A/N: Since I was preoccupied with other stories and my actual work (which I spend shamefully little time on:) I was thinking about the prompts I got from you over doing something really random like cleaning my stove. And somehow Just4Me's "blind date" and RedHairedJenna's "carnival" merged together into this silly story :) Since one was supposed to be fluff and another smut, there will be two parts, one for each.

A/N#2: I thought we need some sort of a light and happy modern fairy tale to cheer us all up. And unlike Thorin, John Thorington can be such a Prince Charming. Ha! Also, RagdollPrincess planted this idea of tied up Thorin(gton) in my head, so this happened :) Enjoy!

A/N#3: I used the caller identification system the way it works here. If your country has a different one, just go with it :)

Over years you became very apt in ignoring Thea's escapades but this one seems to be beating all possible records of intrusiveness and craftiness. Oh, "intrusion", good word, you haven't used it for awhile. "Intrusion", "intrude"... "He intruded into her private space, his eyes dark and..." And what? What were his eyes like?

"Wren, are you even listening to me?" "Yes, yes, I am here." You are wiping your keyboard with a sanitizing wipe, phone pressed to your ear with your shoulder. "So are you up for it? The date?" "Thea, it's ridiculous, of course I am not up for a blind date with a spotty teenage son of a strange lady neither you or I know very well." "First of all he is forty and an architect. Second of all, Mrs. Thorington is anything but strange. She goes into the same spa as I do." Oh, pardon me! How could you doubt the Mirkwood Spa and Salon stamp of approval?

"Thea, it is a completely mad idea." "We discussed it with Beatrice and she said that you sound perfect for John." Oh, she is Beatrice now? "No one can sound perfect, Thea. People are not cereal brands that can be classified by the amount of fiber in them. It only happens in stupid cheap love novels." You should know, you produce five a year.

"Wren, I'm calling my favour now." "Thea, no!" "Wren, you owe me one. Big time. You left me in the same house as your mother for the whole Christmas weekend and you weren't there." It is true. Your mother is a monster. But that is not even the problem. Thea is technically your stepmother. And you were in uni together.

"Thea..." You are whining. "Now, Wren, I have chosen my sacrifice. I'm coming to your place tomorrow, I'm bringing you a dress and shoes, and then you are going to dinner with Mr. John Thorington Esquire." "I'm busy tomorrow." "Doing what? None of your dashing, smirky and well-endowed men are going to run away from you, and you know why, Wren?" "Because they are not real?" You accept your defeat. "Because they are not real, Wren. Now get your head out of your… laptop and get out into the world." That was what you were trying to avoid for the past seven years.

XXX

You are standing in front of the restaurant forty minutes too early. You were so nervous that you rushed out of your flat without checking the clock. You see a bar in the next block and go there. You don't drink but you can at least sit. Thea's shoes are killing you. How can shoes be too big and cut through your skin at the same time?

You climb on a tall bar stool and curse your height. Or lack of it. Your feet are dangling but at least there is some relief in your burning soles. "A coke, please." The bartender nods. The bar is rather packed, people chat and a very fit blonde near you in leaning into a bloke standing near her.

The cogs swirl in your head. "She leaned into him and he felt the intoxicating spicy fragrance of her perfume. She wrapped her delicate fingers around the stem of his wine glass, her red indecent lips…" The bartender places two drinks in front of you. The second is an appletini. "From the gentleman at the end of the bar." You lift your eyes and freeze.

You are going through two mental processes at the same time. One is a peculiar mixture awe and appreciation. That is the most attractive man you have ever seen in your life! The second is hasty cataloging of all details. You can write five books about the dark luscious hair, strong willful profile, sensual lips and virile broad body. Let us face it, you probably will.

He gets up and comes closer. "Did I guess the drink?" The voice is velvet, molasses and other cliches in an hypnotic panties-dropping cocktail. Unfortunately, you can't write the allure of it into a book. You have to leave it to your reader's imagination. Let them imagine themselves how it vibrates through your body and makes you wet and trembling. No, that's too much. Instantly attracted to its owner? Too straightforward. Willing and…?

You realize you are quiet, your eyes are probably glossy. You really need to stop taking notes. "I don't drink." You point at coke with your eyes. He looks and then his gorgeous face is adorned with the most adorable embarrassed expression you have ever seen.

"Shoot, and I thought I was clever," he chuckles, "I guess I'm out of practice. Haven't done it in years." And yet you still got it, mister. Although the reformed womanizer finally looking for the real thing is such an overused trope. Probably because it works on most. "Do you mind if I sit?"

You discreetly check the clock on the wall. You have twenty six minutes left. "Sure," you smile, "but I have to leave in twenty minutes. I have an appointment." Vague is good. He is just so… everything… that you want to keep him for at least twenty minutes. He looks at the clock too. "Well, then I have twenty minutes to talk you into giving me your phone number."

XXX

He succeeds in thirteen. He is smart, funny and so sexy that you feel the need to squeeze your knees. You hardly notice that you are following the usual steps you have described so many times in your books. Blush, nod, laugh at his witty jokes, let him move a bit closer, smile when he smiles, fiddle with your glass.

He is good. In those thirteen minutes he makes it obvious that it is not something he normally does, that he had a nasty breakup or some tragic story couple years ago, the idea is important, specifics are usually vague, and he just couldn't let you leave without convincing you to give him a chance.

That is exactly why you never go out. Men like you. Apparently the red hair somehow tells them that you are up for it. Which you haven't been for the last eight years. Not since you met Allan and especially not since you lost him. You would think it would be written all over your face but most men can't read.

You surprise yourself and take a napkin. You write your number on it. He takes it in his long, elegant fingers and lifts a smooth black brow. The gesture counterintuitively still makes you squirm on your chair. Banalities shouldn't work, but there you are, imagining wiping this smug expression off his face with a bruising kiss. Ouch, that is really not something a sane real life woman would enjoy. Dealing with a bloody lip later would probably kill any drive in anybody.

"Is it fake?" "No," you take a sip from your coke. "Because I'm going through all the usual moves here and keep thinking that you are definitely not that kind of girl. And that you probably internally dying of laughter at my lame attempts to charm you." His bright blue eyes are laughing.

You smile back. "To my own astonishment, it is real. Try it." He fishes his phone out of the jacket pocket and dials. Your mobile is chirping in your clutch. You pick it up and stare at the screen. "John Thorington." You lift your eyes at him.

His eyes are wide open and he is staring at his screen. "Wren Leary," he slowly reads and then the cerulean irises are flooded by the dilated pupils. Ouch, too anatomical. He looks at you and start laughing. "Do you always give your number to random tossers in a bar a few minutes before your date?" "Do you always chat up random birds in bars before your dates?"

You look at each other and start laughing. "You were supposed to be boring and bookish, and I only agreed since my mother blackmailed me," he lifts his hands defensively. "You weren't supposed to look like a modern version of Maureen O'Hara!" "So that is your excuse? You were not even going to get to know that boring and bookish spinster better? Maybe she had a wonderful personality!" "I was still going to the restaurant! It's not like I was going to stand you up."

You are sitting on the bar stool, caged between the counter and his heavy body. When did he get so close? Your eyes are at same level and you dive in, pressing your lips to his. And then for the first time in eight years your writer's mind stops working. You have no words for comparison, you have no smart phrases regarding the texture of his lips and what kind of fireworks explode in your brain. You feel, you move and you sigh into his mouth. He grabs you and pulls you closer. Some half alive thought stirs in your mind about him being skillful and creative but then it dies with a hiss.

After a few delicious minutes, finally some cliches wake up in your dazed brain, you let go of his collar and move back. He is blinking like an owl. Maybe it has really been a while for him. One can't fake this look. "Now we are definitely not going to a posh stuffy restaurant," he is shaking his head. "Oh?" "We are going to that American travelling funfair at the North of the city. A girl who kisses like that needs candy floss and a teddy bear won for her at a shooting booth." You look at his puzzled. "You are so much fun," he smiles and pulls you into another kiss. You are going to take it as a compliment.