Valentine’s Day. A day for lovers. Romance. Wining and dining.
Whether your sweetie totes home a last-minute bunch of store-bought flowers, or wins your heart with a candlelit dinner, we all want to be remembered on Valentine’s Day.
And, umm, fellas? You out there? Ya’ listenin’?
The bigger the better.
Not cost, mind you.
It’s all about the show, the giving, the open display of affection that makes jealous hearts pitter-pat when you’re the one getting flowers, a Pajama-gram or a Vermont Teddy Bear package at work.
We want it open, lavish and at the workplace, preferably. This shows everybody how great our man is, how much he really cares and just how special we are.
For those of us in the real world, this doesn’t happen nearly as often as it should. The fun thing about writing romance is that we have the power in ten little fingers to create a man that finally gets a clue and does it right.
After we redeem him, of course.
Who doesn’t love a good love scene, something rife with emotion that transcends everyday life?
In Fearless, a debut novel by Andrea Wilder who is guest-blogging for us tomorrow, her hunky Scottish hero casts down his sword in favor of life with his wife and family….
Didn’t cost him a cent but meant the world to his wife.
Romance doesn’t have to cost, and doesn’t have to be for show. Here’s a scene from one of my recent waiting-to-be-published novels, done in the hero’s POV:
Alicia forwarded plain, unadorned and somewhat boring dog reports, when what he wanted was to sit her down, gaze into her eyes and see if what he’d dreamt was true or the leftover visions of a fever-racked brain.
Probably the latter, but he felt pretty sure the image he carried from the short minutes they shared at Lahiere’s was old-style Alicia. Did she really give him that ‘come hither’ look, the one that brought him to his knees? Tease him about food and timing?
Not likely. A more likely scenario had his fevered dreams mixed with depressing reality. Perfectly understandable although most disappointing.
He stood and made his way to the window, eyeing the famous Big Apple park, its footprint a stamp of snow-covered green and gray against concrete and stone.
The doorbell sounded. He stiffened, then relaxed. Foster would handle whomever, whatever.
A strange combination of sounds drew his attention toward the foyer. A four-footed sound clackety-clacked across the floor, followed by a huge, “Woof. Woof. Woof.”
Conor stepped forward as a glorious black and tan German Shepherd trotted into the room, head high, ears perked. The dog’s profile stood magnificent, despite short spots marring his thick, wooly coat. “Sarge?”
“Yes, it’s him. And me,” puffed Alicia, unknotting a long scarf from around her neck. “Did someone fail to tell New York that it’s March? Hello? Like they don’t have a calendar handy in this thriving metropolis? Where’s spring when you need it?”
A tiny spark began to burn somewhere in Conor’s belly. He shifted his look from Alicia to the dog and back again. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Alicia handed off her scarf, hat and coat to a waiting Foster, ran her fingers through a bank of dark auburn curls, and huffed. “We got more than a little tired of waiting for you to come back to Princeton.”
“We?” Conor took a step forward, an eyebrow up.
“Well, him, mostly,” Alicia answered, tugging off gloves. She tossed them onto a sofa table. “I kept telling Sarge you’d be back soon, we’d go through the whole story, each and every morning, didn’t we, fella?” She reached down and patted the dog on the head. “But that’s been my story for weeks, and he got tired of waiting, so...”
“You brought him here.”
“To New York.”
“That is where you live, right?”
Conor nodded and moved closer, near enough to smell the hint of spice in her cologne. “Although I plan to exercise more options in the future.”
“Really?” Alicia copped him a smart aleck look that took him back to that fateful night at Lahiere’s.
“See, I bought this house in Princeton.”
The spark burned a little brighter.
“And I’ve got this great carpenter who’s agreed to fix things up.”
“Any way I want, right?”
Conor frowned. She wasn’t supposed to be privy to that bit of information. Wait ‘til he got a hold of Jerome Biltman.
“Stop scowling, Jerome didn’t breathe a word, he’s as thickheaded as the rest of you men,” Alicia announced as she closed the distance between them, her footsteps confident. Sarge followed. She ran a hand across his head, the dog’s, not Conor’s. Immediately the pooch relaxed on his haunches, arching his neck, no doubt enjoying her touch, her caress. Conor had the strangest urge to stand in line, see if she’d do the same for him.
Alicia patted the dog, then took one more step. “You owe me.”
“No doubt.” Conor tried to read her expression, see how much was play, how much was passion, but she kept her intentions sheltered in a casually off-hand manner. “How much?”
Alicia angled a look at him. “Hmm?”
“How much were the vet bills?”
“Conor, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of Sarge’s vet bill. Do you have any idea how much you pay me in alimony each month?”
He did, actually. If he weren’t filthy rich, the very thought would cause him undue pain. He winced anyway, hoping for sympathy. “Yes.”
“Then you know money’s not a problem.”
“But...” Conor paused, thinking back. “You said I owe you.”
“Oh, yeah.” This time she looked up. He read her eyes, the look in them, and wondered if he might still beasleep, lost in a dream. “Big time, actually.”
The dog moved to a firm second place on his agenda. “Because?”
“You made me some promises a few weeks back.”
“Oh?” Two could play this game. He moved in, crowding her space, watching emotion swim in her eyes, those beautiful eyes, dark blue with amber specks. Behind her he saw Foster remove his coat from the foyer closet and head for the door. Smart man, that Foster. “About cabinets?”
Alicia swept a hand toward Sarge, all soap and water clean, his eyes bright, his body lean but muscled. “Done.”
“See, it’s like this.” She smoothed a slow hand through her hair, letting the curls fall back on her shoulders. “I’ve decided to put my house on the market.”
“You... What?” She wanted to talk real estate at a time like this? Conor hoped he heard wrong.
She nodded. “It’s too big, for one thing.”
“Yes?” Like this was news? The stupid house hadn’t grown in the twelve years she’d been there. Oops, there was that word again, watch it, Conor.
“And I always liked living right in town.”
Conor’s heart went to full pause mode. “Oh?”
“I figured we could board the horses at any one of several fine choices.”
“And who needs two houses?”
“Two?” The import of her words struck him. He looked down at her, his heart expanding that last little bit, wondering if she meant... “What do you need, Leash?”
She stared up, into his eyes, lips parted, her breathing unsteady but her gaze secure. One hand snaked around his neck, pulling him down. “Us,” she whispered as his lips met hers, the touch soft and warm, heady with invitation. “I need us, Conor.”
Somewhere in the back of his head he heard the dog whine, then make the customary three-circle spin before curling up in a ball on the living room rug, ready to wait them out.
Obviously the dog was as smart as the butler.
Alicia and Conor’s story is that of a divorced couple whose romance rekindles after years apart.
So share with us. Show us the love scenes that make you smile, make you yearn. You can post yours or someone else’s work. Show us the warmth and passion inherent in romance. It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have a hot date tonight (more’s the pity) so I’ve got plenty of time to chat it up.
Let’s see what you’ve got.