Page 7 of One Small Spark
“The heroine didn’t have a lot of context for love either,” he argues. “But she still wanted it.”
“Because she’s the heroine. In a lot of romance novels, the heroine is desperate for love and affection no matter what she’s been through.”
“That’s a good point,” Rosetta says. “There’s an expectation that women are always looking for love.”
“Exactly. The hero gets to be all stoic and detached from his feelings and only stumbles into love after it’s already fallen in his lap. The heroes are more relatable because theydon’tthink love is for them.”
Silence takes over the patio. Great. My first foray into a romance book club and I’ve all but admitted I don’t actually believe in it. Even Callahan’s watching me closely—big surprise, the creeper.
My smile is mostly cringe as I try to recover. “But, hey, those shirtless scenes were fire, am I right?”
THREE
SHEPHERD
This afternoon has beenfull of revelations. When Wren walked into Ada’s house, I froze, sureIwould be the one revealing more than I intended. But here she is, unveiling tiny, glimmering pieces of herself without meaning to.
I scoop up all the shiny pieces and tuck them away in my hoard. I collect little glimpses of the woman beneath the snark to treasure like a covetous dragon over his gold.
“Ooh, those shirtless scenes.” Nora fans herself. “Sorry, Shepherd, but you know how we feel about them.”
I laugh at her faux apology. “I’m not offended, Mrs. Gonzales.”
“Nora, please. How many times do I have to remind you?”
I nod, but it’s a tough habit to break. “Nora.”
“You don’t call me bymyfirst name,” Wren grumps next to me. “You could mix it up, you know.”
An interesting request, since she’s the one who started the last name business. But I don’t trust myself to try. Our game has gone on so long now, saying her first name out loud would probably fall under the “revealing too much” category.
“Whatever you want, kitten,” I return.
She glares, sending a rush of heat through me. I’m a simple man. An idiot, but a simple one. I’ll take any reaction from her I can get.
“It’s when the hero rolled up his shirtsleeves that did it for me,” Isabel says. “A small gesture, but a mighty one.”
“Hmm…” Ada pats a finger against her chin. “My Harry never does that. I can’t quite imagine it.”
“How can someone never roll up their sleeves?” Fran asks.
Ada sniffs. “He has skinny elbows. They don’t stay up.”
Fran’s gaze lights on me with naked enthusiasm. “Maybe Shepherd would demonstrate for us.”
The ladies seem to like this idea—all but one. My seatmate rolls her eyes.
“How am I supposed to do it?” I’m game, I just don’t know what they want. I’ve read the sorts of passages they mean, and was frankly surprised to learn it’s a recurring piece of imagery. I assume it’s something to do with a buttoned-up man letting loose a little. Doesn’t really apply in this situation, since I’m nothing close to stuffy.
“Just roll up your sleeves so we can see your forearms,” Ada directs.
“Slowly!” Fran adds.
I shake out my arms as if I need to gear myself up for it, and a couple of the women laugh.
Wren huffs at my side. “They’re objectifying you,” she mutters. “Like you’re theirboy toyor something.”
I lean in so I can whisper in her ear. She freezes, her big blue eyes wide as she watches me draw closer. “It’s all good. Everyone here has my consent to objectify me.”
