2) Write a new scene or short story, or dust off an old one, about a love/relationship/situation that also includes one or more of the following elements:
---St. Paddy's Day as important event or setting
---Use of Ireland or anything Irish as a setting or prop
---An alcohol related event (party, hangover, cocktails, AA meeting, etc.)
3) Just prior to March 17th (St. Pat's Day), post said story to your blog.
4) On St. Paddy's Day, cruise around the interwebs, drink in hand, and check out everybody's amazing fiction.
I opened the bathroom door, thinking that maybe now I could call Jared and get away with most of my pride in tact, but before I could take another step, I saw him in the doorway, Danny, his arms full of paper bags from which tantalising smells were rising. He smiled at me in delight, but the smile slowly faded as he took in my appearance.
“You look terrible,” he said softly.
I wanted to slap him, but it would’ve hurt my head too much. I just glared. “Gee, thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant…you look like you’re sick.”
I am fucking sick, you moron! I would have dearly loved to yell, but my tender state disallowed it.
“Here,” he said, shuffling into the kitchen and dumping the bags of whatever food he’d bought in there. He hastened back to me and put his hands on my arms—his warm, dry, strong hands. The work those hands had done last night… I shivered, and it hurt my head. My stomach, too. I would have glared if that wouldn’t have caused me more pain.
“Why don’t you lie down?” he said gently. “I don’t think you got enough sleep.”
“I’m in danger of vomiting everywhere,” I warned him grumpily.
He just smiled and leaned in to kiss my cheek, infuriating me but not sufficiently that I could summon the strength to throw his hands off. “Come on,” he murmured, and I absolutely hated that I loved the sound of that voice—rich, deep, rumbling. He knew how to growl with that voice, too.
I blocked out memories that were far more tantalising than even the scents coming from the kitchen and closed my eyes as he led me towards the bed. In spite of the fact that I couldn’t see where I was going and that he had two left feet that made even walking down the street a challenge for him, he managed to get me back to the bed without bumping me into anything. He also kept his own feet, a miracle in itself.
“Lie down here. Is your head all right?”
“It kills,” I told him in a self-pitying whimper, and he crooned sympathy and stroked my face, making me shiver again. I didn’t want to shiver, damn it! Shivering hurt!
“Lie down. Just lie down and sleep.”
I sank onto the bed, and somehow it felt nearly as comfortable as the bed back in my executive suite. I wondered how that could be, when last night and even this morning it had felt so lumpy and…inferior.
“Sleep, love,” his voice murmured, and it was already sounding much further away than expected. Love? “You just sleep now. Relax. You can relax.”
And it seemed he wasn’t lying. I could and did relax, and in moments I was gone.
