Wake-Me-Up Wednesday: Special Romance Edition Featuring "Mr. Romance 2009"

"Mr. Romance 2009" Charles Paz

Photographer and Male Model
Birthdate: April 3, 1980

Mr. Romance: Charles Paz Facebook Page
Facebook Photography Fan Page
Model Website Page

Mr. Romance: Charles Paz, Reflections on RT 2009

When asked by Contemporary Author, Anya Davis (on her blog interview just recently) about book covers and how many he's been on, Charles says: "Sigh….. I wish I could tell you that there are many covers with my face on them coming out, But I cannot lie. I will say that I am extremely grateful for all that I have done with this Mr. Romance title. Even though it hasn’t been much, I am glad to have lived something that so many guys just dream about. I will be on the cover of Connie Mason’s book titled LORD OF DEVIL ISLE. I’m very excited and blessed for that.

I’ve been working on shooting my own covers and marketing the images to authors who would like me on their cover. It’s in the early stages of development, but if I have learned anything from this it’s that if ’you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself’. I think the world of romance will be amazed at what I bring to the table for covers!"


So now...on with the great photos you've all been waiting for! Happy Wednesday Romance Fans!

I want to send out a special thanks to the "Main Man" himself for allowing me this opportunity. Charles, you are truly one of the sweetest, (and sexiest) men in romance.

Ladies and authors...friend this guy on Facebook! You will be glad you did.

Up Close And Perplexing

For those of you who have just joined, this is simply a fun thread to see just how good you are at guessing closely photographed objects. This one may not be as easy as you think. Can you guess what it is?

Leave your guess on the blog and Mícheál Ó Caoinleain will be around in a few days to let you know who is correct. Good luck!

Winter Wonderland (Photos taken by my daughter)

My daughter, being the kind-hearted soul that she is, sprinkled birdseed just outside of our sliding glass door so that the birds would have enough food to make it through the winter. And especially since we just got about 8-10" of snow, she made sure to provide them with an enormous buffet.

Here are some of my eleven-year old's photos:

And if you want to leave a comment, I'm sure she would love it!

Up Close And Perplexing

Here we go again for another Up Close And Perplexing look at a photo!

These photos are from the interesting gallery of Mícheál Ó Caoinleain and the goal is to see if anyone can guess what it is.

Can you figure out this one?

Happy Valentine's Day

When I first posted this Valentine's Day contest on my blog for "the most romantic thing your man has ever done for you", I honestly didn't expect many to enter. Boy, was I wrong. And let me first say, that picking the winner was very difficult. The stories were so amazing and heartwarming, that many touched me profoundly, again, making my choice extremely difficult.

But, after much thought, I felt I was more inclined to lean towards an account that was actually written as a 'romance story'. She went above and beyond what I was expecting, and still told of her husband's most romantic and selfless gesture of love toward her - but in a beautiful, more personal way.

The winner of the Valentine's Day Contest 2010 is Stephanie Graham from Pennsylvania, and here is her lovely story:
(And please feel free to leave comments at the end. You are going to love this story!)


Our relationship was a complicated one. I had first met him in my freshman year of high school. At the time, he was a senior, the perfect senior to be exact, and had everything a guy could want and have: stance of class valedictorian, first place in both Math and Debate Club competitions, and a gorgeous girlfriend who with her success, could have been considered his over-achieving female counterpart. There was no way in life, I could have lived up to all that. But somehow I did. By the end of my freshman year, right before he went off to college was when we first kissed. From then on, it's hard to say what happened, really.


Evan McClare was so shockingly handsome that every time you looked at him, your breath would catch a little in your throat. It was no wonder he had so many friends and admirers; he was so nice and good-looking and charismatic that there was no way you possibly could dislike him. His smile was so genuine and pleasing to the eyes, that it was hard to tear your own glance away from it. The first time Evan McClare smiled at me was the exact moment I decided that some day, one day, I would marry that same boy. And eventually, I did.



"Why do you refuse to plainly admit that you're wrong, every once in a while?" Evan asked me, tracing a thin, long scar that ran up my shin with his finger; a battle wound I had attained from the chicken wire that supported my mother's bean garden on a careless frolic through our backyard, one afternoon.


"Because I'm never wrong, of course," I rolled up my pant leg even more to display to him the length the scrape had traveled; almost midway to my thigh. I had told him that I had gotten hurt in a skiing accident, which was ridiculous because chicken wire was irrelevant to ski slopes. What was even more ridiculous was that he had actually believed me.


"You were wrong, just now."


I tucked my leg under the one he was carefully drawing abstract shapes onto. We were laying together on his bed, not like that, but with our bodies strewn opposite of each other's, my legs in his lap, his under mine. The way Mrs. McClare trusted Evan with a girl up in his bedroom was so very uncanny. But then again, I couldn't really complain; what did Evan possess in order to not deem that trust? He was every parent's dream; no one, not even his own mother suspected him of ever doing anything unexemplary. "Wrong about what?" I asked, examining my fingernails.


"You just told me that you would never go out on a date, ever, in your life. How do you expect me to believe that?"


I smirked. "I don't like boys," I said, though it was so totally untrue. I liked them, I just never accepted them. Every date I had ever been asked out on, I declined. Politely, of course.


"I take offense to that," he said.


"Oh, you're hardly a boy!" I laughed. The past year, we had gotten so close, that it was hard to imagine how I actually felt for Evan. He was a really good friend, and for a several months, that had distracted me from thinking of him in any other way. It however, did not keep my leg from tingling where he left trails on it with his finger.


"I am under the influence that I am a boy, thank you very much. A man, actually. I'm eighteen, remember?" he dangled his senior ID bracelet at me.


I laughed, taking his fingers, and moving them up to my knee. "A penny for your thoughts," I teased.


Evan was silent for a long moment. "You remind me a lot of Jessica," he said, finally.


My fingers, which were moving along with his, stilled for a second. Jessica was his ex-girlfriend, the one he had recently broken up with, and it seemed like the topic of her, whether she was current or ex, had always been taboo. It was really awkward bringing her up, so we never did.

"How?" I asked, trying to act nonchalant.
 He shrugged. He took his hands away and put them behind his head, leaning back against his stack of pillows, elbows out.


I looked up at his ceiling, suddenly taking an intense interest in his wall clock (it had a picture of a buffalo on it) and held my breath to the count of ten before he spoke again.


"It's just the way you talk, you know? You guys are so similar," he moved a hand up to his chin, into his thinking position. He rubbed his slightly stubbly face with his fingers, and my own began to twitch in temptation to stroke his tense jaw.


"I never really knew her..." I said, shaking my head. It was only a small lie. I knew she was beautiful and half-Chinese with dark hair and creamy skin, and the biggest headlines of the school announcements, always, but I never really had met her. So I technically was telling the truth. "...but is that a good thing?"
 "It's an excellent thing," he shifted suddenly, leaning in. He crossed is legs out in front of him, resting his arms on his knees. "I feel like you're a lot smarter though," I snickered, interrupting him. "Not book-smart persay, but people-smart. You understand me a whole lot more."


"That's not so bad." I tilted my head and ran my pointed toe across his leg. He pulled both my feet out to either side of him.


"Yeah," he said, moving his face so close to mine that our noses were almost touching. Almost. "It's not bad at all."


Slowly, his eyes searched my face before his mouth found its way to mine, and as our lips brushed, an electrifying shock coursed through my blood. I, out of instinct, more than out or shock, pulled away slightly. "I don't like boys, Evan." I whispered. "Remember?"


He swallowed, and his brown eyes turned a fathomless shade of black. "I told you already," he said hoarsely, "you were lying."


I shook my head. "I really-" I stopped. I had no idea how to explain this to him. How did I tell the boy of my dreams that I couldn't get involved with him because it was too difficult to be with him? "I just don't want you to do this out of routine," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I'm flattered that you would compare me to Jessie and all, but I don't want to be your replacement, yeah?"


"No. Not at all," he veered away from me a little, as if to examine me as whole, instead of just my face. "I know this sounds a little pathetic, and late, for that matter," he came closer again, "but I feel as if I've felt this way about you even when I was with Jessica. Do you register?"


"No," I breathed, inhaling the delicious scent of Evan, which was always a mix of stale cologne and pine needles.


He tilted his face to mine for a kiss, a real one this time. And this time, I obliged. Happily.


Though at first, I was skeptical of his excuse to kiss me, his excuse that he had liked me even before he broke up with his girlfriend, the way his lips moved with mine cleared out every last trace of that doubt. He held me like I was a delicacy, but kissed me with such urgency, that there was no way I couldn't believe him. I had to. I understood that the way I felt about him and the way he felt about me was not just childplay; it was love.




I believe that our first kiss brought me many things. It brought me hope. And sensation. And realization about what love really was about. Most people don't know this, but that night, that same night of my first kiss that gave to me, so many things, I lost something, one thing, too. That night, I lost my virginity to Evan McClare. I was fifteen.




Three years passed relatively uneventfully. Evan got into Harvard; no surprises there. I finished my last torturous years of high school. And finally as a senior, I had been accepted to my dream school: Columbia. I'd wanted to go to Columbia since I had been a little girl. It was an Ivy League university (parent-approved), rigorous in the literary field (education-approved), but best of all, it was out of state (self-approved), in New York. Ever since my involvement with Evan, I had hesitated on applying to Columbia more than once. If I had wanted to be with him, I should have tried for Harvard, and if not even so, at least somewhere in the metropolitan-Boston area. But I figured that going to school might have been good for me; if I was able to handle four years of college without being with Evan constantly, and would be still willing to be with him afterwards, then I would have known automatically that he would be a keeper. Unfortunately, nothing went as picture-perfectly as we had planned, and it all started on one afternoon, sometime in early September.




"Stephanie, please open up," Evan called from outside the bathroom.


"No," I whined, leaning my back against the door.


"What's wrong? Are you okay? Please open the door."


"Everything. No. No, thanks." I said, answering his questions respectively.


"Come on, Steph, just let me in. This is my bathroom, you know." He was right; this was the bathroom of his apartment located on the Harvard campus.


"No. I feel like throwing up!" I cried, wanting him to leave me alone.


"Well let me in, I'll get you some Alka-Seltzer or something!"


I sighed in exasperation and unlocked the door. I set the lid on the toilet and sat down, then covered my face with my hands.


I listened to Evan come in. "Are you feeling all right?" His hands felt my neck. They felt unusually cool. He sat down on the floor, angling his head up to me. "Steph, please just tell me what's wrong. I can help you."


I looked down at him with tear-streaked cheeks and red eyes. "Two lines," I quavered, thrusting the stick at him. "Two freaking lines."


I didn't particularly get to see what his reaction was, because I, out of lack of composure, returned to my original position, where my face was buried into my hands and knees. I was sobbing.


"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, but I still heard him. "Come here."


I didn't have to though, because he pulled me off the seat, onto his lap, gently, and pressed my head to his chest. He curled my legs up so he was holding me in a fetal position; like a small child. "Stephanie," I bawled even harder. "Stephanie, listen to me," he stroked my neck with one hand and rubbed my cheek with the other. I felt his lips move at my temple. "It's going to be fine, okay?"
 I shook my head vigorously. I was starting college in two weeks --actually, eleven days to be exact-- and here I was, pregnant. Pregnant. How was it going to be fine? I asked him this convulsively; I don't even know how he understood.


"We'll be okay, I..." he paused, and his caresses slowed in pace. "..you're going to keep it, aren't you?"


I raised my head. "Of course I'm gonna keep it," I snapped, offended that he would even suggest otherwise.


He seemed unaffected. "Okay, good." He kissed the top of my head. Then he repeated, "Good." And we sat there, there on the cold, bathroom tiles, like that for an entire afternoon, doing nothing but sitting and holding and kissing and thinking. Both him and I were perplexed, and the only thing that was absolutely clear about the whole situation was that we were going to keep the baby, we definitely were going to keep it. However, everything else in the world, seemed to be a complete blur.




I didn't go to Columbia. Not my freshman year as a college student, anyway. Evan and I figured out a plan. In February, about three months before I was due, we got married. Sadly, we didn't have the time, the effort, or the money to throw a huge fairy-tale princess wedding like we had always imagined ourselves having. Instead, we went to the city hall and had the legal stuff finalized (things like joint possession and surname changes). In fact we never even had a wedding, period. Nor did we have an official engagement. But I was all right with that. At six months pregnant, there wasn't much I could have demanded. Beggars can't be choosers, you know. After I had the baby in May, I took the summer off for maternity leave, then returned to school in September. There was a admission slot open for me; it was in place of the enrollment that I could not attain while I had been pregnant the previous year. Though I did not feel comfortable leaving my son in the hands of a daycare center when he was only an infant, it was the only thing I could do and go to school at the same time. Evan's end of the deal was that he would let me finish college, all four years uninterrupted, after the baby. Well, that didn't work out so well either. Junior year, Mr. and Mrs. Evan McClare were proud to present their beautiful daughter, Rosalie Janine McClare. I never bothered going back to school though. It obviously wasn't what I had dreamed of as a little child, to become a stay-at-home mom, that is, and it got worse when the following year, Evan took a job as a junior analyst at New York city's best accounting firm, Deloitte & Touche. But what all people admired about our life wasn't how beautiful our children were, how big our house was, or how fortunate we were on the grand scale. In fact, what everyone knew and loved about our life was how even through all mishaps and misfortunes, we always got through it, no matter what. And we would continue to do so for the rest of our lives.




Wednesday night, I receive a phone call. I balance my daughter, Rosalie, who has just turned one, on my hip and wedge the phone between my ear and my shoulder.


"Hello?" I say, jotting down what the Food Network is blaring from the television onto a notepad. Citrus zest. Oregano. Chive and soy dressing.


"Hey, it's me." Evan.


"Hi..." Ginger. Onion powder. Chili oil.


"What are you doing?"


"Um..."


"You're watching a cooking show, aren't you?"


"No."
 "I can hear Rachel Ray in the background."
 "Well, she's making broiled salmon glazed with soy sauce with a side of spicy broccoli stir-fry and I am not going to miss it!" I exclaim, laughing. Rosalie chortles happily into my ear.


"What do I buy you all those cookbooks for, then?"


"Oh, those are boring," I say, setting my notepad down. I put Rosalie onto the floor; she totters for a few steps before tumbling onto her diaper-cushioned bottom. I laugh.


"What's so funny?" Evan asks.


"Rosalie. She's actually beginning to walk! It's the cutest thing." He's quiet on the other end. "I wish you were here to see it, though. She probably would go a mile plus a dozen steps for you."


I can hear him smiling on the other end of the line. "I don't doubt it." Brandon, my three-year-old, comes running up to me with a mess of popsicle sticks he glued together. I smile at him and pull him onto my lap.


"I miss you," I say, rubbing a patch what looks like dried applesauce off of Brandon's masterpiece. "Rosalie misses you. Brandon misses you." Evan exhales. "When are you coming home?"


"Soon. You know what tomorrow is, right?"


"Thursday?"


"No...our anniversary."


"Oh," I say. Our marriage was never really official. Therefore, the past three anniversaries we have had have never really been celebrated. Evan is away in Manhattan, where he's an analyst at this marketing firm, and he only comes home on holidays such as Thanksgiving and Christmas. Seeing our "anniversary" is in February, he never comes around, then. Once Brandon leaps off my lap to go make another craft of his, I ask Evan playfully, "So what are you gonna get me?"
 "Something good," he promises. "I shipped it yesterday, airmail. It should arrive tomorrow morning."


"I miss you," I repeat, suddenly feeling really melancholy, because on an anniversary night, you should be making love to your husband, not discussing the contents of first-class expressed packages.


"I know. But just wait, okay? I'm doing my best to hurry home."


"Okay," I say softly.
 "I love you, Stephanie," he says, and just like every time he says it, a blush creeps up to my neck, giving me that feeling I get every time we touch. Only now, he's not touching me. I can't even see him.


"Love you too."


We say our goodbyes and hang up, and as soon as I put the phone receiver down, I realize that I'm feeling lonelier than I have ever been before.




I am still in bed the next morning when the doorbell rings. I'm not asleep, just lying down, staring at the ceiling above me. I am thinking about how, if the ceiling were to be a large mirror instead of a blank canvas of plaster, I would be able to see everything that goes on in this bed, while I'm in it. I sigh unhappily, because the only action that ever goes on in this bedroom is when Brandon comes crying into it at two in the morning, claiming to have had a frightful dream. Slipping on my silk robe and tightening it around the waist, I cautiously creep downstairs as to not wake the kids up, and look through the peephole of our front door to see who on earth could be wanting anything at this hour. As promised by Evan, there is a mailman standing outside. I open the door.


"Hello!" he says in that rumbling, cheery voice.


"Hi," I reply, suspiciously noticing that he does not have any package with him. Nothing visible, at least. Perhaps Evan got me jewelry; how lovely.


"Delivery for Miss Stephanie...Graham?"


"It's Mrs. Stephanie McClare, actually," I correct, exasperated at the fact that my name still hasn't been changed after three years.


He squints at his oversized clipboard. "No, the packing slip specifically says Miss Stephanie Graham," he turns a page over. "From Mr. Evan McClare."


That's odd. Of all people, you'd think that my husband would be the one to get his own surname right.


"Well, what do you have for me?" I say, ignoring his stubbornness.


"Oh, it's much too big for me to carry up all these steps all by myself," he says, motioning to the stone pathway that leads up to our home. "I need your assistance."


"Um..okay. Let me just grab my-"


"No, no, it'll only take a moment. Come along now. It's not too heavy. Just very large," he chuckles.


I roll my eyes. Aren't delivery men supposed to be strong? Whatever Evan has gotten me can't outweigh a mailman. A slight gust picks up as I step outside, and I shiver, remembering that under my bedrobe, the only thing I have on is a frilly pink nightgown, and suddenly, I am uncomfortable. My uneasy feeling persists as he leads me to his huge truck. "Right here," he says. "Stand right here. I'm going to lift the package out and you be ready to catch it, got it?"


I give an unenthusiastic mmph of affirmation and turn my head away, annoyed. Behind me, I see my neighbors' houses, the other perfectly trimmed lawns and white picket fences of suburbia that surround mine, and I wonder if any of the people inside are still in bed. I'm a little jealous that they're inside their nice, warm homes, probably cuddled up with their spouses, having a swell Thursday morning full of coffee and donuts and early radio, when suddenly, a brawn pair of arms wrap around me. I yelp, and nearly jump a foot in the air, prepared to kick this man in the groin, until I realize that he is wearing a business suit. And that he smells slightly of Tommy Hilfiger. Mailmen don't wear suits. Or cologne. If those neighbors aren't awake yet, my piercing screams probably get the job done, because the word scream is an understatement of what my vocal chords demonstrate as I jump onto Evan.


"What on earth!" I wrap my legs around his torso and I scream and I scream and I scream.


"Hello to you, too," he laughs, sliding his tough, warm hands under my thighs.


"What -what are you doing here?" I grab at his hair and hug his head to my chest. His fingers trace the lining of my lace panties and I feel myself tensing.


"I had something to give you," he murmurs as he kisses me. "And I thought it'd be best if I did it in person."


He sets me down, and kneels in front of me.


"Evan! Not here!" I giggle, looking back at the delivery guy, who's enjoying my patheticness in mockery.


"Shh," he takes my hand. I stop laughing. "So, I was thinking about the perfect anniversary gift," he begins, rubbing my hand in his two. "And, I realized that everything I send you every year, most of it's just pointless."


"Evan! The food processor you got me last year was not pointless!"
 "No, Steph. It all is," he continues. "No matter what I get you, whether it be kitchen appliances or cookbooks or anniversary rings," he looks up at my eyes, "It's all pointless. There is no point to everything, if we aren't really married." I want to protest, because we are married, but I decide to keep my mouth shut. "So this year, I want to change all that." He reaches into his coat pocket, and produces a small velvet box.


I purse my lips into a smile.


"Stephanie."


I gaze at him. I gasp as he opens the plum-colored box; inside is the most brilliant diamond (hopefully it's diamond) I have ever seen in all my twenty-one years of living.


"Will you, Stephanie, the most outrageously beautiful and magnificent woman in existence," his voice teeters with a smile. I giggle. "Make me the happiest man in the world, by becoming my wife?"


"Evan, that's the sweetest thing I've ever heard! While you're at it, why don't I have your children too?"


"You're such a goof," he laughs, standing up, and kisses me hard and square on the mouth. When our lips meet, no more explanation is needed. I don't need to know why he took time out of his schedule to visit. I don't need to know why he would go through the trouble of proposing to me, officially. I don't even need to know why after all the years we've been together, he chooses now to get me a real engagement ring. No, I don't need reasons. In fact, at this moment, right now, the way he holds my face ever-so-carefully yet kisses me with such urgency is reason enough for me. Now, this moment, is all that matters, and everything else seems irrelevant; the only thing I realize, that I need, is just him.

Stephanie has just won everything you see here:

Congratulations, Stephanie, on your big win and on snagging such a wonderful man as Evan. I wish you all the success and blessings a wonderful marriage can offer you. May you never forget that true love exists and thrives!

Happy Valentine's Day to everyone!

Interview With Mr. Romance 2009, Charles Paz

This is a special Valentine's Day Post!

A great friend of mine and fellow author, Anya Davis, has just posted a fantastic interview with Mr. Romance 2009, Charles Paz on her blog.

If you don't know who he is, you HAVE to drop by! If you know exactly who he is, you still HAVE to drop by. In this interview, Anya does not hold back with her questions, and some get down right personal.

This interview will not fail to entertain you, if not stimulate your senses with the many gorgeous photos included.

Thanks Anya!

Up Close And Perplexing

This is a new segment here on the blog where Mícheál Ó Caoinleain will feature some of his interesting photographs, and yes, you guessed it, they will be "up close and perplexing". Some might be obvious, while others may need a keen eye and an open imagination.

This one was one of my favorites the moment I saw it. The colors and soft lines make a perfect marriage as they almost seem to melt into one another.

Can anyone figure out what it is?

Valentines' Day Contest

Being the author of a romance novel has its benefits, and of those is that I get to spend my entire day thinking "between the sheets" and conjuring up steamy moments of intimacy. I mean, what woman doesn't love to imagine being in the arms of a bare-chested hunk-of-a-man pampering her with all the attention she needs (and deserves). I, however, just get paid for it.

With that in mind, and the fast approaching Valentine's Day, I would like to give my readers the opportunity to win a signed paperback of Ræliksen and all the supplies* necessary to pamper themselves (bare-chested hunk-of-a-man not included, unless of course, you are counting my handsome Norse warrior hero, Dægan).

All you have to do is send me an email with a story of how your man has once pampered you in the most glorious of ways. Perhaps it was a surprise romantic dinner for two that he cooked himself, or maybe he went adventurous, and gave you your own "spa experience" by his hand alone. Now realize, this story will be posted on the blog, so you might want to leave out some certain details...

Nonetheless, this is your opportunity to become a "romance writer" and tell the world how great your man is. How he unselfishly took the time to make you feel special just for the sake of doing it. It does not have to be a Valentine's Day moment. It could be just any ordinary day that turned out to be memorable - a special date - a proposal story - ANYTHING!

Just send me the details of that great day in an email (pictures welcome but not necessary) with "Valentine" in the subject. I will pick one lucky winner whose story is the best and the most romantic, and then I will post the winner and their story on this blog on Valentine's Day.

So put your creative caps on and send me your most romantic interlude. Contest entries must be in by February 12th, 2010 (before midnight) to be valid.

Renee Vincent's Email: rv@reneevincent.com

*Prize Items:

-Autographed Ræliksen paperback
-the healing garden Lavender lotion, and two body washes
-Body Prescriptions Foot Spa Berry Mint Foot Lotion, Foot Splash, and Foot Soak (Pumice Stone and Brush included)
-BATH Bamboo Massager
-Dare To Bare Body Shimmer Lotion
-APRIL "Sweet Dreams" Eye Mask, Bath Sponge, & Microfiber Hand Towel
-Spa Collection Black Cherry & Plum Scented Candle & Oil Diffuser with Reedsticks