Yes, I write romance, but I’m not looking for some fairytale hero. What is sexy to me, might not be the sexy ideal for another, so I can only convey what it is that makes my heart beat faster. So what does it take to knock my socks off? Well, I can give you a few hints…
It is the weight of a stare I feel when a man’s eyes settle on me across a crowded bar room. Perhaps it is near closing time, and he’s been watching me all night. He has not said a word, or bought me a drink, but I have felt his attention by the way the little hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and by the way my belly feels warm when I see him glance, very slightly, in my direction. The corner of his mouth turns up, not enough to be a smile, but enough that I know he sees me.
Maybe it is the warmth of the body beside me as I hold onto the split rail I’m trying to hammer into place. He takes off his glove before he puts his hand over mine, and together we lift the rail until it settles into place.
“You got it?” he says, and I nod.
It is the gentle squeeze he presses on my wrist before he steps away. It is the way he watches, the absence of further words between us as we work silently together.
Or is it the tug I feel on my waist that rouses me from sleep? The urge of a needful hand, pulling me back like a bow into his arms in the dark of night. We fit together, flesh against flesh, and all I can think of is to ease his burden.
I suppose those are the things that feel like romance to me. It is nothing unattainable, no secret we can not master. It is just the simple things to me. A touch, a look. The sharing of space.
If romance must equal fairytale, then I surrender. I’m just a hopeless romantic, lost in my everyday illusions.