seems almost old-fashioned. But as Mackintosh persuasively illustrates, the familiar emotions of jealousy, infatuation and eventually indifference — these persist and can flourish in any relationship, however free of prohibition.
“You want this,” Clara tells herself, and then, “You no longer want this,” as it occurs to her that “maybe it was in absence that they loved each other best, and most honestly.”
In her work, Mackintosh devises scenarios that are bold and almost aggressively simplified. But her terrain is complexity and contradiction, and in her hands these oppositions twist and turn in on themselves.
It’s hardly a surprise when the central character in “Blue Ticket” decides to eschew her designation and have a child, declaring, “True and false were no longer opposing binaries. My body was speaking to me in a language I had not heard before.” Nor is it especially startling when discontent chases Clara and Francis from one world to the other, unraveling their relationship.
What is more disquieting is the surreptitious ease with which Mackintosh’s speculative worlds start to align with our own, allowing the reader to see how so many of the old prohibitions and conventions — around choice, around marriage — remain, somehow, firmly in place.
That moment of recognition, in a landscape that is startlingly alien, is the source of Mackintosh’s power as a writer.
PERMANENCE | By Sophie Mackintosh | Avid Reader Press | 240 pp. | $28
Maybe you woke up this morning haunted by the first four lines of W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — or tickled by its tongue-in-cheek handling of existential dread. (Not ringing any bells? Click here to begin the Poetry Challenge).
This is a love poem. Perhaps that seems like an obvious thing to say about a poem with “Loving” in its title, but there isn’t much romance in the opening stanza.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Ada Limón, poet
Nonetheless, the poem soon makes clear that love is very much on its mind.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
David Sedaris, writer
The polished informality gives the impression of a decidedly cerebral speaker — someone who’s looking at love philosophically, thinking about how it works and what it means.
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Reginald Dwayne Betts, poet
Musing this way — arguing in this fashion — he stands in a long line of playful, thoughtful poetic lovers going back at least to the 16th century. He sounds a bit like Christopher Marlowe’s passionate shepherd:
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Auden’s poem, like Marlowe’s, is written in four-beat lines:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Josh Radnor, actor
And it features strong end rhymes:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Samantha Harvey, writer
These tetrameter couplets represent a long-established poetic love language. Not too serious or sappy, but with room for both earnestness and whimsy. And even for professions of the opposite of love, as in this nursery rhyme, adapted from a 17th-century epigram:
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell
The reason why I cannot tell.
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
There is some of this anti-love spirit in Auden’s poem too, but it mainly follows a general rule of love poetry: The person speaking is usually the more loving one.
This makes sense. To write a poem requires effort, art, inspiration. To speak in verse is to tease, to cajole, to seduce, all actions that suggest an excess of desire. That’s why it’s conventional to refer to the “I” in a poem like this as the Lover and the “you” as the Beloved. The line “Let the more loving one be me” could summarize a lot of the love poetry of the last few thousand years.
But who, in this case, is the beloved? This isn’t a poem to the stars, but about them. Or maybe a poem that uses the stars as a conceit and our complicated feelings about them as a screen for other difficult emotions.
What the stars have to do with love is a tricky question. The answer may just be that the poem assumes a relationship and then plays with the implications of its assumption.
This kind of play also has a long history. Since love is both abstract and susceptible to cliché, poets are eager to liken it to everything else under the sun: birds, bees, planets, stars, the movement of the tides and the cycle of the seasons. Andrew Marvell’s “Definition of Love,” from the 1600s, wraps its ardor in math:
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
The literary term for this is wit. The formidable 18th-century English wordsmith Samuel Johnson defined a type of wit as “a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.” “The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together,” he wrote; that kind of conceptual discord defines “The More Loving One.”
The second stanza is, when you think about it, a perfect non sequitur. A hypothetical, general question is asked:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Mary Roach, writer
The answer is a personal declaration that is moving because it doesn’t seem to apply only or primarily to stars:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tim Egan, writer
Does this disjunction make it easier or harder to remember? Either way, these couplets start to reveal just how curious this poem is. We might find ourselves curious about who wrote them, and whom he might have loved. Tomorrow we’ll get to know Auden and his work a little better.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your task today: Learn the second stanza!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
-
Sports9 minutes agoSun Valley Poly High’s Fabian Bravo shows flashes of Koufax dominance
-
World21 minutes agoMoldovan oligarch sentenced to 19 years in prison over $1bn fraud
-
New York2 hours agoTrump’s Immigration Crackdown Pervades Long Island Suburbs
-
Detroit, MI3 hours agoChris Simms projects Detroit Lions first-round NFL draft pick
-
San Francisco, CA3 hours agoSan Francisco sets $3.4B price tag for public takeover of PG&E
-
Dallas, TX3 hours agoGame Day Guide: Stars at Wild | Dallas Stars
-
Miami, FL3 hours agoMay a steadying presence as Cards hold off Marlins in Miami
-
Boston, MA3 hours agoTyrese Maxey, VJ Edgecombe flex in Boston: Takeaways from Celtics-76ers Game 2