The Dating Game
Robin Covington, Claudia Burgoa
The Worst Date by Robin Covington
My worst date was a blind date my mother set up for me when
I was a junior in high school. The guy was a senior at another local Catholic
High School and he needed a date for his senior prom. I didn’t know the guy and
I didn’t want to go but my mom made me and it was terrible. The guy was
strange, snorted when he talked, and immediately grew about four sets of grabby
hands because in his world “blind date” meant “losing-his-virginity”. To make
it worse, his friends at our table consisted of a guy who didn’t have a date
and proceeded to eat the food off both plates at dinner and a couple who were
getting married after graduation because she was pregnant and they spend the
night pointing out the baby stuff they’d picked out from the JC Penney catalog.
It was the only blind date I ever had.
About Robin Covington
Robin Covington, who NYT Best Selling authors, Robyn Carr
and Carly Phillips, said was their new “auto-buy author”, writes sizzling hot
contemporary and paranormal romance.
A Night of Southern Comfort, her best-selling debut novel
was a 2012 finalist in the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice Awards, earned 4.5
stars and was touted by RT Book Reviews as bringing a “fresh, modern feel to
the genre while still sticking to the things that get our adrenaline pumping —
sex and danger”. When she’s not exploring the theme of fooling around and
falling in love, she’s collecting tasty man candy, indulging in a little comic
book geek love, and stalking Joe Manganiello.
Robin is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the
Washington and Maryland Romance Writers, a faculty member at Romance
University, a member of the Waterworld Mermaids, and a contributor to the Happy
Ever After blog at USA Today. You can find Robin on her website, Facebook,
Pinterest, and Twitter (@RobinCovington).
Robin lives in Maryland with her hilarious husband,
brilliant children, and ginormous puppy.
Twitter: @RobinCovington
Worst Date Ever – Told by A.J. from Unlike Any Other by
Claudia Burgoa (coming 3/5/2015)
How in the hell did they talk me into this?
No, why did I agree?
I stare at the brunette across the table who keeps blabbing
about her ability to read minds—I think she’s still at that. No doubt her
abilities only touch a few, because my mind keeps screaming at her: “Shut Up!”
Jacob and Ainsley are going to pay for this shit. No only
Ainsley, she came up this idea of all going out on dates during Valentine’s
Day. We humor her because these days she’s… explosive, sensitive and… we work
hard so she stays in a zen state of mind.
Nonetheless, my worst mistake was letting my sister find me
a date.
A wacko case that keeps yapping about aliens, her being a
witch and having her ex-boyfriends under her spell because they broke up with
her.
“Do you believe in werewolves?” she whispers leaning closer
to the table. Those words drag my attention back at her. “Because I think I’m
one of them.”
MJ: Worst date ever! You’re going to pay for this AJ!
AJ: Be pleasant!
JC: Can’t be worse than mine. My date wants to go to Vegas after this—to
elope. Where did you find them Ainsley Janine?
AJ: My date wants the two of you to leave us alone. He’s taking away my
phone, bye!
“It’s only a bite… and I’ll drink some of your blood. You’ll
drink some of mine.” She smirks while licking her upper lip. “During the full
moon, then we can be free and run along the forest. You’ll do it for me,
right?”
At first sight, this girl gave me a good vibe. Her brown
eyes; long brown locks with a timid smile emanated innocence. Nothing wrong
with her, I even play with the idea of having a second date—if she’s a good
fuck. Now …
“Can you excuse me for one second?” I tilt towards the
restrooms, lift my napkin, set it on the table and jet off towards the exit. “I
really have to go.”
Before you
delusional-crazy-chick attack me or… whatever.
Crazy bitch!
About Meghan March:
About Author
Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut. Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had.
Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut. Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had.
About Claudia Burgoa
Born on the mystical day of October 30th in the not so mystical lands of
She now lives in
_____________________________________________________________________
The Date Game
Kate Canterbary, Carly Phillips
Kate Canterbary, Carly Phillips
My Worst Date - Carly Phillips
This
isn’t my worst date … but then again I don’t have all that many. I wasn’t
exactly your serial dater.
I met a
guy in college back in 1984, my sophomore year in college. I wore flash dance
off the shoulder tops, had big hair (okay that hasn’t changed too much), and I
had finally agreed to date him despite his reputation (he and his friends could
scare any good girl off – and I was a good girl. Make that GOOD girl.) Date day? February 14th …
The
weekend before I flew to Florida to visit my parents. My bright idea? Get tan
before the big date. The end result? I looked awesome. Until that tan started
to peel. Then crack. And I do mean crack since it was hard to actually talk. I
kept moisturizing and praying … it wasn’t pretty (although he never said a word)
… and in the end we were going out as a real couple.
End
result? I married him. 25 years this past July. He’s my best friend and my rock
so I guess things work out the way they were meant to be!
About Carly Phillips:
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Carly
Phillips N.Y. Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Carly Phillips has written
over 40 sexy contemporary romance novels that today's readers identify with and
enjoy. After a successful 15 year career with various New York publishing houses,
Carly is making the leap to Indie author, with the goal of giving her readers
more books at a faster pace at a better price. Her Serendipity books will still
finish up in January/February 2014 via Berkley as planned. Carly lives in
Purchase, NY with her family, two nearly adult daughters and two crazy dogs who
star on her Facebook Fan Page and website. She's a writer, a knitter of sorts,
a wife, and a mom. In addition, she's a Twitter and Internet junkie and is
always around to interact with her readers. You can find all information about
Carly at her website and other social media sites:
Goodreads
My Worst Date…from Shannon Walsh – The Walsh Series by Kate Canterbary
My worst date? Ha. That's a good
one. These days, it seems like each date is orders of magnitude worse than the
one before it.
There was the guy who arrived
with scrambled egg all over his shirt and tie. He claimed he'd been running
late that morning, and couldn't change. It didn't bother him that he looked
like he'd lived through a food fight. I walked away from that harbinger of
horrors after one drink.
There was the married guy who
failed to mention his nuptial situation until his phone vibrated across the
table and the name on his screen read 'WIFE.' I stared at the pretty brunette's
photo for a moment before wishing him luck with spineless infidelity.
There was the urban farmer who
was definitely growing and selling weed to keep his baby kale business going. I
gave him my defense attorney friend's business card, and told him to call when
he was arrested.
There was the little boy who
added at least ten years to the age on his online dating profile and didn't
appear capable of sprouting facial hair if his life depended on it. He was
dressed for a frat party, and smelled like he'd bathed in Axe body spray and
then rolled around the subway platform after a Red Sox game. He ordered a green
apple martini, and I silently prayed for the apocalypse when he was carded but
couldn't locate his ID.
There was the rich homeless dude.
Apparently, he determined that he spent the vast majority of his time traveling
for work as a venture capitalist, and didn't like wasting money on an
apartment. When he hasn't on the road, he hopped between his friends'
apartments. Oh, and the beds of women he casually screwed. Once I determined he
didn't have a place to stay that weekend, I asked him to delete my number.
But I keep at it. One Manolo in
front of the other.
Kate Canterbary doesn't have it all figured out, but this is what
she knows for sure: spicy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems, living on
the ocean--Pacific or Atlantic--is the closest place to perfection, and writing
smart, smutty stories is a better than any amount of chocolate. She started out
reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when people still
read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously interviewing
people--be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane--ever since. Kate
lives on the water in New England with Mr. Canterbary and the Little Baby
Canterbary, and when she isn't writing sexy architects, she's scheduling her
days around the region's best food trucks.
Underneath It All
Underneath It All - The Walsh Series #1
If I had known I'd have a hot architect balls deep inside of me
before the end of the weekend, I'd have made time for a pedicure. Also, a little
chat about not losing my shit at all the wrong moments.
Hindsight was a bitch, and karma…well, I didn't know her story yet.
Meet Lauren Halsted.
It's all the little things—the action plans, the long-kept promises—that started falling apart when my life slipped into controlled chaos.
After I fell ass-over-elbow into Matthew Walsh's arms.
I couldn't decide whether I wanted to run screaming or rip his pants off, and most days I wanted a little of both. If I was being honest with myself, it was rip his pants off, ride him like a workhorse, and then run screaming.
Meet Matthew Walsh.
A rebellious streak ran through Lauren Halsted. It was fierce and unrelentingly beautiful, and woven through too many good girl layers to count, and she wasn't letting anyone tell her what to do.
Unless, of course, she was naked.
She wasn't looking for me and I sure as shit wasn't looking for her, but we found each other anyway and now we were locked in a battle of wills, waiting for the other to blink.
Sometimes the universe conspires to bring people together. Other times, it throws them down a flight of stairs and leaves them in a bruised and bloodied heap.
Hindsight was a bitch, and karma…well, I didn't know her story yet.
Meet Lauren Halsted.
It's all the little things—the action plans, the long-kept promises—that started falling apart when my life slipped into controlled chaos.
After I fell ass-over-elbow into Matthew Walsh's arms.
I couldn't decide whether I wanted to run screaming or rip his pants off, and most days I wanted a little of both. If I was being honest with myself, it was rip his pants off, ride him like a workhorse, and then run screaming.
Meet Matthew Walsh.
A rebellious streak ran through Lauren Halsted. It was fierce and unrelentingly beautiful, and woven through too many good girl layers to count, and she wasn't letting anyone tell her what to do.
Unless, of course, she was naked.
She wasn't looking for me and I sure as shit wasn't looking for her, but we found each other anyway and now we were locked in a battle of wills, waiting for the other to blink.
Sometimes the universe conspires to bring people together. Other times, it throws them down a flight of stairs and leaves them in a bruised and bloodied heap.
The Space Between
The Space Between - The Walsh Series #2
Some lines are meant to be crossed.
Patrick
That hair.
That fucking hair.
It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in those dark curls and pull.
And that would be fine if she wasn't my apprentice.
Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust swirling through my veins. Outside my siblings, she was the only person I could name who shared my obsession with preserving Boston's crumbling buildings.
Andy
My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, sweaty yoga, interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom wasn't part of the original plan. Apparently he was part of the package.
Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I needed plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.
*This is the second book in The Walshes Series, though it reads as a stand-alone novel.
Patrick
That hair.
That fucking hair.
It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in those dark curls and pull.
And that would be fine if she wasn't my apprentice.
Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust swirling through my veins. Outside my siblings, she was the only person I could name who shared my obsession with preserving Boston's crumbling buildings.
Andy
My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, sweaty yoga, interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom wasn't part of the original plan. Apparently he was part of the package.
Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I needed plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.
*This is the second book in The Walshes Series, though it reads as a stand-alone novel.
The Dating Game
Avery
Flynn, Jillian Neal
Worst Date or Best Date: You
Decide
By Avery Flynn
What is the worst date you
ever had?
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. 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.
About Avery Flynn:
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
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.”
I glared.
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. ;)
_________________________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________________________
The Dating Game
Jessica Scott, Meg Bingley, Christa
Desir
The Dating Game by Jessica Scott
I didn’t actually date all
that much. When you’re a private in Germany in the mid 1990s, there’s not much
by way of dating. We all kind of hung out in the barracks and partied together.
I’d met him when I’d gone out went out with a
group of friends post break up from a real winner (and by that I mean loser I
was lucky to be away from). It was New Year’s Eve and we’d been dating for a
few months.
We snuck away from the party
and walked around outside together. It was kind of surreal. The moon was bright
and huge in the sky. You could hear the music from far away. It was cold but
not sub-arctic.
He turned and put his arms
around me and cupped my face (that was seriously why I fell in love with him
was the whole cupping my face thing) and whispers "Happy New Year. I love
you” and then kissed me.
I was a goner after that,
let me tell you. We’ve been together ever since.
About Jessica Scott
About Jessica Scott
USA Today Bestselling author Jessica Scott is
a career army officer, mother of two daughters, three cats and three dogs, wife
to a career NCO and wrangler of all things stuffed and fluffy. She is a
terrible cook and even worse housekeeper, but she's a pretty good shot with her
assigned weapon and someone liked some of the stuff she wrote. Somehow, her
children are pretty well adjusted and her husband still loves her, despite
burned water and a messy house.
She's
also written for the New York Times At War Blog, PBS Point of View Regarding
War, and IAVA. She deployed to Iraq in 2009 as part of OIF/New Dawn and has had
the honor of serving as a company commander at Fort Hood, Texas twice.She's pursuing a graduate degree in Sociology in her spare time and most recently, she's been featured as one of Esquire Magazine's Americans of the Year for 2012.
My Worst Date Ever by Margaret Bingley
When I was 16 I was asked out by a good looking 19yr old at
our tennis club.
The only drawback was that he was quite a lot shorter than
me. We went to the local cinema, and when we arrived his mother was waiting in
the queue. ‘I’ve saved a place for you both!’
she said.
So, the three of us
sat in a silent row watching The Fall of The Roman Empire, which went on for
hours and then we all left together.
He did walk me home alone from the bus stop, but outside my
house he asked if I would sit on the wall so that he could kiss me. I was
mortified, and declined the offer of a second date!
About Margaret Bingley
Margaret Bingley was born in Sutton, Surrey and educated at
Sutton High School for Girls GPDST, where she won the school English prize, and
then at Rickard’s Lodge Secretarial College in Wimbledon. After that she went
to work at the BBC in London, and later moved to work for The Heinemann Group
of Publishers at Lower Kingswood in Surrey, where she met her future husband,
Alan.
In 1974, Margaret and Alan moved to Grantham in Lincolnshire
and In 1976 their son, Alex, was born. One day, after reading a particularly
boring book, she decided to try and write one herself and eventually, after
many trials and tribulations, her first book THE DEVIL’S CHILD was published.
Much of the book was based on those early, halcyon days of motherhood.
She continued writing steadily from 1983 onwards, and in
February 2000 she also started writing a weekly column of 400 words for the
local paper, The Grantham Journal, entitled ‘The Way I See It’.
Apart from her work, Margaret enjoys reading, opera, dry
white wine, Foyle’s War (or anything else with Michael Kitchen in it!) and
gardening.
Prom by Christa Desir
The big date. The one girls have been told from an early age
is the second most important night of their life (#1 being their wedding
night). Every dance in high school is a test run for prom night.
Which was a bit of a problem for me, since no one ever asked
me to dances. By my junior year I’d become one of those girls who pretended
dances suck. And they do, but mostly because girls like me didn’t get invited
to them. But the mystique of prom still tickled the back of my mind and as
jaded as I had become about homecoming and the Valentine’s dance, I held out a
glimmer of hope for prom.
So imagine my surprise (not) when as a junior, I
accidentally on purpose talked an incredibly shy and awkward senior into
inviting me to his prom. I mean, this
seemed like a great opportunity for me to ready myself for my own prom.
Only it was horrible. The thing that people forget to tell
you is that prom blows if you don’t really like-like the person you’re there
with. Because you’re surrounded by couples who like-like each other, who are
maybe getting ready to later have sex, who have a twenty-four hour extended
prom plan. And when you’re with the shy awkward guy from your o-chem class who
can barely put two sentences together, it is a million times worse than if you
didn’t go at all.
So I danced with my date twice. And I danced with someone
who I like-liked once, though I think his date was a bit salty about it. And I
looked at the interminable post-prom plans my shy date had schedule for us and
I couldn’t bear the idea of it. So I did what every normal seventeen-year-old
girl in my situation would do: I faked sick and made him take me home.
And never went to my own senior prom.
About Christa Desir
I’m Christa Desir and I write young adult novels. I am an avid reader and have been in love with YA books ever since reading Judy Blume’s FOREVER (while hiding between the stacks in the library).
I’m Christa Desir and I write young adult novels. I am an avid reader and have been in love with YA books ever since reading Judy Blume’s FOREVER (while hiding between the stacks in the library).
My first success with writing came at the age of five when I
wrote a story about my sister and our neighbor Andy “kissing in the dushes.” My
parents were so proud of this work, they framed it and showed it to every
visitor who came to our house. My sister still has not forgiven me.
I live outside of Chicago with my awesome husband, Julio,
and our three children. When I'm not writing, I am an editor of romance novels.
I am also a feminist, former rape victim advocate, lover of coffee and
chocolate, and head of the PTA. It is a rare day when I don’t humiliate myself
somehow, and I frequently blog about my embarrassing life moments.
Website
Website
Twitter: @ChristaDesir
The Dating Game
Sidney Halston, Meghan March
WORST DATE EVER.
Here’s a snippet from FULL CONTACT by Sidney
Halston. Jessica is on a blind date that has been sabotaged by Slade, the hero.
Right before the date began, Slade told Roger that Jessica was cranky because
she was on her period. It all went downhill after that…
When the
appetizers arrived, she dove into her Watercress salad (dressing on the side), while
Roger ate his glistening-with-oil, fried calamari. She looked at her salad suspiciously
wondering if her fried calamari would be arriving soon, but when he began to
eat, she realized her salad was her appetizer. Why had she let him order for her? Her mouth watered for those
fried calamari. She swallowed a few more green leaves and took a sip of her
way-too-sweet Cosmopolitan. Why did men
always assume a woman wanted a Cosmopolitan? Thank you, Sex and the City.
“Good?”
Roger asked as he took a sip of his red wine.
She
smiled and nodded.
“So,
how are you feeling? Any cramps?” The Cosmo went right out of her nose mid-sip.
She coughed and her eyes watered. Roger looked around, embarrassed, before
standing up and walking behind her to pat her back.
“You
okay?” he whispered.
She
nodded, grabbed a cloth napkin and wiped her eyes and nose as the last few
coughs came out.
“Sorry
‘bout that.” She cleared her throat a few more times as the waiter gathered
their plates.
“You
okay?” he asked again.
“Yeah.
Just caught me off guard with that question.”
“There’s
nothing to be ashamed about. Menstruation is a normal thing. All women
experience it.”
Her
eyes widened and she leaned forward and whispered, “I’m fine. No cramping.” She
put on her best fake grin. “For Christ sake, I beg you not to say the word
menstruation again.”
“I
won’t. But you don’t have to be shy with me.”
Dinner
came right before she had a chance to respond.
About Sidney Halston
About Sidney Halston
USA Today
bestselling author, Sidney Halston lives her life with one simple rule: “Just
Do It” Nike, and that’s exactly what she did. After working hard as an
attorney, Sidney
Sidney lives in South Florida
with her husband and children. She loves her family above all else, and reading
follows a close second. When she’s not writing you can find her reading and
reading and reading… She’s a reader first and a writer second.
When she’s not writing or reading her life is complete and utter chaos trying to balance family life with work, and writing (and reading). But she wouldn’t have it any other way.
When she’s not writing or reading her life is complete and utter chaos trying to balance family life with work, and writing (and reading). But she wouldn’t have it any other way.
WORST DATE EVER by Meghan March
I was sixteen, and my parents had just recently lifted the
ban on dating. This was my second real date EVER—the kind where the boy picked
me up in an actual car that wasn’t his mother’s and took me out.
And that’s where it all started to go wrong.
To protect the not so innocent, let’s call this boy Chris.
Tall. Hard body. Tan. Blue eyes. Curly, dirty blond hair. He. Was. Hot.
I waited anxiously by the front door at the appointed time,
looking all cute in my pale pink mini skirt and white tank top. It was summer.
August, I think. Just before school was supposed to start.
The appointed time came and went with no car pulling into
the driveway.
Nope, the 1986 Firebird didn’t roll up until ten minutes
later, and then it just sat in the driveway. Sat. My dad was standing by the front door and told me in no
uncertain terms that there was no way in hell I was going out that door until
the boy came and knocked like a proper date.
So I waited.
And waited.
And then Chris honked
the damn horn.
My dad opened the door and stalked out to the car, ripped
the door open and explained that no one was taking his daughter on a date if he
couldn’t exercise even the minimum amount of courtesy by coming to the door and
pretending to be a gentleman for five miutes.
Aaaaand the Firebird door slammed shut and it peeled out of
the driveway, tires squealing.
End. Of. Date.
So. Maybe that doesn’t count as a ‘worst date ever’ because
it was the date that never happened, but sixteen year old me was horrified. I never talked to the boy
again. It wasn’t until I was several years older that I thanked my dad for
teaching me never to settle and helping me dodge the bullet of what could have
been an even worse date.
About Meghan March
Meghan March has
been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in woods wearing
mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive,
easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves
to read and write smut. Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling
lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books
about dirty talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to
their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The Dating Game
Cat Porter, Tawny Weber, Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
WORST DATE by
Cat Porter
I worked in an art gallery in SoHo in New York City after I’d
graduated from college. An art critic who was also a performance artist used to
pop into the gallery on a regular basis and asked me out one day. This guy was
an attractive, flirty, suave, forty-something South African with a fascinating
accent. I was very flattered and said yes. After he left, my artist coworkers
teased me though, warning me to watch out as he was a known player.
We went out for dinner and then went to an experimental theater performance
that was rather pretentious and so “out there” I could barely wrap my head
around it. He of course loved it. He didn’t realize I was only 21, and when I
told him I still lived with my parents and was looking for my own place, his
eyebrows shot up his head just and he was rendered speechless just as I
expected. (What, me lie?) Afterwards we met up with several of his trendy
friends for drinks, and I felt so out of place—like Carrie Bradshaw in Sex & the City when she goes out
with older, art star new boyfriend Baryshnikov and his artsy French friends?
All I could think was, what the hell does he want with me? (As if I didn’t
know) Should I be impressed? (Smeh.) What the hell would my parents say if they
knew I was out on a date with a 45 year old? (Never mind.)
As the night wore on, my fascination with him wore off, and I
felt more uncomfortable and awkward as did he, and we had less and less to say
to each other. At the end of the evening, he went in for the big kiss as a sort
of “we might as well do this” maneuver as if he was doing me a favor. (Eye
roll.) After that, whenever he’d come into the gallery we’d give each other a
stiff smile and both turn the other way. My boss figured it out immediately and
had a good laugh.
About Cat Porter
The Best Date by Tawny Weber
I wish I had a great bad date
story! But I’ve been married for so long
that dating is a foggy memory. I guess
that stems from the best date I ever had, which was the first one with my
husband. And, know that I think about
it, that was my last date, too. Go
figure.
We’d gone to high school together,
but didn’t really hang out. But his younger brother and mine were best buds,
and my brother had tried to fix us up a few times, saying we’d be perfect
together. But I’d said no. Then, about a year later, I saw my future hubster at
the bank and :::boom::: just like that, I was hooked.
As soon as I saw my brother, I
asked for hubster’s phone number. But my
brother is a little weirdly old-fashioned and didn’t want his sister calling a
guy, so he went to see him instead. The first thing hubster said, before hi, was
if he could get my phone number. Our
first date was the next weekend. We did the ubiquitous dinner and a movie. He came over to visit the next evening, the
evening after that, etc. It did take him
5 visits to kiss me goodnight – maybe that’s the bad part of the date LOL. We were engaged 4 months after our first date
and married 5 months later.
Come by and visit her website for hunky contests, delicious recipes and lots of fun.
Worst Date by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
All right. So, this doesn’t actually count as a traditional
date, but it’s close enough. My worst “date” ever was with my husband. (Yeah, honey! I’m going there. Dirty laundry
time. Hehe.) So, here’s the quick backstory to set the
stage. When my husband turned 30 yrs. old, we were living in Mexico City at the
time (his home town). With the help of
my good buddy (hi Jen!), we pulled together a spectacular surprise bash. I brought his best friend in from out of
town, cooked for a week (at a neighbor’s apartment), recruited an army to set
up a tons of decorations while I had him out to dinner, and I bought tons of
beer and drinks (his friends drank like fish!). It was a huge amount of work!
But he was surprised, and it was a party he’ll remember the rest of his life.
Seven years later, it was my turn. The big Three-Oh
(no)! We had planned a vacation to see
some friends in southern Mexico, near the border of Belize. And though we
happened to be flying out on my bday and arriving late, I just knew my hubby had
something planned for when we arrived. After ten hours of flying and a short
ride to their house, I got out of the car filled with excitement, but I kept my
cool. I wanted to act surprised by whatever he’d planned. Well, I was! Inside our friends’ home were…our friends, of
course, and I was so happy to see them! But my hubby hadn’t even told them it
was my bday. Nor had he arranged for a cake or flowers or…well…anything at all.
I didn’t want to be a bad guest or ruin our visit, so I hid my disappointment.
But when we went to bed later that night, boy…I let him have it. “Seriously,
dude. Not even a cake? WTF?” I was so peeved. The next day, as an apology, he
hired a troop of mariachi. Yeah, I got my cake and flowers, too. I eventually
forgave him, but to this day, he’s never forgotten to at least do a little
something special for my bday. And I still love to tease him about it each
year. (He doesn’t think it’s funny. At all.)
About Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff is a New York Times & USA Today bestselling
author of Paranormal and Contemporary Romance.
Her books have hit the Amazon and B&N top-100 lists multiple times
and have been #1 genre sellers around the world. Both traditionally and
independently published, Mimi has sold over 500,000 copies since publishing her
1st title in 2012, and she plans to spontaneously combust once she hits the
one-million mark. Although she obtained her international MBA and worked for
over 15 years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come
out of the romance-closet and follow your dreams.
When not screaming at her computer or hosting her very
inappropriate radio show, (Man Candy on Radioslot.com!), Mimi spends time with
her two pirates in training, her loco-for-the-chili-pepper hubby, and her rat
terrier, DJ Princess Snowflake, in the San Francisco Bay Area.
She continues to hope that her books will inspire a leather
pants comeback (for men) and that she might make you laugh when you need it
most.
About Jillian Neal
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.
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