Hi! My name is LB Gregg and I write m/m romantic comedies. Thanks for stopping by on the How I Met Your Father blog tour . I’m thrilled to be part of the Home for the Holidays collection and want to encourage you to purchase my book—as Riptide will donate 20% of the proceeds of the sale of this book, and the collection, to the Ali Forney Center in New York. The centers mission “is to protect lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, questioning (LGBTQ) youth from the harm of homelessness, and to support them in becoming safe and independent as they move from adolescence to adulthood.”

Inspiration comes when one least expect it. That’s what I usually tell folks who ask me ‘how did you come up with the idea for this story?’ Sometimes I remember exactly when a pivotal scene originated, like the opening bible thumping scene in my Men of Smithfield books, or the BMW test drive in Trust Me If You Dare. Sometimes, there’s just an ‘Ah ha’ moment and a story is born.

I was flying somewhere about a year ago or so. It was a Delta flight, because I’m pretty dedicated to them, and I was probably 64^th in line for the upgrade to First Class. Alone, I’d just sat down in my preferred seat on the aisle and was zipping through my social media haunts before they closed the cabin door and made us shut down our phones. It must have been summer. My arms were bare. I usually fly with a cardigan in my bag, but for whatever reason, I didn’t have one with me.

A thin, thirty something year old woman, eating a bag lunch, was seated beside me. I didn’t really pay her any mind, because my nose was glued to my cell. But I did notice her ponytail. It hung over her shoulder past her chest. She snacked and I minded my own business as passengers boarded.

It was all business as usual until her hair brushed my arm.

At first I thought she moved her head and it was just one of those things. And it would be just the one time— but no. I think I may have tweeted about this, actually, because I was so grossed out, and I didn’t know how the heck I was going to sit in that seat for the entire flight with some woman’s hair touching my arm. Is that weird? And how could she not know that her ponytail was on me?

That’s the moment How I Met Your Father was born. No. There isn’t a skeevy ponytail scene included in the book—and maybe it’s been so long since I’ve promoted a book I’m doing this all wrong—but as I was sitting on the plane, I took my notebook out and started writing the questions that would become the opening scene of How I Met Your Father.

What’s the most shocking thing a stranger could do to you on a plane? Other than injure you or get sick on you or expose themselves or brush you with their freakishly friendly braid?  How do you tell them to stop? What if someone literally reached out for you? If he reached a hand over the armrest, and simply took your hand. How would you respond? Would you punch him, die from embarrassment, mace him, or jerk away? Why would anyone enter your personal space?

And what would it take for you to hold him back?

 

An excerpt from How I Met Your Father

The captain’s voice returned. “Flight attendants, please be seated.” Anxiety ripped through me and threatened to chuck up my rum and coke.

A redheaded stewardess arrived through the curtain. She flipped the jump seats down, and the two women fastened themselves into individual five-point harnesses that were a hell of a lot sturdier than the flimsy two-pointers we passengers had buckled over our laps. Once the women were settled, the redhead frowned over her coworker’s injury.

We were all pretty much frowning.

The blond man’s stare met mine, his irises gleaming like quicksilver. Unfriendly lines bracketed his mouth. “I’ve flown in worse. This is nothing.”

I’d flown through worse too, and for that reason, I’d considered washing an Ambien down with my drink while we were still on the ground in Atlanta. I would have, except drink mixed with drug never turned out as well as one hoped, and besides, I needed to function upon arrival. I had twenty minutes to connect with a commuter flight to Nevis and get my ass to Chuck’s hasty Yuletide wedding. I had the gang to reconnect with—we were the groomsmen, after all.

We shot toward a new pocket of rough air. Bang, bang, bump, lift. Fall. Fear. Fuck. My cup hit the floor, and I didn’t retrieve it.

We were so damn close to Puerto Rico. Goddamn, we were almost there. It had been what? Five minutes of turbulence? Not much to most seasoned travelers, though it felt like an eternity to me as adrenaline leaked into my system. But if we were in actual danger, the flight attendants would do something heroic, right?

I glanced at the bleeding woman strapped securely in what looked like a parachute. Then I prayed.

Please don’t let me miss Chuck’s wedding.

Please don’t let me puke, and if I do, don’t let anyone recognize me.

I needed to get a grip.

Keep the plane in the sky. Let us land. It’s turbulence, for crying out loud. I refuse to die by cloud fart.

Something brushed my knuckle. Something warm and rough and steady. Mid full-blown panic attack, my eyes jerked open.

Mr. Golden Man.

He’d reached over the armrest—hand hovering above my lap, fingers stroking the backs of mine.

What. The. Hell? I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t flinch or pull away, which I should have, but fear of imminent death pinned me in place. My throat clicked as I swallowed, my skin tingling, my face burning. His posture didn’t reflect impatience now. No. He appeared rock steady.

The plane shuddered again, accompanied by the tinny, metallic sound of struts and bolts straining, and instead of rational and strong and fucking normal—I clung.

He stroked my knuckles with a tender brush of skin against skin. “We’re fine”—voice pitched so only I could hear—“Relax.”

He moved against the armrest, and our shoulders bumped. His fingertips breezed across my clenched fist, and that simple contact traveled dart-like through bone and sinew, from knuckle to joint, ball to socket, tendon to ligament, from wrist to elbow, and shoulder to chest. His touch pierced my ribs, and the fear dissipated. I loosened my grip as a strange new feeling nestled behind my breastbone.

“I’m okay.” I cleared the lump in my throat and breathed a little easier. “But what . . . are you doing?”

“Distracting you.” He smiled easily, no hint of recognition in his eyes, and I realized he didn’t know. He had no clue who he was sitting next to. Whose hand he was holding. “Your color’s better. You’re not hyperventilating now. See? You’re fine.”

I nodded, not because I agreed, but because I couldn’t speak as the plane bounced through the air like a rubber ball, rattling my skull and flinging crap inside the overhead bins. Engines whistled outside the windows, and a beverage cart crashed in the galley.

He turned my hand over so we were palm to palm. Firm and tight—he measured our hands. Did he think they fit together? They felt right to me. Almost like his hand had been made for mine. I glanced at the flight attendants, and thank God, neither one appeared interested in us. Dying by fiery airline crash was one thing; having a witness to this public coddling was another.

And no shit, he laced our fingers and actually held my hand. Held it like he meant it.

Maybe I wanted to die after all.

 ABOUT L. B. GREGG

When not flying from one exotic locale to another, and being victim of random braid molestation, LB Gregg writes m/m contemporary romantic comedies for a variety of publishers including Riptide, Carina Press, Samhain and Musa.

For information about LB’s books, visit her on the web at lbgregg.com.

                         

 

Blurb:

The man of your dreams could be sitting right next to you.

Former boy band member Justin Hayes isn’t looking for a man. He just wants a quiet, scandal-free Christmas at home in Chicago, out of the public eye. But his best friend and bandmate is subjecting everyone to his destination wedding, and Justin can’t dodge the “best man” bullet. All he has to do is get to the island on time, survive the reunion, and get Chuck to the altar with as little drama as possible. What could possibly go wrong?

Jack Bassinger’s own plans for a quiet Christmas have been dashed by the summons to his daughter’s hasty wedding with a man Jack has hardly met. On the bumpy flight to the island, he finds himself comforting a nervous — and extremely attractive — young man. One hasty sexual encounter in an airport bathroom later, they both feel much better. No one ever has to know, after all.

Now Justin and Jack must find a way to explore their attraction, despite the distractions of disapproving family members, unexpected announcements, an impromptu concert, and an island paradise that proves there’s no place like home

***

Read Sid and Elizabetta’s Joint Review on “How I Met Your Father”: HERE

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