Maybe her head was too caught up in the clouds.
Mary-Beth loved to read, getting through a good romance novel always turned out to be the highlight of her day (when she had the time). She always hungered for more, more romance, better developed characters, and even as she wrote her own novel, she was overly harsh with the content she was consuming and creating. She thought the reason she kept her writing to herself was because she was self-conscious, and it partially was, but something else would probably raise a few flags with anyone else who read it.
Mostly, the main love interest resembled you a little too closely.
She had created characters at first, hadn't thought about their story just yet but just let what came to mind flow off the page. You were the perfect model for a character, she thought, not too perfect but charming enough that you could capture hearts (of the readers, not her). She listens to some of your interactions with the others, kindness that seemed to come naturally to you despite your status of criminal (the crime? Stealing hearts). Your personality was so strong, so striking, it just resonated with her, made her think about you and realize she really liked you as a character in a romance novel.
Or she just liked you.
She's finished up a chore or two, knowing there's more work to be done but wanting to get thoughts out on paper before they disappear. She finds a hidden place, somewhere out of view of Miss Grimshaw, and begins to scribble in her journal, hoping the thoughts are at least coherent.
"Hello, Ms. Gaskill." She freezes, quickly shutting the notebook and praying the person who greeted her didn't see it. "Something to hide?"
"Of course not." She turns to face you, hoping she looks calm. "Do you need somethin'?"
"Just to see your beautiful face, Mary-Beth."
She giggles, pretends it's just a joke but she can feel the heat rising to her face, her cheeks are probably pink and she's realized she's no good at hiding how she feels when it comes to you. She was so talented when it came to talking her way out of things, to getting information on potential robberies, but when it came to love? When it came to flirting? It wasn't nearly as natural as it should be; she had tons of lines, some personal experiences under her belt, and she still felt like a muddled mess when you were around.
She manages to hold a casual conversation with you though she wants nothing more than to just smoke a cigarette, but as soon as you're gone, she wishes you were back. She feels inspired, though, much like she normally is after she speaks with you, and begins to jot a few notes into her journal with plans to further flesh it out later. She wonders how you'd feel about being her inspiration; embarrassed or flattered? She decides she has no plan on telling you anything, not for now, at least.
She feels brazen when she drinks, and she figures maybe she shouldn't be so bold, but a party was going on after all?
She watches as you walk by, taking a few sips from a bottle before passing it off to someone else; you hadn't been much of a drinker, which was an interesting detail to her. You always appeared carefree, like you were assured about the future and knew all of what could come, but for some reason, you looked strained now. You could probably use a little more alcohol but she knew you were never one to cover up your problems, no, you liked to face them head-on. Was there anything she could do for you?
She calls out your name, a little apprehensive at first, but feels bolder when you move closer to see what she wants, "Would you like to dance?"
"I'd love to." You respond, smile charming, absolutely heart-stopping; she inhales sharply, wondering if her heart could take being close to you, but she's the one who asked you, so it's not like she could back down now.
It feels so nice to be close to you, so peaceful, like the outside world doesn't exist at all; she's taken with you, the way your eyes seem to reflect the stars, your smell: intoxicating, something she could never get enough of. She lingers closer and closer until she's flush against you, no longer looking you in the eyes but resting her head on your shoulder as you slowly spun her around.
She feels soft pressure on the side of her head, and doesn't think much of it until she realizes-
"Did you kiss me?" She whispers, pulling away to look up at you with wide eyes. You immediately look embarrassed, regretful, like you'd been caught doing something awful (funny, considering you were part of a gang). "It's okay-!"
"Sorry, I wasn't even thinkin', you're just so close-"
"No, really, I'm-" She feels faint, her knees suddenly buckling under her despite the romance novel moment she was having right now, and she's grateful when it transitions into another romantic moment.
"How many drinks have you had, Mary-Beth?" Your voice is concerned, and having your arms wrapped around her makes her feel so fluttery inside, she doesn't want this moment to end. You help her find her footing and steady herself. "Maybe you should call it a night?"
You walked her to her bed, helping her get comfortable though she's more awake than she's ever been. When you finally leave her alone to rest, she pulls out her journal, writing as best she can in the dark about the moment that had just occurred. She wanted to write it down while the emotions were still fresh, while she can still feel your body against hers.
The next morning she wonders if the dance was just a dream, if the kiss to the side of her head was just her imagination, the wind, anything but you actually showing some type of feelings for her. But why ignore something she wanted so badly? She sees you watching her from the corner of your eye, not looking at her directly head-on, probably still embarrassed from the night before.
Was it time for the protagonist to admit to her feelings? To admit all the thoughts she'd been having, all the things she's been writing down, inspired by you? And if not inspired by you, thought of with you in mind? She looks down at her journal nervously, wondering if she can trust you, if her writing could even be considered good enough for you to read, and thinking about whether or not you would even understand what she was trying to tell you.
"Here." She gets into your path, stopping you from walking away as the two people you were talking to go in the opposite direction. "I want you to read somethin'. It's... important."
You take the journal, giving it a once over, before Mary-Beth speaks again.
"I-I marked the pages I want you to read." She points to the little cloth hanging out the end of the journal. "Whenever you have the chance."
"I'll read it soon, promise. Can't keep your journal from you too long, you've got a novel to write, don't ya?"
Her heart flutters as you walk away, though she can't tell if it's from her feelings or overall nervousness about sharing her work with someone else for the first time. She hopes you understand what she wrote, she hopes her feelings can translate over well through writing because she certainly can't seem to voice them properly.
Now all there's left to do is wait, and hope that maybe she'd get to continue having romance novel moments with you.