My idea of what is romantic has evolved as I've matured.
At a young age, nothing made my heart race more than receiving an intricately folded piece of spiral notebook paper containing the words, "I like you. Do you like me?"
When I became a teenager, it was the unexpected phone call from a boy I had a crush on. Those conversations often went much like the scene with Christina Applegate and leather-jacket guy in The Sweetest Thing..."What's up with you?"; "Nothing. What's up with you?"; "Nothing. What's up with you?"; and so on and so forth.
In college, romance involved being spun around on the dance floor to country music until I was dizzy and laboring to breath. There was something about a guy in tight jeans waltzing me around with skill and finesse that really got my heart racing.
In my twenties, romance involved nice dinners with an excellent bottle of wine, intimate conversation and heated glances. Yep, that did it for me.
Now, my idea of romance is hubby taking our son so I can get a few hours to myself. I always come back refreshed and completely in love with my man.
A romantic gesture is not about the amount of money spent or the activity engaged in, it's about the feeling-the racing pulse, pounding heart, sweaty palms, nervous butterflies, and all the crazy, nerve-wracking, euphoric sensations inspired by the gesture.
In all my stories, His Ship, Her Fantasy; His Hope, Her Salvation; and Twice is Not Enough, the ultimate expression of love, the most romantic gesture I think any man can make, is the acceptance of the woman he loves for who she is, flaws and all.