August 3, 2011 by Anne Tenino
I watch Project Runway like an addict. Seriously, we’re building a PJ R-way library (my daughter calls it this. I think it’s cute). So, one season (five, or was it six?), one of the finalists introduced his boyfriend to Tim Gunn as “My love interest.” Since then I can’t get it out of my head.
“Hmmm. I think I’m interested in falling in love with you.”
“I’m very, very interested in making love with you.”
“Hey baby, you interested in any lovin’ tonight?”
Blah, blah, blah. My point is, I’m trying to decide on the name of Sam’s love interest. Sam, from Whitetail Rock, that is.
Here is a little except (emphasis on little) from the rough draft of the first chapter. It gives Sam’s first impression of said love interest. Please read the excerpt, then vote for the name you think fits the best. Keep in mind, he’s much older (11-12 years) than Sam, and a former firefighter.
A whole pack of brawny highlanders chased him. Sure, they had jeans on, and only some of them were bare-chested, but they all had that meaner-than-hell-Scot look in their eye, and it wouldn’t have surprised Sam in the least if their manly-yet-knobby knees were flashing under yards of plaid and they were being led by Robert the Bruce.
The leader in their group made Robert the Bruce look like a little nellie boy. He was tall, thickly-muscled and dark haired, with whiskery scruff Sam could see from 10 yards away while running and looking backward over his shoulder. He had one of those brows that bordered on hairy neanderthal, but somehow looked macho and sexy. His mouth was open, screaming some kind of battle cry, and he was gaining on Sam. Reaching out to him.
Sam stumbled and slowed, but then his self-preservation instinct kicked in, and he faced forward, clutched the book and put on some speed.
That was when some projectile weapon coming from the direction of the highlanders clocked him in the back of the head. It nearly sent him into a forward somersault, and his legs couldn’t keep up with the sudden speed increase of his upper body. His knees gave in and Sam pitched forward, throwing out his hands to catch himself.
Which was, of course, when he dropped the book. Actually, it was more of a fling than a drop. Sam lay there, cheek on the cold, damp fall grass, front getting soaked, stunned and blinking at his book a few feet in front of him. Verdant, his brain supplied. Your romance novel is lying in a verdant field of grass longing for its reader. A football wobbled its way into his field of vision, and came to a rocking halt. Feet pounded up behind it.
Knees dropped suddenly onto the grass next to his head, jolting him. Sam strained his eyeballs upward and he could see the brawny, shirtless highlander who’d been leading the pack panting and scowling down at him. His muscles were straining and his chest was rising and falling rapidly. He had a veritable forest of dark chest hair. He made about the best living, breathing (panting) romance novel cover Sam had ever seen. Macho and manly and stern and, oh man. Sam sighed. Guys like this were never gay. They were always the ones chasing the homos.