Back when I was a wee Maeve peeking at Harlequin titles on the sly, the recipe for romances seemed simple: one man, preferably shirtless and hunky, and one woman, preferably sporting long, flowing locks, the two of them entwined in a passionate embrace on some windswept peak, balcony or boat. Sometimes the hero was blond or wore a cowboy hat. Most often, he was dark and brooding. And though they say never judge a book by its cover, I’d take one look at those and think, eh, not for me. Read more.