Today, Avery Flynn and Jillian Neal stopped by to talk to us about their worst dates ever!
Worst Date or Best Date: You Decide
Worst Date or Best Date: You Decide
By Avery Flynn
I had to ponder that for a while…for a good LONG while because crappy dates were my pre-married specialty. Seriously. I could have gone with Mr. Arm Porn who’s middle name was Not So Bright and who wouldn’t have been out of place on www.maturesexmovies.xxx. Or I could have gone with the bartender *cough* bartenders *cough*. But in the end I had to go with the date that never was.
In college I had a huge thing for a certain ginger in one of my classes … yes, I’m a sucker for gingers. There was tons of flirting and a date was set and then he ditched me. He just never showed to pick me up. Ow! Yes, let’s all say that together: OW!
Luckily, my friends are pretty kickass and took me out anyway. Later on, he told me that he suddenly remembered he had a girlfriend and didn’t know how to tell me. *insert epic eye roll here* After that, I realized him ditching me was me dodging a bullet.
Avery Flynn has three slightly-wild children, loves a hockey-addicted husband and is desperately hoping someone invents the coffee IV drip.
She fell in love with romance while reading Johanna Lindsey’s Mallory books. It wasn’t long before Avery had read through all the romance offerings at her local library. Needing a romance fix, she turned to Harlequin’s four books a month home delivery service to ease the withdrawal symptoms. That worked for a short time, but it wasn’t long before the local book stores’ staffs knew her by name.
Avery was a reader before she was a writer and hopes to always be both. She loves to write about smartass alpha heroes who are as good with a quip as they are with their *ahem* other God-given talents. Her heroines are feisty, fierce and fantastic. Brainy and brave, these ladies know how to stand on their own two feet and knock the bad guys off theirs.
You are Going to Have to Pay for That!
By Jillian Neal
By Jillian Neal
Many years ago, fourteen to be exact, I was oh so very, very pregnant. I no longer had the cute baby bump or that refreshing glow of pregnancy. Oh no, I was eight and a half months pregnant, and so full of my precious son that I could no longer see my feet.
It happened to be Valentine’s Day. I’d spent the morning at the OB’s office being measured, “You still have a few weeks to go, and you’re already measuring 41 weeks, Jillian.”
I bit my tongue to keep from asking her just what she’d like me to do about that. Anyone that could see their feet became my mortal enemy.
You see, I am barely 5” tall. My husband, however, is 6’4” and weighed almost 10lbs. at his birth. Our sons took after him. I was so full of baby I couldn’t eat. I had heartburn so badly I tried to sleep sitting up. I couldn’t even draw a full breath. I was completely miserable.
My darling husband, being ever wary of my moods, came home from work early and suggested that we go out since it was Valentine’s, after all. He happened to arrive in the kitchen just as I was trying to reach something in a cabinet. My belly wouldn’t allow me to get close enough to fetch whatever I was after. He quickly sought to help. I burst into tears.
He, once again, tried to console me. Blubbering and hissing I took him into our laundry room and showed him the still wet socks stuck to the bottom of the washing machine, that I couldn’t reach to put in the dryer, because of my girth.
After rectifying the sock situation, he continued to placate, “Let’s just go out to eat. We’ll get out of the house for a little while. Get your mind off everything.”
His eyes turned pleading, and I finally relented.
We changed clothes, and once I managed to locate shoes that my swollen feet would fit inside of, I waddled to our car. I left my purse at home. I didn’t care.
Now, finding a restaurant that would seat us on Valentine’s without a reservation became a concern. “I would have made reservations, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to go out.” DH apologized repeatedly. I stared out the windshield like the world had deeply offended me.
We were young and had only been married a few years, so Olive Garden was quite a treat. We didn’t go out to eat very often. I might’ve even managed a half-smile as he pulled in the parking lot with a hopeful smile.
However, we were definitely not the only couple that had decided on Olive Garden as their Valentine meal locale. DH shot infuriated glares at the men seated in the waiting area until one of them finally relented and stood so that I could sit down.
Since, I have always had stories swimming in my head, before I ever began to actually write, I imagined all of the rude men that regarded me more like a beached whale and less like an extremely pregnant woman, being doused with spaghetti sauce and meatballs from a clumsy waiter. This, of course, didn’t actually happen, much to my chagrin.
When “Neal” finally rang from the maître d, DH helped me up and guided me to our table, a booth. I did somehow manage to get into the tiny space, but it was dicey for a few minutes.
We ordered, and I ate. Somehow, the baby shifted a little and allowed me to feel how hungry I really was. DH ordered me more food and managed to talk me into a better mood. He told me how beautiful I was, and how he couldn’t wait to be a daddy, and offered to pick up ice cream on the way home.
I loaded pasta into my mouth and decided that maybe this wouldn’t be such a horrible Valentine’s Day.
That is until the waitress brought the check. DH reached into his back pocket and then his eyes goggled in terror! “I don’t have my wallet! It’s in the pants I wore to work!”
I’d left my purse at home. We had no way to pay for the very large dinner that we’d consumed! Now, remember, this was long before we had cell phones or access to our bank accounts from any wi-fi hotspot. All of our friends and neighbors were out celebrating the romantic night. There was no one to help us.
With a deep breath, DH explained the predicament to our waitress. She scowled angrily. “You ordered a ton of food!”
He apologized and promised we would return home and come back with his wallet, but that we lived about a half-hour away.
That wasn’t good enough. The manager decided that I should stay at the restaurant as some sort of insurance policy that DH would, in fact, return for his impregnated whale and pay our bill.
I sat back in the waiting area watching other women who could move lithely and could see their feet smile and laugh. I checked the clock endlessly. Where was he? The manager would come by and offer me an eye roll before returning to the task of feeding hundreds of people on Valentine’s. An hour passed, and I began to panic. What was taking so long?
DH finally returned an hour and a half later. He almost bowled over the maître d in an effort to get to me and to get the bill paid.
I ground my teeth and offered DH nothing more than huffs and scowls as he apologized all the way home.
When I stormed up the stairs and into the kitchen, I found two-dozen red roses on the counter, one for me and one for the baby.
“I had to do something. That’s what took me so long.” DH offered sweetly.
So, though it hadn’t gone quite as we’d planned, I spun and did my best to hug him tightly. We spent the evening laying in bed watching our little boy kick and move in my stomach. Then we celebrated Valentine’s night just the way it should be celebrated. ;)
Jillian Neal is a Romance writer with a passion for passion who pens strong, character driven novels, told from the male perspective. Her guys aren’t afraid to let us inside their minds or inside their bedrooms. They’re hot on the trail of a sinister criminal organization when they’re not burning up the bed sheets.
She’s a self-proclaimed ‘Southern girl with a sassy mouth.’ Her coffee addiction is barely legal, and she’s most often running around with her hair and her pen on fire! She’s full of smarts, sass, and sizzle and that’s a lot to get into barely five feet of girl with her head always in the clouds.