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  © 2018 Her Real Man by Natalina Reis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Her Real Man is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.

  www.hottreepublishing.com

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Designer: Soxsational Cover Art

  ISBN-13: 978-1-925655-49-0

  Real Men and Chicken

  Red Wine and Kisses

  Lobster and Fire

  Soup and Basketball

  Humble Pie and Forgiveness

  Fire and Love

  Coffee and Ducklings

  Ice Cream and Tears

  Heroes and Saints

  Truth and Misunderstandings

  Rescue Me Collection

  More From Natalina

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  To all firefighters, here and abroad. You’re real life heroes. Thank you.

  Real Men and Chicken

  Ana

  What was I thinking? The bulging muscles, the tattoos, the profusion of hairy body surfaces…. I was so tired of the super-buff, testosterone-oozing, romantic hero I’d been writing about for years. Yes, I was a stereotype: the lonely thirty-something woman who wrote those larger than life (and larger than trucks) male characters so she could retreat into her fantasy world and feel less lonely. Except I wasn’t into that kind of man at all. Like with everything else in my life, I liked moderation in the muscle realm. If a guy looked like he had managed to somehow inflate air into his biceps and pecs, I wasn’t interested. If the width of his legs had more in common with a tree than actual human limbs, scratch him off my list. If he was so built he could barely move without looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy, no way in hell!

  I like my men slim with well-defined muscles, little to no facial hair—what’s up with all those Abe Lincoln beards anyway?—and human features. Not someone who is as beautiful as Legolas in The Lord of the Rings. I have nothing against beauty, but let’s be honest. Do I really want a man who is prettier than me?

  However, my readers love the Hulk-of-a-Man, all hard muscle and features so perfect you have to wonder if they’re real. So, I write them in my stories.

  For once I wanted to write a book about a real man. Why can’t I? I can, right? Who exactly is holding me back? Feeling the bubbling of a newly found rebellious streak, I decided to do it. How did I go about writing a real man? I had been writing about fantasies for so long I didn’t know where to start.

  I jumped to my feet, grabbed my purse, and left. “A-researching I shall go.”

  Since I’d been roped into writing about a fireman by my publisher, I headed to my local firehouse, notebook in hand and hope in my heart. But as I approached the actual building, my determination fizzed out, as if someone had poked a hole in the tire of my courage. By the time I arrived in front of the massive gray building, I was all out of air. I slumped into the low wall that ran just opposite the firehouse, shoulders hunched down and notepad in hand. Shit. I so didn’t have the guts to go inside and start asking questions of the men in the yellow hosen. I’m an introvert, for God’s sake! The longest conversations I’d ever had with a male stranger were in the checkout line at the supermarket.

  “What are these called?”

  “Parsnips,” I replied with an all-knowing smile.

  “Are they good? They look like dirty white carrots.”

  “They are very nutritious,” I said, with full awareness of my vegetable geekiness.

  With an artistic flip, I opened my notepad, pulled out the mermaid pen I snatched from my novelty pen collection, and started chewing on its plastic blue hair. I took on a pensive look I was hoping looked mildly attractive, while my brain went into overdrive. I could at least observe the great firemen from across the street and take notes. What did they do all day when there were no fires to put out? Was there any truth to the idea firemen always ate well and had a resident chef? Was there a spotted dog in every firehouse?

  Two tall figures, dressed in funky-looking beige pants held up with bright red suspenders, came out into the driveway. My interest perked up and I straightened my back just enough not to look like my grandma. The tallest one had a basketball in his hands, and he bounced it off to the other guy. Ah, a friendly game of basketball while they wait for the next great fire.

  I scribbled some notes and returned my attention to the two. I couldn’t see their faces very well from across the street, but they seemed to be average-looking Joes, not the hot-to-trot firemen depicted in almost every romance ever published. Real men. The type I wanted to write about.

  I should go talk to them. Maybe challenge them to a shoot-out. I remembered I was in heels and that I would rather poke out my eyes with a hot metal rod than address a male I’d never met with some random questions. I decided to stick to my notes instead.

  I noticed them glancing at me every so often, but I couldn’t see the expressions on their faces. Are they wondering why there is a hot chick checking them out? Or maybe they are squabbling over which one should come and ask me out on a date. Those thoughts were the reason I wrote about things I knew nothing about. Kind of like Jane Austen writing about relationships when she herself never seemed to have had one.

  Whatever the guys were thinking, it was a moot point. They both rushed into the building, closing the door behind them, and left me salivating over the seed of a story beginning to grow in my head.

  While I dug through my bag in search of that sweet-and-salty granola bar I knew I’d stuffed in my purse, someone else came out through the same side door. However, this time the fireman had no basketball in his hands, and he was crossing the street and walking straight toward me. A moment of panic sent my heart into a race against itself, and I felt my cheeks burn with such intensity I might very well need a hose to put out the fire. What the f—?

  “May I help you with something?” The voice, pleasant and strong, was coming from a very tall fireman with the most intense green eyes I had ever seen. Trick of the light? He was speaking to me, and my mouth had gone dry as a desert. Try as I may, I couldn’t utter a single rational sound.

  “Miss, do you need any help? You’ve been sitting there for the last hour, and the guys at the firehouse are wondering whether maybe you need some assistance.”

  Crap! I had been there for a whole hour already? Staring at the firehouse and those who dared come out for air once in a while?

  “I’m no stalker.” Of all the things I could have chosen to say, those words were probably not the right ones. Not if I wanted to make a good impression.

  The fire dude laughed, a small dimple forming on his right cheek. He was cute. Not in an earthshaking, mind-blowing way, but very cute. His blondish-brownish hair stuck up in various spots as if he had run all his fingers through it. “We didn’t say you were, miss. But you are making the guys a bit nervous. All that staring—”

  I coughed to clear my throat. It didn’t help. The words that always came so easy to me on paper didn’t want to leave my lips.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you guys out.” My shoulders hunched down as I deflated again. “I’m just a writer.”

  I may have whispered those last few words, but his head still snapped up with curiosity. “A writer? Are you writing about the firehouse?”

  “Firemen.” I had become monosyllabic, apparently. “Research.”

  The cute fireman wiped his hands on his pants and offered me one for a shake. “Hi, I’m Gavin McLeod.” He took my hand in his and shook it enthusiastically. His hand was big and warm. I felt the calluses on his fingers against my soft palm. “You are?”

  “Ana. Ana Mathews.” Our hands were still together, moving up and down like a jump rope. He is really cute.

  “It looks like a slow day today. Why don’t you come inside and meet the guys?” Oh, my God. Did he just invite me into the firehouse? “We were just getting ready to have lunch. Care to join us?”

  “Can I?” Okay, so that’s two words. I seemed to have broken the monosyllabic spell. My hand was still cocooned inside his, and I wasn’t going to lie; it felt good.

  Gavin pulled gently on my hand, coaxing me from the wall. “Yes, of course. Come on. You can come and ask us whatever you want.”

  My butt felt weird, all numb from the cold cement wall, and I had the urge to wiggle it a bit. But I didn’t. Instead I followed the tall, green-eyed man into the firehouse, my legs shaking like leaves in a summer breeze, and my palms, now freed from the warm shelter of his, sweaty and clammy.

  I can do this. I can do this. Except I probably couldn’t. My tongue had swelled to double its size—or so it felt—and my brain had been replaced by a wad of cotton balls as I crossed the threshold. Immediately I felt like a lamb who had just walked into a wolf-riddled meadow. Several pairs of suspicious eyes scanned me from head to toe, and this time even my overactive imagination couldn’t turn those looks into what they were not.

  “Hey, guys. Ana here is a writer and she is writing about a fireman.” I had to give it to him; he was as enthusiastic about my nonexistent story as a little boy about a lollipop.

  The other guys looked at me as if I had two heads at first, but then their faces opened in big welcoming smiles. Several almost stepped all over each other offering me a chair at the big rectangular table they were all sitting at. I picked the one closest to my green-eyed fireman and smiled nervously at the large group of men in the room. Why were there no women? I knew for a fact that there were several female firefighters in the neighborhood, but none of them were present that day.

  The food looked basic but delicious. A mouthwatering scent of roasted meat and potatoes wafted up to my nose, making me swoon a little. I was pretty hungry. Food myth? Check! Losing my tendency for shyness and allowing my stomach to dictate my actions, I made a move toward the tray in the middle of the table to help myself to some meat and potatoes.

  “Try the brussels sprouts.” The guy across from me was smiling so big I thought he may tear the edges of his lips. “They are to die for.” They were indeed.

  “What kind of book are you writing?” That practically choked me. My mouthful of potatoes and sprouts made my cheeks look like those of a chipmunk storing food for the winter. I felt the heat climbing up my neck and burning through the skin of my face. What could I say without either offending them or making them laugh at me?

  “Romance.” I could barely hear myself, so I figured they couldn’t either.

  “Romance?” Okay, so I was wrong. The same guy from across the table had the ears of a freaking cat, apparently. “You’re writing a romance about a fireman?”

  I nodded, quickly trying to swallow the massive amount of food I still had in my mouth. “What? You’re going to write one of us as this big sex god of a guy?” The men all laughed at his comment, and I couldn’t find fault in it. They were a bunch of pretty plain-faced guys. Nothing too handsome or muscular about them. Real men.

  With a big, noisy gulp, I finally swallowed the food. “No, that’s the whole point. I want to write about a real guy, not a made-up godlike creature.”

  For the first time since we had sat down to eat, Gavin—who was admittedly rather handsome up close—turned to me and spoke. “But isn’t that what romance readers want? Unrealistic beautiful guys with muscles to rival those of the Hulk?”

  Aww, he was truly cute, and I caught myself staring into his glittering eyes and imagining how it would feel to see myself reflected in them. “Well, yes. But some of us—me included—are getting a little tired of fantasy men.”

  “So what you’re saying is that we’re a bunch of ugly, puny guys that don’t hold a candle to your usual romance heroes.” The man with the cat ears was not done with me. I must have turned beet red, because he chuckled and slapped the table with a big hand. “Just teasing you, girl. Don’t get your panties all in a bunch.”

  The mention of my panties in a room full of guys made me uncomfortable, but when Gavin gave me an apologetic shrug, I felt better. “I never said anything about ugly, just more… average.”

  The rest of the meal went without a hitch, and I found that I was having a good time. Where I’d earlier been in a panic, I was now relaxed and at home. I got email addresses from a few of them so I could use them as research sources, and the recipe for the roasted meat. I felt well-fed and content as Gavin walked me out into the driveway of the station.

  “Thank you so much, Gavin. You guys were awesome.” I held out my hand to him and was shocked when bolts of lightning ran through my arm as he took my hand within his.

  “The pleasure was all mine—ours.” A little smile popped on his lips. “Come and see us again.”

  Oh, I wanted that. I really wanted that….

  ***

  Gavin

  Try as I may, I couldn’t get my mind off that quirky little number who had nearly electrocuted me with her touch. My whole body was alive with a fire that even the cold shower I took didn’t temper. Damn you, woman. It wasn’t her fault. Shit, she wasn’t even that hot. A little curvier and shorter than what I normally went for, Ana was also much older than the girls I’d been seeing for the past few years. I hate sounding like a douchebag, but since my brush with death I decided to live it up—and living it up meant dating women who looked more like models and less like regular people. Not that I dated much. It was more of a collection of one-night stands, no strings attached. None whatsoever—not even the obligatory morning-after phone call.

  When I first saw Ana, after the other guys joked about a female stalker outside the firehouse, I was not impressed. She stood just a couple inches over five feet, with dark brown hair haphazardly gathered into a bun, and unremarkable brown eyes. She did, however, have full lips that begged to be kissed.

  Not sure where that came from.

  But as the day went on, something strange happened; like a caterpillar, she suddenly turned into a butterfly. By the time she said goodbye, her hand stretched toward mine, I’d forgotten why I thought she was ordinary. Her messy bun suited her like a finely wrought crown on a fairy-tale princess, and her eyes, trained on mine, were like soft, delicious caramel.

  Fireworks exploded as soon as our hands touched, and now, sitting on the edge of my bunk, all I could do was think about her luscious pink lips and how badly I wanted to savor them. I’ve lost my fucking mind. Something in my brain was finally coming unhinged after all these years. The doctors had warned me that there might be some long-lasting effects from the trauma I suffered in the accident. It was the only explanation.

  “Are you coming or what?” Jason was standing at the door, holding on to the top of the frame as if it were a trapeze. “We’re all waiting for you, idiot.”

  The guys were in the common room sitting around the small table, staring pointedly at the empty chair. I shook my head and sped up.

  “The bionic man is here,” I yelled as I made my entrance. They stared at me and chuckled. They had given me the nickname some time ago, and it stuck. “Get ready to lose all your money.” I sat down and, swiping the
three cards on the table in front of me, prepared for the usual downtime poker game.

  ***

  Ana

  “I love you. I truly, absolutely love you.” I had promised myself not to open the package of Oreos my friend had given me the day before, but the little buggers were calling my name. I stood in the middle of the kitchen hugging the small package. They were the thin Oreos. So they must also have less calories. I sniffed the unopened box and felt my mouth watering. “Walk away, girl, walk away….”

  In a swift move, I stuffed the box in my small pantry and ran upstairs. Doing laundry will help get my head off the damned cookies.

  I was stuffing my undies in an already overstuffed washer when the strident sound pierced my ears. Holy crap! What now? Why was the fire alarm ringing?

  “Shit! Dinner.” In my recent Oreo adoration spell, I had forgotten I was cooking chicken for dinner. I was a legendary bad cook, but I had to eat. I sped down the stairs and was greeted by an alarming cloud of smoke. My kitchen is on fire.

  I ran out the front door—but not before collecting my precious laptop from the office—and called 911. “My house is on fire.” Well, at least I thought it was.

  I waited on the lawn, laptop hugged tightly against my chest, my eyes never leaving my little house. Was I going to lose this awesome home I had bought from a distant cousin? I loved my home with its quaint white porch, curly snow guards on the black slanted roof, and the tiny screened porch off the kitchen where I spent a lot of my time writing. I had bought it for a song a couple years ago, taking advantage—I’m ashamed to admit—of my cousin’s less-than-desirable financial predicament. Not that he had anyone to blame but himself, gambler that he was, but I still felt—however mildly—embarrassed every time I thought about it. And now my house, my pride and joy, was going to burn down to ashes all because of my cooking ineptitude. I made a mental note to take some cooking lessons in the near future, and looked up the road, searching for the fire truck I could hear in the distance.