{Still Friday #1}

"What do you mean, long time no see? You saw me two weeks ago," Wren grumbles, and uncomfortably shifts on her chair.

"And three weeks before it," he gleefully alludes to their one off, white teeth gleaming, and Wren flares her nostrils. She's honestly had enough of judgements regarding her fanny's conduct today.

"So, now what?" she venomously asks, "You've repented and ventured into the world of monogamous shag and boring conversations over fettucine?" Yeah, she's clearly not over her tonight's misadventures with Dr Sexy.

"Of course not. I'm here on a pull." He's still smiling widely, and Wren points with her index finger at a giant banner on a wall behind her shoulder.

"It says speed dating, Killian. People come here to find something real." Yeah, Wren should talk. He gives her a merry look over. What? The fact that she's dressed like a crossover between Madonna in Vogue - she'd her hair done in an overpriced posh salon - and Jessica Rabbit is all his Uncle's fault. Wren definitely blames Dr Sexy's narrow hips and massive upper arms for it.

"But it is real!" He's openly chuckling now. "A good old real one off."

"You're hopeless," Wren answers, but he's hard to resist. And a snort escapes.

"So, I gather Uncle arsed it up?" he asks softly, and Wren chokes on her giggles. Ouch, she didn't need this reminder. "I'm sorry, Wren. Ma said he was really chuffed about the date. I gather, he did his whole 'I'm the King of the Mountain' thing."

"Oh, so you are familiar with the thing," Wren sighs.

"The man brought us up."

The gong goes off, and it's time to move on. Killian gets up and gives her his last sunny grin.

"Give the man another chance, if he wasn't a complete bellend. He's into you. Probably just bricking it. You're just too much for the poor geezer." Wren snorts and throws him a flirty look. Damn, his lashes are so fluffy, and the lips are ace, and hands are warm, and he knows how to apply them, and if not for that one thing...

"Damn it, Wren, if not for that one thing..." he murmurs, and she nods.

"Yeah..." He salutes her and moves to the next table.


"Wren."

"Phil." Wren's tone is as cold as the landscape of Planet Hoth.

"So, you're dating now. And as I can see, in your favourite fast and efficient way."

What's the bloke's problem?!

"You are here too!" Wren exclaims shriekily, and a few heads turn. He leans back on his chair and crosses his arms on the chest. Oh, the chest… Damn it, Wren's libido, shut up!

"I'm here looking for the real thing, Wren. Are you?" One eyebrow is cocked up sardonically, and Wren loses it. He just looks too much like his Uncle!

"Listen, Phil," Wren sounds as if speaking in Parseltongue. "I get what got your knickers in a twist last time. I said I'd ring but I didn't. But you lied to me! You said it was casual, and then you started..." Wren searches for the right word. "Wooing me! Nobody asked you! I wanted shag! I love shag!" That was loud, and a few people definitely looked. Whatever! "Some women don't, some do; some date, some don't. Get over you manky narrow minded misconceptions because if you're looking for a real thing, she'll probably run if she knows it's all black and white for you. Women aren't just whores, or nuns! We are complex!"

He's studying her, fingers drumming on the other upper arm.

"He really cocked it up tonight, didn't he?" When he gives her this cheeky grin, the dimples on his cheeks are so ace. And she knows that the beard is soft. Shut up! "You're just too much of a firecracker, aren't you?"

Wren deflates and throws him an uncertain look. OK, maybe he isn't thick. Or annoying. In fact he might actually be ace. Just not for Wren. Well, she can always offer… No, no, bad Wren! Bad! Go sit in the corner.

"So, Phil, any maybe's?" Wren asks and points with her eyes at the card where one is supposed to enter the approved candidates.

"None so far. There was this one ginger, but I think she's out of my league." He gives her a wink, and she smiles back. Maybe… No, no! None of that! Wren might aim to misbehave, but she's no idiot.

The gong goes off, and he gets up.

"Listen, Wren, I don't normally stick my nose into other people's business..." He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, face uneasy. "But maybe Uncle was just… intimidated. Give it a thought, yeah?"

Wren nods, and he moves on. Alright, Dr Sexy might be a prick, but he brought up the boys well.


And then Wren's Dating Phantasmagoria starts.

"Jimmy O'Bofurson!" the man introduces himself with a happy grin. He's not bad, has gorgeous brown eyes, and eyebrows that look like thick fuzzy caterpillars.

"Hello, Jimmy, I'm Wren. What do you do?" Wren decides to go for a direct hit. After all, there's very little chance she'll actually put anyone's number into her card. She doesn't have to walk on eggshells.

"I'm a clown. And I make hats." He suddenly pulls out a phone from his pocket, and until the gong goes off he proceeds showing her his Instagram page with pictures of many, many hats, most of them looking like Russian hat ushanka. Wren smiles, nods, and wonders what's wrong with men these days.


"Graham," the next one grumbles. He's huge, bald head, hairy forearms, and he looks perpetually pissed off. Wren actually might fancy the bod a bit, but look at this Billy-no-mates!

"I'm Wren."

He's silently looking at her, from under the bushy eyebrows. It's not that grotty actually, there's some nice manly appreciation in his eyes, as if she's a juicy steak, but on the other hand it's not like she's a piece of meat. Oh wait, steak is a piece of meat! Wren gets tangled in her own metaphors, and shrugs it off. OK, basically, he looks like he'd shag her, and she's fine with it.

They sit in front of each other, in complete silence, and the gong goes off. He gets up, checks the number on her table, and scribbles it into his card. Wren smiles to him widely. He nods and leaves.


"Ken Balinson, at your service!"

Seriously?! You know how they say 'he could be her Father?' Well, this one is definitely taking the 'he could be her grandfather' title.

"Wren Leary, pleasure to meet you." Somehow his mannerly little bow made her speak in a much more posh way than she normally does.

"Before you ask, I am here because of a wager." He has a very nice voice, soft and low, making one shut their gob and listen. "In actuality, so are twelve of my teammates here." When he smiles, his dark eyes twinkle, and Wren can't help but feel a bit ticklish. There's definitely some song in this old flute! "We lost a game of footie, and the whole team going to a speed dating meeting was an ante." Wren giggles. He smiles to her warmly. "Only the unattached were forced into this torture, but old age was apparently no excuse." His theatrical sigh and mournful shaking of his white head makes Wren burst into merry laughter.

Well, it is of course a firm 'no,' but this wonderful gentleman in front of her makes her very hopeful for humanity. If a man can be that oh-la-la at this age, maybe it's worth keeping one around for longer.

Wren leans over the table and beckons him with her finger.

"I will be honest with you. I was also forced into this by dire circumstances." He leans as well, and their faces are very close. "But if I were actually looking for something, your number would go here." She taps her manicured red nail on her empty card, and he gives a low chuckle.

"You're warming an old man's heart, lass." She giggles and quickly pecks his cheek.


"Hi! I'm Wren."

The young man in front of her blushes feverishly, his cheeks so red that she can't even see the freckles. Wren sympathises, both the orange pests and the blush are her common bane.

He's staring at her like a sprog at a roller coaster - both terrified and mildly in love. It's all the bloody dress. The room is also cold, so she gives a much clearer picture of her tits here. Poor sod, he might go cross-eyed if he tried not to look at her cleavage any harder.

Wren looks at the name tag on the sticker on his argyle knitted vest.

"So, what do you do, Adam?"

"Adam," he answers, and then blinks frantically. Poor duckie.

"Nice to meet you." Wren smiles to him encouragingly. His throat bobs, and the eyes grow even bigger.

"Painter, I'm a… painter," he rasps out, and Wren is worried for his blood pressure. He's gaining a purple tinge to his flaming cheeks.

"Ace. I'm a librarian."

"The pleasure is mine," he answers, and that's his undoing. Like roses in Alice in Wonderland, he is now white instead of red. Wren wonders if she's actually going to see a man faint.

"You're here because of the footie wager, aren't you?"

"Yes!" He hollers suddenly loudly, jumps on his feet, and runs, his soles flashing in the air.

Wren sighs and puts his number into her card. He won't dare putting hers, but this will boost his self-esteem a bit. He was actually very cute.


"Jed." The next one introduces himself, and Wren knows a barney when she sees it. "Jed Norison."

He stretches his hand to her, with his card.

Norison Antiques. We buy, sell, and resell, even if it's just souvenirs.

Yeah, that's a definite 'no.'


The next one just wouldn't shut up, and Wren imagines running to the gong and smashing the mallet into it herself. If she has to endure another minute of Dr Mark Dorison talking about the medicinal benefits of chamomile, Wren is going to scream. When he finally rises, scribbles her number in his card, and disappears, all pleased with himself, Wren drops her head on her arms folded on the table.


The next one is jolly and round, and they chat amicably. He's one of the victims of the footie wager, and generally a very funny and nice person. Wren would even consider, but there's just no spark. He doesn't seem that interested either, and Wren decides to just enjoy a chuffed conversation with a proper human being for once.


Which is great since the next bloke says literally nothing. He's sitting staring at her, and his 'hello' and 'goodbye' are grumbled so much under his breath that it sounds like he's speaking some foreign language. Wren thinks she caught his name - Something O'Bifurson - but she can't be sure. She fills in the awkward silence with chatting about her cat.


Another elderly gentleman appears, clearly another unfortunate footballer, and she is forced to listen about his concerns for the health of everyone on his team and all his close relatives. Wren yawns and nods, and almost yippee's when she hears the gong.


Wren peeks at the clock. There are just a few minutes left. She just has to endure two more men, and she's done.

Wren's tired, thirsty, hungry, and altogether very dischuffed. The buzz of the evening wears off, and the memories of Dr Sexy's misconduct return.

The second to last bloke is a middle aged ginger, and sadly is so mundane that Wren is starting to slope down. He only lights up when mentioning his son from the first marriage, and even shows her photos of an adorable ginger toddler, and Wren coo's and ahh's sincerely. The sprog is adorbs.


And then the gong bangs the time before last, and Wren lifts her eyes at the man who plops on the chair in front of her.

"Fuck my luck! You're so hot one can light up a faggot from you."

He's white haired, there are grey moustache and a goatee, funny round glasses, and Wren who thought she'd made up her mind to go home and sink in a hot bath with her favourite lilacs scented bubbles suddenly stops in her tracks and gives him an attentive look over.

"I'm Wren."

"Dain Chosiarainn, at your service, me dear." The voice is very distinct, and Wren feels blush spill on her cheekbones. A bit of her native Gaelic makes her only more… interested.

And yeah, she does have daddy issues, sue her! And hello, who's your daddy?


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romance webserial: Dr. T Series

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CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER

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Summary:

Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom.

John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm.

Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more.

Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?