Sam stood, grinned agreeably, and then shook hands with the attractive couple from two doors down the beach before resuming his seat. He continued to play the dutiful, single son, making polite chitchat for another hour before making his excuses. He understood his mother’s strategy perfectly. Nevertheless, it had been effective. Melinda and Nick made a cute couple. He’d been uncomfortably aware of his status as the lone solo act in a paired-off world, as his mom had intended.

He was still thinking about it when he drove home an hour later. The problem was, he didn’t want to settle. He wanted what his parents had. He wanted the magic. In the meantime, he was still young and there were lots of playmates to enjoy before he made a permanent connection.

Speaking of which, he spotted a damsel in distress in his right front quadrant. Hard to tell about her coloring from this angle–but she had a great ass. The hood was up on her compact rental and she was stretched over the fender, examining the engine compartment, her upper-half hidden by the hood.

Sam didn’t know a lot about engines, but he could offer her a ride or the use of his cell phone and he was happy to lend emotional support. He liked to think he was the kind of guy who’d have stopped to help even if she’d been grandmotherly, but the cute butt and trim legs had caught his eye much faster than the raised hood.

Parking close behind her, he got out of his car and offered assistance. “Can I help?”

“Not unless you’re freakin’ magician,” she snapped and backed out from under the hood, blowing long brown bangs off her forehead with a frustrated whoosh of breath.

He grinned in appreciation because the top half matched her bottom and then some. “Sorry, ma’am I’m only a lowly passerby on the lonely highway of life.”

She laughed, wiped her greasy hand on a hankie, and then extended it to him. “Caroline Kennedy, and no, not that one. My grandmother was a big Jackie O fan, so my mom promised to name her first daughter Caroline.”

Pausing to eye him assessingly, she pushed the bangs away leaving a streak of dirt on her temple. Sam waited for her to make up her mind, doing his best to look harmless and friendly, which he was–basically.

“If you could give me a ride into Kingston, that would be so great,” she said appealingly. Her eyes widened and she touched her throat, leaving another dirty mark. He produced a clean handkerchief, and gently wiped her temple, her throat, and finally he cleaned her slender fingers. Moving slowly and touching only the soiled spots, he worked to keep her comfortable. But, at the same time, make her aware of him as a man. One, perhaps, not as entirely harmless as she’d first thought.

Nothing wrong with being a nice guy except, unless he pushed, women had a tendency to dismiss him as too young, too sweet, and not boyfriend material. A guy never got laid being too nice. He’d learned.

Now days, if he was interested then he stepped inside the woman’s comfort zone and let her take a second look at man who wasn’t too young or too nice or too harmless.

His interest level rose along with another part of his anatomy that responded favorable to the curvy Miss Not-That-Caroline-Kennedy. This close she smelled good and her skin was soft and moist. She sighed and leaned closer.

God, he loved women.

Giving her a slow grin, he made a counter offer. “I’d love to give you a ride to Kingston, but would you mind if we stopped by my place first?”

She blinked in hesitation.

To push the odds in his favor, he teased her. “You’re welcome to wait in the car if you’re uncomfortable entering my lair.”

“No, I mean that’s fine, I’d love to see your place. Do you live around here?”

“It’s right on our way,” he assured her, holding her eyes though he wanted to look elsewhere. He waited, knowing his patience would reap rewards. If it didn’t, that wasn’t a problem. There were always plenty of willing partners.

The abundance of lovely women in his life was the main reasons he resisted his mother’s hints. Exclusivity and commitment were for some time in his future when he found a truly special woman. He never doubted that would happen, but until it did–he saw no reason not to enjoy the variety on offer.

He held the car door for her, buckled her in, keeping his touches light and caring. Again, his restraint was rewarded as she sighed and moved nearer. Lingering, he caged her with his arms. “Do you need to call someone? You’re welcome to use my cell.”

“No–I mean–no thank you. I tried calling my girlfriend earlier but there was no answer. I’ll try again later.”

Her eyes drifted shut–her lips were less than inch from his. Sam stroked the side of her head, letting her silky hair tease his fingers. The pink tip of her tongue darted out to trace the outline of her smile. He followed the lascivious journey with his finger, and then she sucked it into her mouth.

When she’d finished, he framed her face and then pressed his lips to hers. She softened beneath the onslaught of his mouth, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he reluctantly pulled away, unwilling to start something he couldn’t finish.

“Hold tight to that idea, baby. We’re twenty minutes from my place,” he whispered while placing nibbling kisses up her neck and on the sweet spot behind her ear. She tasted so sweet–like a sun-ripened melon.

Five minutes from home, Caroline cried out. “Oh look, can we stop?”

“We’re almost to my place,” he said persuasively.

She coaxed. “It’s so pretty and I’m really thirsty.”

“As your wish is my command,” he said shrugging off his irritation. The bar had a nice view and a little more get-acquainted time would work in his favor. A drink or two never hurt either, he thought cynically.

“A glass of Merlot and whatever the lady wants,” he instructed the bartender then excused himself to wash his hands. When he returned his glass of wine waited along with a dish of plantain chips. Caroline sipped from a tall frosty glass.

As he sat, he pressed his leg against hers. She covered his knee with her hand, and then slid it up his inner thigh.

“Very nice,” she whispered appreciatively.

Like all writers, I was a passionate reader first and still am. Recently, I’ve read two different favorite authors. One I adore for her contemporary fiction, the other for her historical romances. Both of them write engaging women. The kind of heroines who you admire and would want for a friend. There heroes are, naturally enough, heroic–the very essences of feminine fantasy, but not nearly so real as their heroines.

These talented writers are quick to show the heroine’s honor and bravery,  but their men lack a feminine side.  Maybe this is just me, admittedly I do like the heroes best, especially when they’re well done.  And I am a greedy, want it all kind of reader.

This brings me to my question–do we want real men in a romance?

Speaking just for myself, yes.  But, it’s a qualified yes.  I want real men the same way I want real women in stories.  I want them to be believable, but a bit better than real life, a bit more consistent, and a bit quicker to do the right thing.

How much realism do you want in your romance?

Rhage was sex addict and I was totally rooting for him.

Butch threw back Scotch like it was a chaser.

Flaws are okay, wallowing isn’t.  Somewhere along the line, Phury lost my respect.  And a hero needs respect.  Damn near anything can be justified if it well motivated and handled sympathetically.  Self pity, running away from his problems instead of taking action–right there he fell off my hero pedestal.

Do I want my heroes perfect?  Of course not.  I love them flawed, complex, and tortured.  But, and this is the key.  I still want them heroic.

Tell me about a romantic hero who didn’t work for you.