blind-dates-fest

[blind-dates-fest]

A Day at the Beets - A Friendship Fiesta Fic

I'm excited to share my entry for @blind-dates-fest Friendship Fiesta, put on by @mercurygray. Carrie Ingram, my OFC from this year's Blind Dates Fest is having a day off with @shoshiwrites's OFC, Mollie Jacobs. I'm not sure there is much of a plot, but I think these two deserve a day with nothing to do. It's not entirely necessary to read the previous fics, but just in case:

A Common Language featuring Carrie Ingram

This Summer featuring Mollie Jacobs

July 1944

For once, it was hot in England. Actually hot. Hot enough to put on her two-piece bathing suit that usually sat in the bottom of her trunk so she could get a tan. The aviator sunglasses Carrie wore did little to help block the sun’s rays. It would have been time to flip over onto her stomach if she were sitting on a lounge chair, but no such luck. She had to make do with a regular chair and a makeshift footrest of empty boxes. Not that she was complaining - a day off was a day off.

 

 “I kept telling her she was wrong,” Mollie recalled an event from earlier in the week. “And then I checked the spark plug and … and you are not listening to a word I'm saying,” she realized, amused more than annoyed.

 “Nope,” admitted Carrie. “I don't wanna hear anything about Jeeps or radios or planes for the next” - she looked at her wristwatch - “ten hours and thirty-seven minutes.”

 “Better take that off, or you'll end up with a funny tan line,” Mollie said, and Carrie murmured in agreement, placing it on the pile of months-old copies of Photoplay and Life and the Quincy Herald-Whig Carrie’s mother included in her last package. 

 “It's nice of Bob to let us spend the afternoon here,” Mollie said, picking up one of the magazines. “And to set up the chairs for us. Not everyone’s boyfriend would do that.”

 Carrie almost said that Robert - or Bob, as he was known to everyone on base - wasn't her boyfriend, but that didn't seem kind when Mollie's boyfriend was in a German POW camp. 

 “It is,” she agreed. Over the past few weeks, Lieutenant Linhart had been handing out passes as thank yous for all the hard work they had put in leading up to the invasion. She apologized that they were only the twelve-hour kind, but needs must. 

 Carrie wondered what she would do with a half day free. Anything requiring a train was out of the question. She would have loved to go to a beach, but it was still a haul to the coast from Thorpe Abbots, and besides, the beaches were closed, with barbed wire and bunkers replacing families enjoying a day out. The movie theater in town was an option, but the air conditioner was broken, and, in Carrie’s mind, the only thing worse than sitting in a stifling theater was spending her hours of freedom on base. 

 “If I don't find something to do, I'm going to go crazy,” she said to Robert one night over a drink at the enlisted club. And that's when he suggested she could come over to the farm and bring a friend. It wouldn't be fancy, but it would be quiet, and no one would ask her to fix anything.

 And that's how Carrie and Mollie ended up sunbathing and looking out into a beet field. 

 Mollie wrinkled her nose. “It smells a bit like manure.”

Carrie shrugged. “At least it doesn't smell like gasoline.”

 “Don't you mean petrol?” Mollie asked, and they both laughed. Lieutenant Linhart always replaced American words for British ones when she could. 

 “But it’s not how I remember summer smelling. Revere Beach smells like salt,” Mollie said. “And suntan oil.”

 “Indian Mound Pool smells like chlorine and just a touch of popcorn.” 

 “You didn't swim in the river?” Mollie sounded surprised. 

 Carrie shook her head. “It's a working river, the Mississippi. There are far too many boats. And the current’s strong. It would take you straight down to Saint Louis if you let it.

Mollie leaned her head back and let the magazine fall out of her hands and into her lap. “And all the summer foods. I miss hot dogs with mustard and ice-cold Coca Colas the most.”

 “Ice,” Carrie sighed out in a way that sounded a bit improper. 

 “I miss ice, too,” Mollie said in agreement. 

 “Just about now, the sweet corn would be ready for picking. Corn on the cob with salt and butter …”

 “Butter,” Mollie said, in that same improper way.  

They were quiet for a minute, lost in their own thoughts of home and summer and memories. For some reason, Carrie recalled the summer when she finally dove off the platform at the pool. The diving board never scared her, but the platform stood menacing until she finally willed herself to go off it over Labor Day weekend. 

 “‘’Bout time,” George, her older brother, said as she triumphantly climbed out of the pool. 

 “Good job, Carrie,” whispered Billy McNamara, George's best friend, and she gave him a big smile as thanks. 

 Mollie broke the silence. “The first summer after this is all over, you'll come out my way and we’ll go to Revere Beach and get ice cream. Or I'll go to Quincy, and we can go to the pool.”

 “Or we can meet in Chicago,” suggested Carrie. “The lake is as big as the ocean. It’ll surprise you the first time you see it. And then we can go dancing at the Aragon. It always gets the best bands.” Millie nodded and went back to her magazine. 

 Carrie wondered how far west Millie had ever been before. She has been to Missouri and Iowa, since she lived so close to both, and had been to St. Louis countless times and Chicago a handful. But many girls she met in the army had barely left the towns they were born in. 

What would her parents say if she told them she was taking the train to Massachusetts all by herself to visit a friend they’d never met? She did so many things on her own in the army, so many things she didn't have to ask permission to do. What would it be like to go back home? 

And these friends she'd made here. Would they really keep in touch? Visit? Would Lieutenant Linhart organize reunions like she said she would? Would Dolly write her letters? Would she be in Betsy’s wedding party? Would she and Mollie actually spend a day at a real beach together? 

 And when would the war end? Would they be home next summer? The summer after that?

 You told Mollie you wouldn't listen to any talk about spark plugs and such, and here you are worrying about things you can't control, she heard a voice in her head say that sounded distinctively like her mother’s. 

 She picked up an issue of Life and started flipping through. “What do you think of this dress?” she asked Mollie.

 Her friend leaned over and wrinkled her nose. “I hope they don't think we're over here trying to win the war so we can come home and wear that!”

 “And for that comment, you win a prize.” Carrie opened her carry-all bag and unearthed a small tin. “An oatmeal cookie from my mom.”

 Mollie grabbed one quickly. “You've been holding out on me?” she asked in mock horror. 

 “I wanted to save them as a surprise, but I couldn't wait any longer,” Carrie said. She looked down at her watch. She had ten hours and twenty-nine minutes left of her leave. She decided to enjoy every single one as she savored her treat and let the sun do its magic.

[blind-dates-fest]

The Idea of a Good Time

It would be a damn shame if I didn't participate in my own event, so here's my submission to the inaugural Friendship Fiesta over at @blind-dates-fest.

Cordelia Callaway is one of my OCs for Masters of the Air, and a Blind Dates alumna herself, and is joined here by her good friend Portia De Nemours, a fellow pilot from her racing days.

--

Portia was never going to get used to country pubs.

It was nearly three years since she'd joined the ATA, a handful of months since she'd handed in her notice and moved shop to the Ferrying Squadron, and in that time she'd chauffeured every kind of aircraft you could name across the length and breadth of England and seen just about all there was to see in the way of The King's Arms and The Country Squire, and what she'd seen didn't impress her much. The stares, the low murmurs, the hoary old grandfathers having the same conversations they'd had for years on end, wondering who the new people were and begrudging them the change they brought. No, it was not her style at all. Give her something new and sparkling where you were the one who could set the fashion - and cold drinks, not warm ones.

Still, if one wanted a drink, warm or not, one went where the beer was, and in a town like this one, it was the village pub. The officer's club was still under construction at Thorpe Abbotts, and Cord had taken her here only so they didn't have to catch up in the mess hall over plates of half-warm vegetables. Cord was at the bar, presently, waiting patiently for two half-pints of plain, and Portia was doing her level best to hold down the table.

She could recognize the types in the room pretty well - the checkers game, the RAF fliers in the corner, the farmers and their wives. And of course, the man she'd just met that afternoon - the Air Executive, holding court near the darts board, his hair almost brushing the half-timbered ceiling when he stood up. It was a good metaphor for the war, really - the too large, too loud young country trying to fit itself into old ways and old rooms that were not built to suit. She knew men like John Egan too well, too, but there was less annoyance with him than some of the others. Who else but a small-town soldier would show up on the tarmac for a new plane, and greet the pilot delivering it with a hearty handshake and a request to know where the thing had come from, and what it had been in for maintenance for?

"How'd she handle on the way over?" he asked, running a hand along the edge of the wing, tall enough that this was hardly a chore for him. "Can't have my guys flying junk, you know."

"Like a dream," Portia had reported, and actually meant it.

They'd exchanged names ("But everyone calls me Bucky") and talked for a few minutes about the mechanics at Podlington and whether or not they knew what they were doing, and when he thought the rest of his group was due to arrive. Portia found herself thinking that he was easy to like, the kind of man who makes friends anywhere and actually means to keep them, and who, unlike many in this war, really did care how the plane would handle for the men who were coming to fly it because he cared deeply about those men.

He spotted her across the room, remembered her face, and made his way over. "Miss DeNemours," he said, with a smile for remembering the name, "Did you end up finding your friend?"

"I did, thank you, Major. And we've also obviously found the pub."

"It takes some doing, sometimes, small towns like this." His smile was almost infectious. "You have any trouble, you let 'em know you're with me, all right? I'll come sort anyone out."

"There's no doubt in my mind you would, Major," Portia said with a smile.

"Is something the matter?" Cord had returned from the bar with her two glasses in hand, and Egan's attitude changed on a dime, the easy smile replaced with something far more brittle, lips pursed, his shoulders set back.

"Lieutenant Callaway. She …didn't say you were the friend."

"The Major was just checking in on me," Portia said casually, leaning forward in her chair and studying the two of them with intense interest. Now what on earth happened there? "We had a nice chat when I came in."

If Cord had any more opinions about that, she didn't share them. She, too, was cold and closed, and Egan seemed to take the hint. "Well, don't let me interrupt you," he said, backing away, hands in his pockets, the easy grin gone. "Sure you've got lots to catch up on."

Cord nodded, watching with a careful eye as he made his retreat and only sitting back down when she knew he was at a distance. "Hope he wasn't being too much of a bother," she said lightly.

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much," Portia shot back, trying to inject a bit of levity back into the scene. "I know everything there is about how to handle air executives - and holier than thou air traffic controllers," she added with a playful jab at Cordelia's ribs that brought a smile back to the other woman's face. "Because I don't know any of those."

"Were you planning on going back to Alice in one piece?" Cord asked, teasing heavily. "Because I can change that, if you like."

"She'd forgive you," Portia said generously. "She likes you - on account of you being, and I quote, sensible on occasion - and the fact that you've never slept with me also probably helps," she added, almost imperceptibly quiet.

"Is she liking London?" Cord asked, glossing over Portia's quieter comment with practiced ease. It had been a fact of life for as long as they had known each other that Portia's romantic interests were more lavender than the world liked to allow, but that had never come between them in any meaningful way. Being a few years older on the racing circuit meant that Portia had felt a certain proprietary obligation to the young flyer from Dayton, and teaching her how to handle the unwanted attentions of the rest of the flyboys had been a point of pride for her. Women were supposed to stick together, especially the uncommon ones, and stick together they had. It still galled Portia that Cord hadn't accepted the invitation to fly for the ATA, but she knew there had been other factors in play, her father's health and certain hopes about a certain Air Corps lieutenant that had never really paid out. A little bit of adventure would have been good for her - a chance to stretch her wings a little. But still - she was overseas now. Perhaps the wings would still come.

"They're keeping her wonderfully busy at the Relief Committee," Portia reported, sipping her beer with relish. "I've never seen her happier than when her hair is on fire. When this is all over she's going to wonder what the hell to do with her time. Charity work just won't be the same."

They chatted for a while about just what it was Alice was doing with the Committee on Air Raid Relief, and what Portia could tell Cordelia about the mechanics over at Podlington and just what, exactly, the deal with Colonel Huglin was and what Cord was doing with all her time on a nearly empty air base.

They finished one round of beers and ordered another, the bar louder and fuller now as the rest of the construction crews had made their way inside, singing loudly in the back bar. "You know, I find it very hard to believe it's a Friday night and you haven't got any better plans than a chat with me," Portia said, leaning in so she could make herself heard over the crowd in the back.

"It's a war, Portia, not a weekend party in Great Neck."

"All the more reason for better plans," Portia shot back. "And you're spoiled for choice here. I'm sure any one of these guys would love to take you dancing. What happened to the golden girl from Bendix with a boy on each arm?"

Cordelia scoffed. "She grew up - if she ever existed at all."

She existed. I remember her - swimming in champagne and all smiles. "Jimmy Chapman was an idiot who didn't know a good thing when he had it in front of his face," Portia said strongly, knowing full well that was who her friend was thinking of. "They won't all be like that."

"All the pilots will be."

Portia rolled her eyes and laughed. "Fighter pilots, maybe. Bomber boys are different - believe me, I know. British or American doesn't mean a thing - they are a different breed, my girl. Takes a different kind of man to hold a course through a flak field and take nine guys with him while he does it. They stick around and they know what they're about. There's got to be at least one guy on this base who's worth taking a date with." Portia leaned back in her chair and considered the room over the rim of her drink, and a thought occurred, curling with mischief around her smile. "What about the Air Exec?" she asked, supremely casual. "There's certainly enough of him to keep you busy for a while." I seem to recall Jimmy had a pair of shoulders on him, though I'm not sure that was the entire appeal.

The look on Cord's face indicated there wasn't enough whiskey in the world for that one. "Major Egan is not my idea of a good time."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"He's - he's loud, and he's rude, and he's at least a week behind on his paperwork, Colonel Huglin's afraid he's hardly going to have the place in shape by the time the whole wing gets here, and he's…he's out drinking every night, knows the whole construction crew by name, and he doesn't take a single thing seriously, has a joke for everything -"

"So maybe he's not a good administrator," Portia cut in, sensing they might be here all night if she let her friend keep going. "I still haven't heard why you can't date him." Seems to me Jimmy had a joke for everything, too.

"Why are you so hung up on this?"

It was Portia's turn to scoff. "Because he's clearly crazy about you." There - I said it. How's that for surprises, friend?

You could have knocked Cord over with a feather. "That is preposterous," she said strongly. "He is not crazy about me, Portia, he'd be done with me by next week. He could have any girl in this -"

"And does he, right now, Cordelia? Have any girl in this pub? Or does he keep looking over at you every time someone else is talking?" It was true - for no sooner had she said it and looked to the back room Egan's eyes came back down and he looked away.

"I'm an easy chance," Cord said coldly, her shoulders set and her face grim. "He's…probably hoping you'll butter me up and I'll cave. He'll move on. You'll see."

Portia knew a lost cause when she saw one - she shrugged and returned to her beer with a gesture of defeat that indicated Cord could consider the matter closed. Suit yourself, darling - but it seems to me a girl complains loudest when she knows her friends have a point about your idea of a good time.

[blind-dates-fest]

I'm so happy that I could write something for @blind-dates-fest Friendship Fiesta! And I'm so excited to continue Bridget's story as she tries to wrap her head around everything that has changed.

Witches were real. And so were vampires and also a species called daemons, but she wasn’t entirely sure what made them whoever they were. But apparently, there were no fairies; Grandma Eileen would have said they were simply better at hiding, and nothing so far had proved her wrong.

It was a lot to wrap her mind around. Add in the fact that there were other people around, and Diana made it clear this wasn't a conversation she wanted to be overheard, a half hour in a cafe just wasn’t enough to truly understand… Well, everything.

Moving the storage boxes onto the ground, Bridget laid out the forks and the takeout boxes. Diana should be here any minute now. Before she could look at the clock again, there was a frantic knocking on her door.

“I’m coming,” she called out.

Yanking the door open, she stepped aside just in time as Diana barrelled her way in. She looked paler than she did this morning, and absolutely terrified.

“Diana!” Bridget called. Slowly she took a step closer to her, but did not touch her. She needed to know more about what happened before she did something that made things worse. “Diana, what happened?”

“The—the—the witch, the tweed-wearing one,” she gasped as she crashed down onto the couch.

Quickly grabbing a water bottle from a cabinet, Bridget opened it and shoved it into Diana’s shaking hands.

Tamping down her temper — although she started making a mental list of all the things she was going to do if she ever met tweed-guy — she sat down beside Diana and waited.

“His name is Peter Knox,” Diana said after she nearly finished half the bottle.

The name sounded familiar. “Knox? Wait, isn't that the occult guy from the news?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s also apparently a friend of the warden.”

Bridget closed her eyes as she started to understand what had happened. “And what did he do when he was alone with you?”

Diana’s hands clenched around the bottle. “He talked about the book, that I must stop my…contact with Matthew, because it disturbs him that a Bishop associates with a vampire. And—and that our paths will cross again.”

“Son of a—“ Bridget pressed her lips together.

Grabbing one of the boxes and a fork, Bridget began shoving the Pad Thai in her mouth.

They needed a plan. In the last couple of hours, her friend has been threatened twice by her own people. And Bridget had no intention of letting either one of them get away with that. But how to go about it?

Even without the supernatural business, the police were not an option; she could practically hear Grandma Eileen scream all the way from the afterlife. An Irish girl trusting an English copper? Have you forgotten what happened to our family! She had no power like them, and Diana refused to actively use hers. And her budget didn’t allow for any hit-men, and with their ability to enter into people’s minds — although she wasn’t sure Gillian could do it — close contact assault wasn’t an option either.

“What is the battle plan?” Diana looked at her with a knowing look.

“Well, I think I’m right to assume you won’t agree to disappear from Oxford for a little while.” Diana nodded. “How about stopping, only temporarily, with rowing and running in the morning, especially when it’s foggy.”

“You sound like Matthew,” Diana said with a groan. A flare of approval rose within her. She really needed to meet that man. “I won’t change my life because people disapprove of how I live my own life.”

Bridget sighed. “I understand that. It shouldn’t matter who we are friends with.” or who we fall in love with, but she didn’t say that part out loud. Diana was still squarely in the denial phase. “But it would be reckless to deny the danger you’re in, Diana.”

“I know that,” she said, swirling her fork in her Pad Thai. “But apart from coming here, I don’t know what to do.”

Bridget reached out and clasped her hand. “We will figure it out, Diana.”

They ate for a little while in contemplative silence, until Bridget said, “What about your aunts?”

Diana only made a low humming noise, one implying disagreement.

“Just hear me out, okay! They know more about witch business than you or I do, perhaps there is someone they can talk to, or they know of something we can do ourselves.”

“I don’t want them to worry, besides they dislike that Matthew is around me.” A shadow of annoyance crossed her face.

If it were any other situation she would have let her stew in her grumpiness and irritation, until she was ready to talk, but there wasn’t time for that now. It was time to push her until she was boiling.

Rolling her eyes, Bridget said calmly, “You are both adults — alright Matthew was probably around during the years all our great-great-great grandparents were born, but still that shouldn’t be too much of a roadblock. If you want to go on dates with him it shouldn’t be their problem.”

“That’s not their problem, and you know that,” Diana rebutted with a glare, shoving another forkful in her mouth.

“I know,” she said calmly. “You told me how they reacted to Knox forcing himself into your mind. But now we have a name, Diana. That changes things. If they know someone in his group—

“Coven,” Dianna interrupted.

“Alright, someone in his coven, then maybe they can force him to leave you alone. And your aunts would know—they could tell you—you know? About your parent’s deaths.”

Diana blew out a deep breath. “I just want to be normal,” she said so quietly, that Bridget had to lean in to hear her.

“Normal is overrated,” she said as gently as she could.

She waited as the wheels turned inside Diana’s mind. “You’re right,” she said after a couple of minutes. “Knowing his name does change things and Em might know who he is, but with the Atlantic Ocean between us — and no I will not go back home and hide under my bed like some scared child — there is not much they can do from there.”

“So we either put together our resources and get them tickets to come here, or besides calling them for info, we also call someone else.”

Realisation dawned on Diana’s face. “Matthew.”

Bridget nodded. “Do you still have his business card?”

“Yes, it’s somewhere in my rooms.”

Nodding as an actual plan formed in her mind, Bridget said, “Okay, so after we’ve eaten our dinner, we’ll go there and call both your aunts and the charming mysterious man called Matthew Clairmont.”

A small smile spread across Diana’s face, the first one since she entered nearly half an hour ago. “You’ll come with me?”

Bridget clasped her hand tightly. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

[blind-dates-fest]

Very excited to say that I managed to write a little something for @blind-dates-fest's Friendship Fiesta! 😊 @shoshiwrites was kind enough to let me borrow one of her lovely OCs for the occasion, so we get a little crossover meet-up between my Lottie and her Jo (or "reporter girl", as Lottie calls her) at Thorpe Abbotts!

The Rivers-Mayhew family does not speak to reporters.

It’s one of those things Lottie has been told over and over. Sit up straight. Use the right cutlery. Say please and thank you and get out of sight. Don’t laugh too loudly. Don’t involve yourself in a scandal. And, whatever you do, do not speak to reporters.

She’s ducked out of speaking with two of them so far, even though they’d wanted a quote from the debutante pretty badly. Then there’d been the guy – Merwick? Merlick? – who’d announced his upcoming book on at least eight different occasions. He’d somehow managed to sound more pompous than Stephen Dorrance-Jones at his most highbrow, which he’d then worsened by grandly announcing that he doesn’t care for flying.

Well, I don’t care ‘bout authors, she’d said, just before Curt had joked about that book getting shorter by the minute and Bucky’d stared holes into the man. She’d been loud enough about it to make him stumble on his words for the fraction of a second. Had been mean enough – little tilt to her head, little snide glance – to make her comment land on the side of harsh. She doubts he’ll include it in his book. Men like that don’t deal with truths very well.

His flight jacket – an affectation, a meaningless gesture to simulate closeness to their flight crews – would be far better suited around the shoulders of his fiancée, who’d accompanied him here and had then managed to stick around better than he did. Lottie’s seen the girl in passing enough to remember dark hair and watchful eyes. Bucky’d seemed to think the girl’s all right – Josephine won’t bother you – and now…

Lottie sucks in a breath as she spots the girl – Josephine – in the very corner of the mess hall, papers scattered and stacked into a system that seems to occupy only a quarter of the table in front of her at best. She doesn’t think Josephine’s even bothered to inquire about an office, even though there are some spare rooms that could function as one. Instead, she seems to have conducted interviews anywhere she could feasibly stand and write. Jules and Perrault had given brief ones out on the hardstand, while Curt had elaborated heavily over a pint and Bucky’d driven Josephine around base for at least two days in pursuit of a single comment from Gale.

“Heard you’re flying with us, reporter girl,” she says now, dragging a spare chair over toward Josephine’s table even though there’s a perfectly fine bench right there. Lottie sinks down on the chair in the most unladylike way she can come up with – legs spread wide, arms leaning on the chair’s back – and fixes the girl with her best stare. “Next milk run we got.”

She wants to tell Josephine that there’s no such thing as a goddamn milk run. Not when you’re flying a plane packed with bombs and ammo. Not when you’re hitting flak fields before the fighters hit you, and every survival feels like fighting ten rounds with a wave the size of her house back home. There’s just okay flights and bad flights. Never know which one it’s gonna be until you’re too far away from base to get back safe and sound without a scratch on you.

“They signed off on it,” says Josephine, sounding as defensive as Benny does about Meatball’s adventures. Her brow furrows a little as she looks up at Lottie. “Said they wanted a reporter up there, and…”

“An’ your fiancé don’t like flyin’.” Lottie tries to keep the judgment out of her voice best she can, though she isn’t sure she succeeds when Josephine’s cheeks turn just a little pink under the light. She sighs at that. Extends her hand to the girl. “I’m Lottie. Gale’s co-pilot.”

The girl’s hand is ink-stained but warm. “Jo Brandt.”

“Nice to meet you, reporter girl Jo,” says Lottie, flashing a quick grin at her that she doesn’t quite feel in her belly just yet. She likes that the girl doesn’t introduce herself as the future missus whatever-his-name-was. Likes that her gaze seems to divide itself between looking at Lottie and looking at her papers. “What’re ya working on?”

“Just… Some sketches. They’re not very good.”

“Uh-huh. You got Curt down just fine,” says Lottie, now that she’s actually looking at the papers for longer than a split second. “He looks like he’s just about ready to square up for a fight or ask ya for another beer. Pretty even split.” She nods in approval. “And I think you oughta pass that one of Crosby and Bubbles down to one of ‘em, once you’re done. I’m sure Crosby’s wife would love that for her picture book. Unless you use ‘em in an article?”

“That’s the plan. Most of a plan,” amends Jo, quickly setting aside a grand total of three sketches of Bucky Egan and one of Perrault scowling at Bucky that makes Lottie grin. “I need to choose some. Show who’s fighting the good fight, according to my editor.”

Lottie hums absently about it. She’s sure Jo says something else – something about interviews and quotes and whatever else reporters talk about – but her gaze has already landed on something that feels a little more important. Her hand slides across the table in an instant, folding careful fingers around the corner of a sketch.

“When’d you draw Gilly?” she asks, smoothing the creases in the small sketch of Gale out with her fingers best she can without smudging any of the lines. Jo’s somehow managed to capture that little stubborn curl at the nape of his neck as well as the flicker of light amusement that tends to play in his eyes long before it ever reaches his mouth. Lottie finds herself smiling down at it just a little. “I’m surprised he held still long enough.”

“It’s just a quick sketch, it’s not g–”

“It’s perfect. Got him just right.” She refutes Jo’s lack of ego with her own assurance. Thinks she’s seen enough art in her life to be able to tell the difference between good and bad art. “The rest of these are nice, too. If you interview half as well as you draw, I get why even Gilly said more than two words to ya.”

“Why do you call him that?”

Lottie shrugs. Softly sets the sketch down on the table between Jo and her. “Just grew that way,” she says, biting back a comment about him waiting for her at the crack of dawn near the small patch of gillyflowers. She can still see him standing there – first sunlight dancing across his face, dew drops coating the hem of his pants – if she closes her eyes and thinks back on it. “Something from training, before they separated the girls from the boys. I’m sure Perrault’s sniped about that plenty already, so I won’t repeat that.”

Jo’s voice might be gentle, but her push for a story is not. “You might have a different view than Madeleine does.”

“Nice try, reporter girl,” snorts Lottie. “I don’t do interviews. Most you’re gonna get from me is a safe flight. If you’re lucky, you’ll hear me sniping at Gilly about flying straight into flak like it can’t hurt us.” She chuckles as she smoothes the last wrinkle out of the sketch. “You’ll have plenty for your article after that. Gilly and me talk different when we’re flyin’. Always have.”

“Guess I’ll find out,” says Jo, seemingly done with stacking most of her sketches into a neater pile. The girl’s eyes are big. Searching for something in Lottie’s face that makes Lottie wonder what on earth she could possibly be looking for. “You can hold on to that one if you like. I think I have plenty of other sketches for the article.”

“Great, because I was gonna swipe it from you just to show it to him,” grins Lottie, with absolutely zero intention of showing Gale anything at all. Her fingers fold around the sketch anew now that Jo’s said she can, now that it’s fine to think about putting it in her pocket the way some girls keep pictures of home in theirs. “I think this is a lucky sketch, Jo. Guaranteed.”

She’s sure Jo can hear in her voice how sorely needed it is.

[blind-dates-fest]

"I think they like you." Prompts

“I’m sorry. I know you liked them (too).”

“You should talk to them.” “No. I couldn’t. What would I even say?”

“Clearly they have good taste.”

“Shut up.”

“Please, please, tell me you’re not trying to play matchmaker again. (As much as I love you, you suck at it.)”

“Good. Otherwise, that relationship of ours would be a mistake.”

“Can we not? (I just want to spend the evening with you. No distractions.)”

“No, they don’t.”

“How— How do you figure that?”

“What gave it away? The compliments? The touching? The kiss?”

A freezes. They had hoped nobody would figure out – not yet anyway – that they are in a secret relationship with B. Look natural. Act natural, they tell themselves.

Sighs. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

“And you? Do you like me?”

"Not you too." "What?"

“What, you gathered that from a simple ‘Hi’?”

“Maybe.” “You’re not interested?” “They just seem like they are looking for a relationship, and I’m not… I’m not ready for that. Not yet.”

“You think? How can you tell?”

“Stop pulling my leg.”

“You don’t think so?” “… Why would they/someone like them be interested in me of all people? I’m just—”

“This your way of telling me to leave you so you can ‘go on the hunt’ yourself?”

“Too bad I’m interested in someone else.” “Oh?”

“Message received.” “What? What message?”

A asks B if they are interested in person C to see if maybe they themselves (still) have a chance with B/C.

“Are you dumb or are you just pretending to be?” “What?” “You really don’t know?”

“So? I already have everything I need right here.”

Snorts. “What? We’re friends. Just friends.” (“Do they know that?”/”Hm. Sure.”)

[blind-dates-fest]

☆ — oc questions: friendship edition. by @ricesinspo

— ☆ —

you may answer these questions for any number of characters, but ideally they should all be friends.

how did they become friends? did it happen over a lunch break, or did they need a life-or-death situation to even start bonding?

in what circumstance would they have not become friends?

what would their lives be like if they had never met?

what (or who) would break their friendship, if any?

what is something they do together, that people who aren't their friends just Don't Get?

do they ever have to compromise? in what situations? how much?

what do they all have in common, if anything?

have they ever had to be apart (physically or socially)?

if they are a friend group: how open, or clique-y, is it? (how do they treat people outside of the group? is "accepting new members" or "kicking people out" a thing for them?)

describe their dynamic with memes.

has any disagreement between them ever caused major conflict?

do they assign labels or "roles" to each other, consciously or not? (mom/dad/parent friend, baby of the group, quiet one, smart/dumb one...) if so, what are they? otherwise, why not?

do they live together? if not, would they?

— ☆ —

[blind-dates-fest]

PROMPTS FOR THINGS FRIENDS SAY TO EACH OTHER *  assorted dialogue for a multitude of friendly and platonic conversations and situations ranging from soft to dramatic, adjust as necessary

of course i love you. you're my best friend.

i really couldn't do this without you.

did you just call me your best friend?

that's what friends are for.

if you know me so well, what's my favorite color?

remember when they mistook us for siblings?

you're the only person i've ever trusted.

i know i can count on you for anything.

do you approve of them?

there's nothing i wouldn't do for you.

if something was wrong, i would tell you.

i can tell when you're lying.

okay, now tell me the truth this time.

i'm not leaving you behind.

i don't know what i'd do if i lost you.

let's not fight like that again.

i always knew you would accomplish amazing things.

that wasn't fair of me to say to you.

i'm sorry i upset you.

i know everything about you.

maybe we should go someplace fun.

will you be in my wedding?

we've been friends for years. you think i didn't know?

i figured you'd tell me when you were ready.

you called me your best friend.

if it matters that much to you, we'll do it.

i just want you to be happy above all else.

you deserve a whole lot better, you know.

i wish you could see yourself the way i see you.

you've always been there for me, no matter what.

i'd risk my life to save you.

we need a girls trip.

i know you better than you know yourself.

you don't think i can tell when you're lying?

you can't get anything past me.

as your best friend, i have to step in.

that's wrong, and you know it.

i love you, but not in that way.

we need to get out of here. just us.

you mean the world to me.

you deserve better than the way they treat you.

i think i have a right to express my honest opinion when it comes to my best friend.

the only way we survive this is if we work together.

you trust me, don't you?

we could sit for hours in silence, and i'd still love the time we spent together because it was with you.

i can tell you anything, and you won't judge me.

maybe we should take a trip together, just us.

i'm so happy for you and the life you've created.

you know me so well.

one day we'll end up in rocking chairs on a porch together, complaining about everything.

you're like a sister to me.

you're like a brother to me.

you're practically family at this point.

if you asked me to help you hide a body, i would.

no one messes with my best friend.

excuse me, but i'm your best friend. i think i have a right to know.

i've known you all my life.

i hate it when we fight.

[blind-dates-fest]

2025 Blind Dates Fest Submissions

A big round of applause for everyone who participated in this year's fest! Characters have been listed in alphabetical order by first name.

Authors with an asterisk (*) are first time participants!

Ava O'Reilly | Masters of the Air | @victoryrollsandredlips *

Bina Glassberg | Band of Brothers | @vintagelavenderskies *

Bridget McAlister | A Discovery of Witches | @aloveforjaneausten

Carrie Ingram | Masters of the Air | @noneedtoamputate

Charlotte "Charlie" Ayres | Band of Brothers | @the-cinnamontography-is-amazing *

Charla Danvers | Grantchester | @yoursweetheartsrevenge *

Chiara Cammarata | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @6thofapril1917

Corrie Brewster | Band of Brothers | @letters-to-gene-roe *

Eleanor D. Wilcox | Masters of the Air | @loveduringthewar

Lucy "Luca" Torrio | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @hesbuckcompton-baby

Felicity Collins | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @emma-ofnormandy Frances "Cessie" Harrison | Masters of the Air | @bcolfanfic * Maria Grazia "Grace" Spadolo | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @mercurygray

Mariya Kincaid | Masters of the Air | @wexhappyxfew

Mollie Jacobs | Masters of the Air | @shoshiwrites

Phoebe Sutherland | The Halycon | @yoursweetheartsrevenge *

Ruari O'Conor | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @moghraidhs

Sally | Masters of the Air | @basilone

The Girl (unnamed) | The Last Kingdom | @bobparkhurst *

Ursula Warren (neé Hastings) | Poirot | @darkhorse-javert

[blind-dates-fest]

Hello, Blind Dates Fest fans!

Hopefully everyone's summer is off to a fabulous start and we all have some rest and relaxation planned.

A couple of months ago we all came up with some great and wonderful new characters and had a lot of fun introducing them to the world. (You can re-read all of this year's festival submissions here!)

But now summer's happening, and it's a great time to send them on another adventure - maybe with a friend?

Enter Blind Dates: Friendship Fiesta!

Write a piece using an original character and their canon friend, or celebrate your writing friends by writing a crossover piece for your OC and a friend's OC! Do your friends write for different fandoms? No problem! Obviously OCs need vacation plans, too - write an AU where they're in the same universe.

The characters you use for this fest do not need to be previous Blind Dates entries (although it would obviously be great if they were.) This is a small and informal challenge to give us something to work on during the month of June!

You may publish your finished piece on the site of your choice and provide a link to the blind-dates-fest blog. If the post is here on Tumblr, tag us in it so we can see it! You can look through the tag #fest submission here on this blog to get an idea of how these posts are usually formatted. (And please, this fest is pro read-more. Please use one if you are publishing here on tumblr.)

What is Blind Dates, anyway? Blind Dates is a festival/challenge that takes place during February and celebrates creating and writing original characters! Blind Dates: Friendship Fiesta is an additional summertime event encouraging writers to expand horizons for thier original character. The guiding principle is to do something new, and possibly challenging, and to serve as writing practice. It can also be a low-stakes excuse to try out a new character in a fandom you don’t usually work in in a small and manageable way.

Do I need to sign up? Nope! This fest is designed to be low-stakes and informal. There’s no penalty for thinking this was a great idea a few months ago and not having time or energy now.

You can read more at our Festival FAQ.

[blind-dates-fest]

So I finally put my @blind-dates-fest OC up on ao3, slightly re-written.

For those who like that kind of thing, here's a little about uh, the girl.

[blind-dates-fest]

Great to see that several of you are already planning something! Stay tuned!

I am thinking about the possibility of doing another event in several months where writers are invited to write and share another short piece for the character they just created this year.

[blind-dates-fest]

I am thinking about the possibility of doing another event in several months where writers are invited to write and share another short piece for the character they just created this year.

[blind-dates-fest]

Hey, you reblogged that AI post and I was surprised to see something so mean on your blog. "If you cant write unassisted, fuck you, youre a disgrace to the community." Is that really something you want on your blog?

Just in case this isn't a spam message:

Posting AI-generated content to a platform intended to be an archive for writers is not appropriate use of the platform. On a platform intended for human creation, it is rude and inappropriate to clog search results with AI-produced content which often plagiarizes the work of human authors.

Use of generative AI is also horrible for our environment, leading to massive waste of fossil fuel energy and water. We should not be doing damage to our planet for the sake of generating (robot-produced, often plagiarized) fiction, especially when the joy of fiction comes from the creation and emotion of real people.

Rather than giving a prompt to a generative AI, people should consider attempting to write their own work, or asking another writer from the fandom if they would be interested in writing it. Anyone who is capable of typing a prompt into ChatGPT is capable of writing a story. The first attempts may not be amazing, but that is true of any skill, and anyone can improve with time and practice - and while ChatGPT may give you big returns in your time, it doesn't give you practice, growth, or creativity, which is where the joy of writing should come from.

[blind-dates-fest]

Blind Dates 2025 by the numbers

7 first-time writers for this fest - an all-time high!

8 fandoms represented!

20 total submissions!

The winning letter for first names this year appears to be C, with 5.

I hope everyone who participated this year both as writers and readers is very proud! Several of you spoke about breaking through writer's block, trying a new fandom, trying a new point of view, or trying a new technique, and all those firsts deserve to have a moment to shine!

[blind-dates-fest]

2025 Blind Dates Fest Submissions

A big round of applause for everyone who participated in this year's fest! Characters have been listed in alphabetical order by first name.

Authors with an asterisk (*) are first time participants!

Ava O'Reilly | Masters of the Air | @victoryrollsandredlips *

Bina Glassberg | Band of Brothers | @vintagelavenderskies *

Bridget McAlister | A Discovery of Witches | @aloveforjaneausten

Carrie Ingram | Masters of the Air | @noneedtoamputate

Charlotte "Charlie" Ayres | Band of Brothers | @the-cinnamontography-is-amazing *

Charla Danvers | Grantchester | @yoursweetheartsrevenge *

Chiara Cammarata | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @6thofapril1917

Corrie Brewster | Band of Brothers | @letters-to-gene-roe *

Eleanor D. Wilcox | Masters of the Air | @loveduringthewar

Lucy "Luca" Torrio | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @hesbuckcompton-baby

Felicity Collins | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @emma-ofnormandy Frances "Cessie" Harrison | Masters of the Air | @bcolfanfic * Maria Grazia "Grace" Spadolo | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @mercurygray

Mariya Kincaid | Masters of the Air | @wexhappyxfew

Mollie Jacobs | Masters of the Air | @shoshiwrites

Phoebe Sutherland | The Halycon | @yoursweetheartsrevenge *

Ruari O'Conor | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @moghraidhs

Sally | Masters of the Air | @basilone

The Girl (unnamed) | The Last Kingdom | @bobparkhurst *

Ursula Warren (neé Hastings) | Poirot | @darkhorse-javert

[blind-dates-fest]

Dashing in though a partly closed door to squeak in my @blind-dates-fest submission a day late. Trying something by having the character talk, and seeing what comes through from the inside -thoughts. (Non-canon slash relationship is mentioned.)

A Sister remembers a Brother- Mrs Ursula Warren (nee Hastings).

"So - you want to know about my brother? You're not the first, you know, not even the tenth to come here, all these years since M. Poirot died. If they can't get my brother to ask him directly about the great man they seem to think it's quite alright to come and badger his kin in order to find out about the ever faithful Hastings, as compensation.

Tututut, they have no manners any of them.

But, you, so far you've been very polite, so ask your questions, and as you want to say, I communicated with the Post first. So ask if you will.

What was my brother like? You'll have to do better than that young man.

As a boy? Rather like having an over excitable puppy he was the youngest of us three, of course, and my paents were thrilled when he arrived, a son to carry on the name and to inherit what was left. That's how things were in those days. Very tedious to you younglings now.

He could be annoying frankly, he always wanted to be doing what we were. Then when he went to school he cane back with a very tedious habit of trying to pull our plaits, apparently a game the other boys talked him into. I slapped him full in the face once or twice for that, till he leaned. But really he wasn't that bad. He was...

Have you ever seen a young horse or calf? Hmm good, a bit like that, trying to work out how he fitted and how he fit in, but all over the place. He had nice eyes even then, he never lost them even as he grew up. I'll let you into a secret, If he hadn't been my brother, I would have fancied him as he grew up.

I saw less of him once he was well into Harrow and Eton, he'd be off with his friends in the vacs, riding, shooting on their estates, eventually trips to Europe - developing silly amours for this or that sisters, about every two weeks. It was amusing, except fir how he drooped when a girl went off with somone else, he was back to being a puppy then, a puppy someone had dumped in a waterbutt, we had to do a bit of comforting then, between our own beaus. Darling Artie.

M. Poirot, I'll come to that. They first met in Summer 1913, the summer before the summer-before-the-war. Arthur had gone to Europe with one of his University Pals, blundered into the middle some bother or other, as only he could, and the M'suier was the Police Officer investigating.

He came back different, at the end of that summer. He was full of tales, but almost too busy with them, and there were things he'd normally be talking about that he wasn't. No-one else would have noted it, except myself, Elisa, and maybe our Mother, if she cared to see.

Then he went to War, as did so many. That was a terrible, terrible time. The only truly bright letter we got was just after that Styles Affair, and it was all full of the M. Poirot, to see him again and his deduction. And how glad he was that M. Poirot was alive, had escaped the war. When you mentioned M. Poirot the light came back into his eyes for a moment.

The Arthur who came back at the end of the war wasn't the Artie who had strode off to it. He stayed here for a few weeks, with my late husband and I (I was married by then) and then the note came, M. Poirot, saying he had taken lodging at Whitehaven Mansions, but the only flat was really too large for one person, and perhaps M. Hastings if he did not have lodgings, might go in with him. Arthur was packed so fast it was like a West Wind flying through the house. And there they were, Hastings and Poirot at Whitehaven Mansions, Arthur with his car and his charm, M. Poirot with a sounding board and his 'lettle grey cells'. Always those two.

Argentina? Artie had always read the adventure stories, I think he wanted a bit of that, but really he was fooling and stocking up on thrilling hunting stories. He brought a caiman back, dead fortunately, intending it as a gift for John, my son. My husband wouldn't have the creature in the house, couldn't abide the glinting eye.

But Arthur He always came back to M. Poirot and I know he always wrote letters back, always found his way home when he was bruised, or when M. Poirot was bored of common-place cases. You could lengthen the bond over distance, but it was always there. When it was thought M. Poirot had been killed, I met him at Croydon, it was as bad as when he'd come back from the war. At least that came out alright.

I can see you trying not to think, young man, so I'll answer what you shan't dare ask. Yes, they were a Francais, in that way. I sometimes wondered why they did not both go to Europe once everything had calmed down a bit, after Versailles. M. Poirot always complained about England, and they would have been unchallenged over there - Napoleon saw to that. But Arthur's French was excreable, and either M. Poirot did not wish to subject himself to that permanently, or he did not wish for my brother to be given the cold shoulder for it on the other side of the channel. And of course, here he could use his own foreigness to his advantage, even after 30 years. So here they stayed, to the end.

Why am I telling you this, revealing as it is? Artie asked, before he died. 'Tell them when I'm gone, Ursie, and when it's finally safe and a better time for such things Tell them so they stop wondering, and maybe it will be comfort to someone to know.'

So there, young man. You wanted to know. Now you do. May this change mean better times for many, as Forster wished. You may record me as Mrs Ursula Warren (nee Hastings).

[blind-dates-fest]

Ava O'Reilly, MOTA OFC

This is my first @blind-dates-fest! I'm excited to introduce you all to Ava O'Reilly, my Masters of the Air OFC! Many thanks to @mercurygray for hosting!

A welcome blast of cool air met Ava O’Reilly as she climbed up to street level from the too-warm subway, sending her long brown hair flaring behind her shoulders. She tucked her thin tote tighter under her arm, and turned down the damp sidewalk toward a bright set of lights two blocks down. In vintage script, a neon sign lined with chasing white lights announced “The Candlestick Ballroom;” lights that had not illuminated in decades, save for a few test runs, until tonight. It was a welcome beacon set against the New York's darkening skies.

At the double front doors, she took a moment to check her reflection in the frosted windows, the sounds of the crowd and band inside drifting out to greet her. She wiped the corners of her mouth free of any smudged lipstick, and checked that the bobby pins holding her victory rolls in place were still snug.

One last glance at herself, shoulders rolled back and wiggling a little in anticipation, and she pulled the doors open.

The sounds of sirens and taxi horns faded almost immediately behind her as she stepped inside. The lobby was electric, crowded with conversation and people and music. She had had a feeling it was going to be like this, and the sight made her heart swell with excitement and pride. The Grand Reopening of the Candlestick Ballroom had been a hotly anticipated event across New York City’s swing dance community, ever since plans for its restoration were announced unexpectedly almost four years prior. The city had plenty of storied venues still open and running weekly dances, but the addition of another injected the scene with much-need buzz and life. The supply meant there was demand, and vintage enthusiasts reveled in the idea that swing was not dying, but alive and well in the 21st century.

A rumor had spread weeks earlier that the Candle’s ownership was looking for the most authentic experience to the 40’s a ballroom could offer, so for the first month of operation it would enforce a strict dress code: Vintage Only.

It worked.

As Ava pushed her way to the ticket counter, just on the other side of coat check, she marveled at the dresses and suits in the crowd around her, each person dressed to the nines in their best 1940’s ware. She glanced down at her own dress, a navy blue number with tiny white polka dots and a flaring swing skirt, and wondered if the modern reproduction was authentic enough.

Mindful of the “Vintage Only” rule, she tucked herself next to the wall to quickly check her phone, expecting a text from her roommate who had been due to arrive well before her.

Her phone was blank; a dead, black brick.

“Damnit,” she hissed, and shoved it back into her bag before anyone saw her modern contraband.

At the ticket counter, she first asked the attendant if he had a phone charger she could borrow.

“A… what?” He sounded confused.

“A phone charger!” Maybe the lobby was too loud to be heard properly.

He pointed behind Ava, in the direction of a line of phone booths built into the wall on the other side of the lobby.

Ava blurted out a laugh, less that it was a funny situation and more that it was just annoying, ironic timing. “Oh yeah, sorry. Vintage only. I forgot.” Maybe the rule wasn’t so fun after all. “Anyway… One, please.”

“Fifty cents.”

Her eyes widened. “Fifty cents? Wow, you guys really are going for authenticity. Is that just for tonight, for the Grand Opening?”

His forehead wrinkled further in confusion. “Miss, we’re always 50 cents.”

“Oh, sure, of course you are.” This town, when it committed to a bit, never looked back. Ava picked through the loose change in her wallet, pushing past the new national park coins she knew her dad would be excited to add to his collection, and pulled out two old quarters. She slid them under the glass of the ticket booth with a small smile, a silent apology for confusing the young man. He smiled back, and ripped one half of a lilac-colored ticket off, passing it toward her.

“Do you know if Natalie Lambert is here yet?” Ava asked as she slipped the stub into her wallet.

“Who?”

“Natalie. Lambert,” she said slowly, clearly, to be heard over the crowd. “She’s one of the promoters. She booked the band.”

The attendant shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

She shrugged. “That’s fine. Have a good night.”

“You too, miss. Next!”

Ava stepped to the side, pushing herself right into the middle of the crowd, shoulder-to-shoulder with everyone around her so that no one would have the chance to look down and see her high-top Converse. This was a standard practice for swing dancers; everyday-wear shoes were frowned upon on the dance floor, so everyone brought their own clean pair, from sneakers to the more professional ballroom shoes with suede bottoms, to change into once inside the venue.

A swinging door led from the lobby to the ballroom, and Ava slid in after a woman in a teal dress and brown fur stole.

The ballroom was a sea of people, breaking slightly at the edge of the dance floor in the middle of the large, rectangular space, but even the dance floor was packed. At one end of the long room was a bar, mirror-backed with a sweeping wood frame and red leather stools. Men in smart white coats bustled around behind the bar, pouring drinks and guffawing with lively patrons. At the other end, a raised band shell, with a full band in matching suits deep in their first set. A large banner hung over the band, and in a spirited font announced, WELCOME BACK BOYS! In between the bookends of the bar and the band shell, lining the dance floor three rows deep, were tables that could seat up to six people, eight if their elbows touched, packed in so close the back of your chair would bump up against the neighboring table’s if you weren’t careful.

Ava stopped at the edge of the dance floor a moment to watch the dancers gathered there, impressed with their floor craft, how they deftly maneuvered around each other and still made their moves look flashy. A strange stare from a passerby reminded Ava she was still wearing her Converse high-tops, so she pushed back into the crowd again, and made her way to an empty stool at the end of the bar to change into her ballroom shoes.

She had just gotten her Converse off and stowed in her bag, safe from the “Vintage Only” rule, when one of the older white-clad bartenders positioned himself across from her.

He leaned forward, arms spread out against the bar, and cleared his throat loudly. “Lady, I can serve you real quick-like, but you gotta leave right after as that seat’s reserved.”

“I just need a minute; I need to get my shoes—” She bent over to pull her ballroom shoes on; the ones with the suede bottoms, ankle straps, and sensible one-inch heels.

“Your shoes? Lady, what kinda establishment you think this is? Comin’ in here barefoot?”

She ignored him and buckled the right shoe.

“Lady? Hey lady!” the bartender called, louder. “That ain’t your seat; you’re gonna have’ta move!”

“Just—hang on!” she said firmly, fingers fumbling with the finicky buckle of her left shoe. It was always the left shoe, and buckling one’s shoes while wearing a skirt and seated on a high bar stool was a dance itself. Ava teetered on her seat as she tried not to fall, or share the color of her underwear with the rest of the ballroom patrons.

“That’s for one of our regulars!”

“Yelling at me will totally make me go faster, thank you!”

“What’s going on here?” A third voice spoke up, seemingly out of nowhere. Suddenly, Ava was aware of a pair of men’s brown oxfords coming to a stop in front of her. She looked up through the dark waves that had fallen around her face, to see the most striking blue eyes she’s ever seen on a man.

Everything around her went quiet.

He was young and handsome, with a perfect jawline, trimmed mustache, and a pile of neat curly dark hair. There was something in the way he stared back at her; lips parted in wide-eyed awe, as if struck by the same lightning.

The bartender started shouting again, and all her senses came slamming back. The sound of the band, the push and pull of the crowd, the clinking glassware, and the strong scent of cigarette smoke. “Sorry, Rosie, I tried!” the bartender shouted at the younger man, and put his hands up in the air as if he was surrendering.

The younger man took a moment to pull his gaze away from Ava’s, then casually waved the bartender off. “Thanks, Frank, but it’s fine.” His accent was distinctly New York; Brooklyn. It had to be. “Can I get another Manhattan, please? And whatever the lady likes.”

“You don’t have to,” Ava said without missing a beat, and shook her head. “As soon as I get my shoe on, I’m done, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“What for? Frank doesn’t have any hair for you to get into.”

“Just one sec—”

“Here, let me help.” Before Ava could protest, he was down on one knee, her ankle in his hand. He hummed a few notes along with the band as he examined her shoe. “The buckle’s twisted around; this thing’s never gonna latch like that. Mind if I—”

“Fine! That’s fine, sure.” Ava could feel Frank’s disapproval from the other side of the bar, so she turned to face it head-on. The bartender rolled his eyes, and Ava shot him a quick glare in return.

The younger man pulled her strap around her ankle, and made quick work of buckling it closed.

“Not too tight?” he asked when he looked up, and there were those blue eyes again.

She shook her head, too embarrassed for even the most clipped of sentences.

“All set, Cinderella!” He gave her a quick wink before standing. “Off to see Prince Charming now?”

“Just a few mice.” She hopped off the stool and shouldered her bag. “Thanks! Have a good night.” Not willing to let another awkward second with the handsome man pass, she quickly stepped away from the bar, back into the crowd.