Isn't She Adorable Quotes

I adore Wilkie Collins,” Tessa cried. “Oh—Armadale! And The Woman in White … Are you laughing at me?” “Not at you,” said Will, grinning, “more because of you. I’ve never seen anyone get so excited over books before. You’d think they were diamonds.” “Well, they are, aren’t they? Isn’t there anything you love like that? And don’t say ‘spats’ or ‘lawn tennis’ or something silly.” “Good Lord,” he said with mock horror, “it’s like she knows me already.

I adore her in every possible way. Have you ever looked upon someone and felt a spark within your core? She makes me want to accomplish grand things. That's the beauty of love, though, isn't it? It brings out the very best within yourself.

the little girl isn’t listening to you— she’s way too busy staring out the window, fantasizing about a world of magical accidents, flying envelopes, screeching owls, adoring giants, brooms that do more than sweep, friends who are always loyal, & a train that will take her to an enchanted place far far far away from here. - put under a lifelong spell.

He’s here! That’s Damon over there!” Because of his height, Noah had a clear shot of the man she was pointing to. But he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Oh, come on,” he groaned. “A blond haired, blue-eyed demon?” He glanced at Willow just in time to catch her impish grin. “He’s adorable, isn’t he?” “Yeah, he’s friggin’ precious,” he muttered...

It’s just… I adore her in every possible way. Have you ever looked upon someone and felt a spark within your core? She makes me want to accomplish grand things. That’s the beauty of love, though, isn’t it? It brings out the very best within yourself.

Wow, she really loves Keefe, doesn’t she? Fitz transmitted. It’s adorable and obnoxious, isn’t it? Sophie asked.

Ryuu patted Meryn on the head and looked around the room. "Isn't she adorable?

This is a love story,” Michael Dean says, ”but really what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery or the chase, or the nosey female reporter who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely, the serial murder loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets, or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice-trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk. Just as the housewives live for catching glimpses of their own botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors and the rocked out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on hookbook. Because this is reality, they are all in love, madly, truly, with the body-mic clipped to their back-buckle and the producer casually suggesting, “Just one more angle.”, “One more jello shot.”. And the robot loves his master. Alien loves his saucer. Superman loves Lois. Lex and Lana. Luke loves Leia, til he finds out she’s his sister. And the exorcist loves the demon, even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace. As Leo loves Kate, and they both love the sinking ship. And the shark, god the shark, loves to eat. Which is what the Mafioso loves too, eating and money and Pauly and Omertà. The way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar and sometimes loves the other cowboy. As the vampire loves night and neck. And the zombie, don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool, has anyone ever been more love-sick than a zombie, that pale dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms. His very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains. This, too is a love story.

But maybe this is what Hannah has always wanted: a man who will deny her. A man of her own who isn't hers. Isn't it the real reason she broke up with Mike--not because he moved to North Carolina for law school (he wanted her to go with him, and she said no) but because he adored her? If she asked him to get out of bed and bring her a glass of water, he did. If she was in a bad mood, he tried to soothe her. It didn't bother him if she cried, or if she didn't wash her hair or shave her legs or have anything interesting to say. He forgave it all, he always thought she was beautiful, he always wanted to be around her. It became so boring! She'd been raised, after all, not to be accommodated but to accommodate, and if she was his world, then his world was small, he was easily satisfied. After a while, when he parted her lips with his tongue, she'd think, Thrash, thrash, here we go. She wanted to feel like she was striving cleanly forward, walking into a bracing wind and learning from her mistakes, and she felt instead like she was sitting in a deep, squishy sofa, eating Cheetos, in an overheated room. With Oliver, there is always contrast to shape their days, tension to keep them on their toes: You are far form me, you are close to me. We are fighting, we are getting along.

Naturally – she's an actress." He laughed wryly to himself. "Complications. Oh, yes." The doctor reflected and then said, "I always think a life without complications isn't really a life, you know. In life things go wrong, nothing stays the same and there's nothing you can do about it. Friends betray you, family is a nightmare, lovers are fickle. This is the norm, no?" He smiled to himself, as if remembering something pertinent. "What kind of a world would it be where nothing ever went wrong, where everything stayed the same, life followed a designated path – family was adorable, friends and lovers were faithful and true?" He paused. "You know, I don't think I'd like that kind of a world. We're made for complications, we human beings. Anyway, such a perfect world could never exist – at least not on this small planet.

The duke nudged his ball a bit forward from the rest of the pile. “You do realize,” he said to no one in particular, “that I have never played Pall Mall before?” “Just give the ball a good whack in that direction, darling,” Daphne said, pointing to the first wicket. “Isn’t that the last wicket?” Anthony asked. “It’s the first.” “It ought to be the last.” Daphne’s jaw jutted out. “I set up the course, and it’s the first.” “I think this might get bloody,” Edwina whispered to Kate. The duke turned to Anthony and flashed him a false smile. “I believe I’ll take Daphne’s word for it.” “She did set up the course,” Kate cut in. Anthony, Colin, Simon, and Daphne all looked at her in shock, as if they couldn’t quite believe she’d had the nerve to enter the conversation. “Well, she did,” Kate said. Daphne looped her arm through hers. “I do believe I adore you, Kate Sheffield,” she announced. “God help me,” Anthony muttered. The duke drew back his mallet, let fly, and soon the orange ball was hurtling along the lawn. “Well done, Simon!” Daphne cried out. Colin turned and looked at his sister with disdain. “One never cheers one’s opponents in Pall Mall,” he said archly. “He’s never played before,” she said. “He’s not likely to win.” “Doesn’t matter.” Daphne turned to Kate and Edwina and explained, “Bad sportsmanship is a requirement in Bridgerton Pall Mall, I’m afraid.” “I’d gathered,” Kate said dryly.

All day, I worried—what if she resorts to the bathrobe sweater at the last minute? What if she gets something in her teeth and doesn’t notice? What if this guy doesn’t see how totally adorable she is? What if he hurts her feelings? Saturday night, I went to a movie with a friend, but the whole night I was checking my phone to see if my mother had called or texted. When she finally called at midnight, I picked up the phone on the first ring. “How was it?” “Aw, it didn’t go so well.” My heart sank. I was already hatching revenge plots against the cad when she continued, “He was nice, but I’m not sure I’m interested.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Not everyone is lucky enough to hang out with my fashionable, smooth, totally cool mom. Just me.

By Jove, it's great! Walk along the streets on some spring morning. The little women, daintily tripping along, seem to blossom out like flowers. What a delightful, charming sight! The dainty perfume of violet is everywhere. The city is gay, and everybody notices the women. By Jove, how tempting they are in their light, thin dresses, which occasionally give one a glimpse of the delicate pink flesh beneath! "One saunters along, head up, mind alert, and eyes open. I tell you it's great! You see her in the distance, while still a block away; you already know that she is going to please you at closer quarters. You can recognize her by the flower on her hat, the toss of her head, or her gait. She approaches, and you say to yourself: 'Look out, here she is!' You come closer to her and you devour her with your eyes. "Is it a young girl running errands for some store, a young woman returning from church, or hastening to see her lover? What do you care? Her well-rounded bosom shows through the thin waist. Oh, if you could only take her in your arms and fondle and kiss her! Her glance may be timid or bold, her hair light or dark. What difference does it make? She brushes against you, and a cold shiver runs down your spine. Ah, how you wish for her all day! How many of these dear creatures have I met this way, and how wildly in love I would have been had I known them more intimately. "Have you ever noticed that the ones we would love the most distractedly are those whom we never meet to know? Curious, isn't it? From time to time we barely catch a glimpse of some woman, the mere sight of whom thrills our senses. But it goes no further. When I think of all the adorable creatures that I have elbowed in the streets of Paris, I fairly rave. Who are they! Where are they? Where can I find them again? There is a proverb which says that happiness often passes our way; I am sure that I have often passed alongside the one who could have caught me like a linnet in the snare of her fresh beauty.

You can put a tiara on the world's most adorable pig and she still isn't going to blend in with the thoroughbreds galloping past.

Hello,' he said, almost shyly, as he approached the table. He was barefoot and shirtless, and adorably tousled, with golden hair falling over sparkly eyes that looked as if they were still waking up. 'Hi.' Her voice came out oddly shy as well, which only seemed to make Jacks smile. 'You didn't have to sneak out of bed,' he said. 'I didn't sneak.' 'Then why didn't you stay?' He casually slid in to the seat beside her and turned to her with a wolfish grin. It was a smile like a fairytale, part villain, part hero, part impossible ever after. She couldn't bear how much she loved it. But then she remembered the stone. She imagined she'd feel differently if it was in an iron box, and she feared that Jacks would, too. That he wouldn't be looking at her as if he wanted to devour her instead of the breakfast. 'Tomorrow, I won't let you leave so easily.' His eyes flashed with mischief, and he stole a bite of her toast. The gesture was so simple and so comfortable, and all she could think was that it would be so easy to stay here. 'I thought you said it was just one night.' 'I thought you never believed what I said.' He shook his head reproachfully and tugged her on to his lap. 'Jacks-' Evangeline put a hand against his chest. She could feel his heart was pounding, which surprised her. On the outside, he looked so casual and careless, but now she imagined he felt as nervous as she did. It made her want to pull him closer, to press her head in to his shoulder and tell him all the things that she was trying not to feel. She wrapped her arms around his neck , and for a second she held tight. She held him as if he was hers and she was his, and there was nothing else between them. No curses. No lies. No past wounds or mistakes. She held him as if there was only now, as if nothing else mattered but this moment. Then she let him go. She shoved off his laps with clumsy arms and even clumsier legs that stumbled as she tried to step back. 'Evangeline... what's wrong?' A line creased between his brows. 'This isn't real, Jacks. You and I, we're under the influence of the mirth stone.' 'You think you would only feel this way about me because of a rock?' Jacks' mouth clamped shut. For a moment he looked angry, but she looked in his eyes, all she could see was hurt.

My fourteen-year-old sister Lara is a brat. Unfortunately, no one sees it but me. To everyone else, she’s adorable. She’s tiny and blonde and sweet and as helpless as a kitten. Chloe reminded me of Lara, at first. The difference, as I discovered, is that Chloe really is as sweet as she seems and she isn’t as helpless as she looks.

...both Tom and I adore detective stories. Isn't that so, Tom?" [Lady Brace] "Right!" agreed her husband...."But they've got to be proper detective stories. They've got to present a tricky, highly sophisticated problem, which you're given fair opportunity to solve." "And," amplified Virginia, "no saying they're psychological studies when the author can't write for beans." "Correct!" her husband agreed again. "Couldn't care less when you're supposed to get all excited as to whether the innocent man will be hanged or the innocent heroine will be seduced. Heroine ought to be seduced; what's she there for? The thing is the mystery. It's not worth reading if the mystery is simple or easy or no mystery at all.

I’ve fallen in love properly for the first time in my life with the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met, who desires me from a position of inner strength, Amma, and it might sound odd but that’s so new to me and darned sexy, like she can rip my clothes off whenever she wants to (which she does) and I feel helpless and dominated (which I like), whereas my previous lovers desired me from a position of weakness, of adoration, which just isn’t interesting to me any more

Bitch" Now, when he and I meet, after all these years, I say to the bitch inside me, don’t start growling. He isn’t a trespasser anymore, Just an old acquaintance tipping his hat. My voice says, “Nice to see you,” As the bitch starts to bark hysterically. He isn’t an enemy now, Where are your manners, I say, as I say, “How are the children? They must be growing up.” At a kind word from him, a look like the old days, The bitch changes her tone; she begins to whimper. She wants to snuggle up to him, to cringe. Down, girl! Keep your distance Or I’ll give you a taste of the choke-chain. “Fine, I’m just fine,” I tell him. She slobbers and grovels. After all, I am her mistress. She is basically loyal. It’s just that she remembers how she came running Each evening, when she heard his step; How she lay at his feet and looked up adoringly Though he was absorbed in his paper; Or, bored with her devotion, ordered her to the kitchen Until he was ready to play. But the small careless kindnesses When he’d had a good day, or a couple of drinks, Come back to her now, seem more important Than the casual cruelties, the ultimate dismissal. “It’s nice to know you are doing so well,” I say. He couldn’t have taken you with him; You were too demonstrative, too clumsy, Not like the well-groomed pets of his new friends. “Give my regards to your wife,” I say. You gag As I drag you off by the scruff, Saying, “Goodbye! Goodbye! Nice to have seen you again.

Layla!" Don bounded into her sight. The door behind her was still bolted. Where had he come from? The starshot tumbled from her hands and clattered to the floor. She snatched it up and slipped it back inside her dress. Bill was gone.But Don was-Daniel was right where she wanted him to be. "What are you doing here?" Her voice broke with the force of having to act surprised to see him. He didn't seem to hear it.He rushed toward her and wrapped her in his arms. "Saving your life." "How did you get in?" "Don't worry about that.No mortal man, no slab of stone can obstruct a love as true as ours. I will always find you." In his bare, bronzed arms, it was Luce's instinct to feel comforted. But she couldn't right then.Her heart felt ragged and cold.This easy happiness, these feelings of complete trust, every one of the lovely emotions Daniel had shown her how to feel in every life-they were torture to her now. "Fear not," he whispered. "Let me tell you, my love, what happens after this life.You come back,you rise again. Your rebirth is beautiful and real.You come back to me,again and again-" The light from the lamp flickered and made his violet eyes sparkle.His body was so warm against hers. "But I die again and again." "What?" He tilted his head.Even when his physique looked exotic to her, she knew his expressions so well-that bemused adoration when she expressed something he hadn't expected her to understand. "How do you-Never mind. It doesn't matter.What matters is that we will again be together.We will always find each other,always love each other, no matter what.I will never leave you." Luce fell to her knees on the stone steps. She hid her face in her hands. "I don't know how you can stand it.Over and over again,the same sadness-" He lifted her up. "The same ecstasy-" "The same fire that kills everything-" "The same passion that ignites it all again.You don't know.You can't remember how wonderful-" "I've seen it.I do know." How she had his attention. He didn't seem sure whether or not to believe her, but at least he was listening. "What if there's no hope of anything ever changing?" she asked. "There is only hope. One day, you will live through it.That absolute truth is the only thing that keeps me going. I will never give up on you. Even if it takes forever." He wiped away her tears with his thumb. "I'll love you with all my heart,in every life, through every death. I will not be bound by anything but my love for you." "But it's so hard.Isn't it hard for you? Haven't you ever thought,what if..." "One day,our love will conquer this dark cycle.That's worth everything to me.

This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke love Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the Mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omerta` --the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.

He leaned on the bar. "I'm Tony. And you owe me." Okay, here we go, Liza thought, and leaned on the bar, too, mirroring him. "I owe you?" "Yes." He grinned at her. "Because of chaos theory." Liza shook her head. "Chaos theory." He moved closer to her. "Chaos theory says that complex dynamical systems become unstable because of disturbances in their environments after which a strange attractor draws the trajectory of the stress." Liza looked at him, incredulous. "This is your line?" "I am a complex dynamical system," Tony said. "Not that complex," Liza said. "And I was stable until you caused a disturbance in my environment." "Not that stable," Liza said. Tony grinned. "And since you're the strangest attractor in the room, I followed the trajectory of my stress right to you." "That's not what you followed to me." Liza turned so that her back was against the bar, her shoulder blocking him. "Give me something better than that, or I'll find somebody else to amuse myself with." From the corner of her eye, she saw the other guy, the vacant-looking blond, lean down to Bonnie. "Is she always like this?" he said to Bonnie, and Liza turned to size him up. Big. Husky. Boring. "Well, your friend isn't exactly Prince Charming," Bonnie said, giving him her best fluttery smile. He beamed back down at her. "Neither am I. Is that okay?" Oh, come on, Liza thought, and caught Tony-the-bullethead's eye. "He means it," Tony said. "Roger has no line." "After the chaos theory debacle, that's a plus," Liza said. "Poor baby," Bonnie was saying as she put her hand on Roger's sleeve. "Of course, that's okay. I'm Bonnie." Roger looked down at her with naked adoration. "I'm Roger, and you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life." Bonnie's smile widened, and she moved closer to him. "Which doesn't mean he's bad with women," Tony said, sounding bemused.

When Aziza first spotted Mariam in the morning, her eyes always sprang open, and she began mewling and squirming in her mother's grip. She thrust her arms toward Mariam, demanding to be held, her tiny hands opening and closing urgently, on her face a look of both adoration and quivering anxiety. "What a scene you're making," Laila would say, releasing her to crawl toward Mariam. "What a scene! Calm down. Khala Mariam isn't going anywhere. There she is, your aunt. See? Go on, now." As soon as she was in Mariam's arms, Aziza's thumb shot into her mouth and she buried her face in Mariam's neck. Mariam bounced her stiffly, a half-bewildered, half-grateful smile on her lips. Mariam had never before been wanted like this. Love had never been declared to her so guilelessly, so unreservedly. Aziza made Mariam want to weep. "Why have you pinned your little heart to an old, ugly hag like me?" Mariam would murmur into Aziza's hair. "Huh? I am nobody, don't you see? A dehati. What have I got to give you?" But Aziza only muttered contentedly and dug her face in deeper. And when she did that, Mariam swooned. Her eyes watered. Her heart took flight. And she marvelled at how, after all these years of rattling loose, she had found in this little creature the first true connection in her life of false, failed connections.

If I wanted to punish myself, I’d keep looking at your face.” “Isn’t my face in half the pictures taped to your bunk wall?” “Maybe I keep them there to scare away the devil.” “Just show him your feet,” he said, going for her weak spot. She had adorable toes, but she hated that her second one was longer than the first. “He’ll run screaming back to hell with his forked tail between his legs.” “Keep talking and I’ll send you there to meet him.” “I’ll say hello to your demon-spawn mother while I’m there.” “Try not to wet yourself like you did at the palace.” “Hey!” He drew back an inch. That was hitting below the belt. “I was only four when that happened, and your mom was legitimately scary.

She’s in my arms, so sweet and vulnerable and yet so strong, determined and everything I want with every fibre of my being. Clary is spirited, smart, funny, stubborn and adorably nerdy. She isn’t a cool girl, always worried about her looks and hanging out with the cool crowd and being mean and putting people down in order to shine brighter. She is caring and courageous, she’s pretty and witty and doesn’t even know how sexy she is when she moves, when she smiles, when she lifts her bright eyes from a big book. She’ll quote dead poets and vintage 90s tv shows, she’ll tell you what she wants without trying to manipulate you into doing her bidding, she’ll tie you to her by setting you free, she will love you or hate you for who you are and not for who you appear to be. J.

Or are they? Maybe her eyes aren’t wide because of innocence. Maybe it’s fear. He has a split instant of seeing Prospero through the gaze of Miranda—a petrified Miranda who’s suddenly realized that her adored father is a full-blown maniac, and paranoid into the bargain. He thinks she’s asleep when he’s talking out loud to someone who isn’t there, but she’s heard him doing it, and it scares her. He says he can command spirits, raise storms, uproot trees, open tombs, and cause the dead to walk, but what’s that in real life? It’s sheer craziness. The poor girl is trapped in the middle of the ocean with a testosterone-sodden thug who wants to rape her and an ancient dad who’s totally off his gourd. No wonder she throws herself into the arms of the first sane-looking youth who bumbles her way. Get me out of here! is what she’s really saying to Ferdinand. Isn’t it?

I'm sorry about...everything. And that." I pointed to her neck.               The small smile had more than one meaning. It had my inner guy perking to attention. "Girls don't generally complain about beard burn, do they? Isn't it supposed to be a way for guys to mark girls, claim them, be all romantic in a Neanderthal kinda way, like hickies?"               I arched an eyebrow at her. Oh, is that right. She blushed, furiously and adorably, and backtracked.               "I didn't mean you were trying to mark me, I just meant you didn't have to apologize."               I couldn't help myself. I leaned in, putting my hand on the wall behind her head. "How many hickies have you had?"               She licked her bottom lip. Again. "None," she breathed. She put a hand on my chest to keep me from coming closer.               I pursed my lips in approval. "That's a good answer."               "Why do you care?" she asked. It wasn't a demand that she know, it was more like she was genuinely interested. Why did I?               I

You’re just pushing your food around, aren’t you? You’ve barely taken two bites. I thought you loved Lou’s Cornish hens.” “I do. I’m sorry. All I can think about is that English project due this week.” I look over at Ryder with a faux scowl. “We’re already way behind--you’ve always got some excuse. We should probably work on it tonight.” “Probably so,” Ryder says with an exasperated-sounding sigh. “That’s the third project the two of you have been paired up on,” Mama says, shaking her head. “I hope you two can behave well enough to get your work done properly. No more arguing like the last time.” We’d pretended to fight over a calculus project. Yes, a calculus project. Is there really any such thing? “We’re trying really hard to behave,” I say, shooting Ryder a sidelong glance. “Right?” His cheeks pinken deliciously at the innuendo. I love it when Ryder blushes. Totally adorable. “Right,” he mumbles, his gaze fixed on his lap. Laura Grace gives us both a pointed look. “You two better learn to get along, you hear? You’re going to be spending a lot of time together for the next four years.” Four years. Just the two of us--away from our meddling mamas. I have to bite my lip to force back the smile that’s threatening to give us away. “She’s right,” Mama says, nodding. “The only way I’m allowing Jemma to go to NYU is if she promises not to go off campus without Ryder to escort her.” Escort me? What is it, the 1950s or something? Besides, I don’t think she realizes that NYU isn’t a traditional campus. There’s no fences or gates or anything like that. I guess she’ll find out when she comes to visit over Thanksgiving, but by then it’ll be too late. That’s what she gets for not looking over the application materials I gave her. “Fine,” I say, trying to sound slightly annoyed. “I promise.” Beneath the table, Ryder releases my hand and lays it open in my lap, palm up. And then I feel him tracing letters on my palm with his fingertip. I. L. O. V. E. Y.O.U. I can’t help myself--I shiver. I shiver a lot when Ryder’s around, it turns out. He seems to have that effect on me.

Charlie, I want to get married," she said. "Well, so do I, darling -" "No, you don't understand," she said. "I want to get married right now." Froggy knew from the desperate look in her eyes that Red was dead serious. "Sweetheart, are you sure now is a good time?" he said. "I'm positive," Red said. "If the last month has taught me anything, it's how unpredictable life can be - especially when you're friends with the Bailey twins. This could very well be the last chance we'll ever get! Let's do it now, in the Square of Time, before another magical being can tear us apart!" The idea made Froggy's heart fill with joy, but he wasn't convinced it was the right thing to do. "Are you sure this is the wedding you want?" he asked. "I don't mean to be crude, but the whole street is covered in a witch's remains." A large and self-assured smile grew on Red's face. "Charlie, I can't think of a better place to get married than on the ashes of your ex-girlfriend," she said. "Mother Goose, will you do the honors?" Besides being pinned to the ground by a three-ton lion statue, Mother Goose couldn't think of a reason why she couldn't perform the ceremony. "I suppose I'm available," she said. "Wonderful!" Red squealed. "And for all intents and purposes, we'll say the Fairy Council are our witness, Conner is the best man, and Alex is my maid of honor. Don't worry, Alex! This will only take a minute and we'll get right back to helping you!" Red and Froggy joined hands and stood in the middle of Times Square as Mother Goose officiated the impromptu wedding. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today - against our will - to unexpectedly watch this frog and woman join in questionable matrimony. Do you, Charlie Charming, take Red Riding Hood as your lovably high-maintenance wife?" "I do," Froggy declared. "And do you, Red Riding Hood, take Charlie Charming as your adorably webfooted husband?" "I do," Red said. "Then it is with the power mistrusted in me that I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the frog!" Red and Froggy shared their first kiss as a married couple, and their friends cheered. "Beautiful ceremony, my dear," Merlin said. "Believe it or not, this isn't the strangest wedding I've been to," Mother Goose said.

Dare I ask how you were received?” “Warily, at first. Then somewhat belligerently.” His eyebrow quirked. “But my reception improved markedly, once I extended the invitation to a dinner party with my aunt.” A rueful smile curved Sophia’s lips. Yes, that would be her parents’ reaction. They’d dine with the Devil himself, if a duchess were in attendance. “They are dreadful, aren’t they?” He shrugged. “Isn’t everyone’s family? I doubt your father and I will ever be great friends, but we did discover one interest in common.” “What’s that?” “You.” Strong fingers cupped her chin. “We both want to see you happy. We both love you.” For a moment, Sophia did not trust herself to speak. Relief and joy swelled within her, until there was room for nothing else. His lips brushed hers in a gentle kiss. “Am I forgiven, for not telling you first?” Yes, yes. Forgiven, cherished, treasured, adored. Loved, beyond reason. “I suppose,” she said coyly, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips. “So long as you will extend me the same forgiveness.” “Why?” His eyes narrowed. “Have you been keeping secrets again?” “Just one.” Smiling, she took his hand and pressed it meaningfully against her gently rounded abdomen. “A very, very tiny one.

He got in beside her and impatiently reached for her seat belt, snapping it in place. “You always forget,” he murmured, meeting her eyes. Her breath came uneasily through her lips as she met that level stare and responded helplessly to it. He was handsome and sexy and she loved him more than her own life. She had for years. But it was a hopeless, unreturned adoration that left her unfulfilled. He’d never touched her, not even in the most innocent way. He only looked. “I should close my door to you,” she said huskily. “Refuse to speak to you, refuse to see you, and get on with my life. You’re a constant torment.” Unexpectedly he reached out and touched her soft cheek with just his fingertips. They smoothed down to her full, soft mouth and teased the lower lip away from the upper one. “I’m Lakota,” he said quietly. “You’re white.” “There is,” she said unsteadily, “such a thing as birth control.” His face was very solemn and his eyes were narrow and intent on hers. “And sex is all you want from me, Cecily?” he asked mockingly. “No kids, ever?” It was the most serious conversation they’d ever had. She couldn’t look away from his dark eyes. She wanted him. But she wanted children, too, eventually. Her expression told him so. “No, Cecily,” he continued gently. “Sex isn’t what you want at all. And what you really want, I can’t give you. We have no future together. If I marry one day, it’s important to me that I marry a woman with the same background as my own. And I don’t want to live with a young, and all too innocent, white woman.” “I wouldn’t be innocent if you’d cooperate for an hour,” she muttered outrageously. His dark eyes twinkled. “Under different circumstances, I would,” he said, and there was suddenly something hot and dangerous in the way he looked at her as the smile faded from his chiseled lips, something that made her heart race even faster. “I’d love to strip you and throw you onto a bed and bend you like a willow twig under y body.” “Stop!” she whispered theatrically. “I’ll swoon!” And it wasn’t all acting. His hand slid behind her nape and contracted, dragging her rapt face just under his, so close that she could smell the coffee that clung to his clean breath, so close that her breasts almost touched his jacket. “You’ll tempt me once too often,” he bit off. “This teasing is more dangerous than you realize.” She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She was throbbing, aroused, sick with desire. In all her life, there had been only this man who made her feel alive, who made her feel passion. Despite the traumatic experience of her teens, she had a fierce physical attraction to Tate that she was incapable of feeling with any other man. She touched his lean cheek with cold fingertips, slid them back, around his neck into the thick mane of long hair that he kept tightly bound-like his own passions. “You could kiss me,” she whispered unsteadily, “just to see how it feels.” He tensed. His mouth poised just above her parted lips. The silence in the car was pregnant, tense, alive with possibilities and anticipation. He looked into her wide, pale, eager green eyes and saw the heat she couldn’t disguise. His own body felt the pressure and warmth of hers and began to swell, against his will. “Tate,” she breathed, pushing upward, toward his mouth, his chiseled, beautiful mouth that promised heaven, promised satisfaction, promised paradise. His dark fingers corded in her hair. They hurt, and she didn’t care. Her whole body ached. “Cecily, you little fool,” he ground out. Her lips parted even more. He was weak. This once, he was weak. She could tempt him. It could happen. She could feel his mouth, taste it, breathe it. She felt him waver. She felt the sharp explosion of his breath against her lips as he let his control slip. His mouth parted and his head bent. She wanted it. Oh, God, she wanted it, wanted it, wanted it…

You stopped,” she whispered, looking surprised. “This isn’t the place,” he replied. For a moment her face showed no change of expression. Then, almost as if someone were pulling a shade over her face, horror dawned. It started in her eyes, which grew impossibly round and somehow even more green than usual, then it reached her mouth, her lips parting as a gasp of air rushed in. “I didn’t think,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I know.” He smiled. “I know. I hate it when you think. It always ends badly for me.” “We can’t do this again.” “We certainly can’t do it here.” “No, I mean—” “You’re spoiling it.” “But—” “Humor me,” he said, “and let me believe the afternoon ended without your telling me this will never happen again.” “But—” He pressed a finger to her lips. “You’re not humoring me.” “But—” “Don’t I deserve this one little fantasy?” At last, he broke through. She smiled. “Good,” he said. “That’s more like it.” Her lips quivered, then, amazingly, her smile grew. “Excellent,” he murmured. “Now then, I’m going to leave. And you have only one task while I go. You will stay right here, and you will keep smiling. Because it breaks my heart to see any other expression on your face.” “You won’t be able to see me,” she pointed out. He touched her chin. “I’ll know.” And then, before her expression could change from that enchanting combination of shock and adoration, he left. -Sophie & Benedict

The blonde was staring at herself in the mirror, taking on a thoughtful, reflective tone. “Well, it isn’t easy. And his mood changes in an instant. But he collects different girls for different flavors – so one girl doesn’t have to be everybody and everything.” “Oh.” I splashed water on my face and stared for a moment at the mask in the mirror. “You’re just his type, totally. With all the tattoos, you are utterly monstrous, if you don’t mind my saying so. Punk-Goth gone mad.” She swung around to take a close, direct look. “I never saw the point of tattoos, mind you, just fad and fashion. But,” she focused on me, stared, grinned, and rolled her eyes. “My God, darling, you really are perfect! How could you do that to yourself?” She licked her lips. “I think you will be a success. As I said, Sergei loves tattoos. He’s totally into the weird and the monstrous. He adores freaks – and kid, you are about as freakish as they come.” “You think so.” I turned my mask towards her and gave her an extra big smile – I was even more grotesque, Martine told me, when I smiled. “Oh, Gwen, how totally utterly horrible!” she declared and then kissed me to console me for having become a monster. As I grinned at Sergei’s girl, the metal rings in my ears clanked against each other. I could feel the large ring nose, warm, smooth steel, against my curled upper lip. “Yes, you look like a masterpiece of self-loathing.” “It’s called body art,” I said, “It’s a statement.” “A statement?” “Absolutely,” I hiccupped. Everything was fuzzy; I forced myself to focus. “Whatever it is, you’ll be a big success. Sergei collects waifs who suffer from extreme self-hatred. Self-destructive and self-hating girls are one of his hobbies. You can do so much with them.

This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk, just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ’roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke loves Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omertà—the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.

So Christiana went to speak to Dicky about taking us out and about, but when she found him in the office, the idiot was dead." Daniel bit his lip at her vexed tone. There was absolutely no grief in her voice at all, just irritation with the inconvenience of it all. But then George had never been one to inspire the finer feelings in those he encountered. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Did he fall and strike his head, or-" "No.He was simply sitting in his chair dead," she said with exasperation, and then added with disgust, "He was obviously a victim of his own excess. We suspected his heart gave out. Certainly the glass and decanter of whiskey next to him suggested he didn't take the best care of himself. I ask you,who drinks hard liquor first thing in the morning?" Daniel shook his head, finding it difficult to speak. She was just so annoyed as she spoke of the man's death, as if he'd deliberately done it to mess up her plans. After a moment, he asked, "Are you sure he is dead?" Suzette gave him another one of those adorable "Don't be ridiculous" looks. "Well, obviously he isn't. He is here now," she pointed out, and then shook her head and added almost under her breath, "Though I could have sworn...The man didn't even stir when he fell off the chair and slammed his head on the floor. Nor when I dropped him and his head crashed to the hardwood floor again, or when we rolled him in the carpet and dragged him upstairs, or when we dropped him in the hall and he rolled out of the carpet, or-" "Er," Daniel interrupted, and then coughed into his hand to hide a laugh, before asking, "Why exactly were you carting him about in a carpet?" "Well,don't be dense," she said with exasperation. "We couldn't let anyone know he was dead, could we?" "Couldn't you?" he asked uncertainly. Suzette clucked with irritation. "Of course not.We would have had to go into mourning then.How would I find a husband if we were forced to abstain from polite society to observe mourning?

Men are seeking a divinity to serve and adore. But the reality is, most women are so disconnected from their sensual feminine self that, as men, the only option we now have is to turn inwards to our own anima, or turn to other men for sensual feminine affection. A lot of men are becoming accustomed to embracing romance from the same sex, others opted to having sex with ANY woman they can get to console themselves. Problem is, we are living in a generation of women that are constantly protesting “Accept me for who I am!” IN THEIR MASCULINE ENERGY. They don’t know what it truly means to be a woman. But there’s a new breed of men that are awakened and of high quality in every respect of the word, and they’re not willing to settle for any woman that simply wants to be accepted for who she is. They want a woman who wants to be challenged for growth purposes. “I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.” ~Anaïs Nin Listen ladies, you have not yet fully become a woman if no man is seeking to serve and adore you. Now, understand the meaning of ‘serve and adore’. This means that a man has to NOT want to see you struggle in any way, shape or form that he can change for the better. So, if you’re still struggling in ANY way that a man can change for the better for you as a female, then you have not yet become a full grown WOMAN. The ultimate sign that you’ve become a full grown woman is when you are constantly being served and adored, especially by an emotionally healthy masculine man, without you having to ask. So tell me, are you a woman yet? "One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman." ~Simone de Beauvoir Too bad that so many of you are so hellbent on fighting to be ‘yourselves’ (masculine selves), yet that very ‘self’ isn’t serving you like you need to be served. For many of you, fighting to be ‘yourselves’ is, for the most part, fighting to be independent of the masculine and of your divine purpose which is to be a WOMAN. It’s easier to be disagreeable than it is to surrender to your true calling.

(Summer of 2010) Chiaz Natherth- It was just going to be a typical summer day. I am at the local watering hole with my bud Melvin Shezor; we were just there to gaze at the girl gaze, sitting on lawn chairs. I had warm lemonade in my right hand at the time. I am looking around at all the bodies that are bobbing in the water; they all just seem to blend. The lifeguard is blowing her whistle while screaming at the little kids that are running around. Some stunning bodies are smacking the cold blue water with great speed, from the high dive. But- there is no more perfect figure there than hers. Everyone else seems to fade away out of my vision, along with all the ear-shattering noises. Bryan Adams ‘Heaven’ is playing in the background, and it seemed to be pronounced to my senses. When I am looking at her, it is like she is moving in slow motion, swimming across the pool. She climbed up the ladder and out of the pool. Her body dripping with water… what a moment, there is even water dripping down her chest. She looks amazing in that petite pink bikini. I was thinking to myself, that is a very cute looking camel-toe you got showing there Nevaeh! I never knew that she had a heart-shaped belly button piercing, when did that happen? Also, I could tell that her swimsuit was made by her, just like most of the sun-dresses she wears in the summertime too. Because it was not like any others I have ever seen around, it is cute, somewhat skimpy, and tailored to her perfect body. The fabric was not meant to get wet, it was somewhat see-through, yet she did not know, though it looks very good what can I say. She is walking towards me while running her fingers through her long brown hair. ‘I was thinking this is too good to be for real.’ She walked by and said ‘hi!’ and I was at loss for words. She was already gone, but I still babbled something like ‘Ahh-he-oll-o.’ At that point, into the changing room, she went, and I just sat there trying to fathom what had just happened. Melvin Shezor- ‘Chiaz! Ah, Chiaz! Hello, earth to Chiaz, snap out of its dude.’ Chiaz Naztherth- ‘She is so fine! I would not mind having her on my arm.’ Melvin Shezor- ‘Yah, the man she is not bad. But- isn’t she into girls though. So, do you like Nevaeh?’ Chiaz Naztherth- ‘I do not think that she is, and well… Yes, did you see her in that swimsuit? She is adorable in every way.’ Melvin Shezor- ‘Really is that so? Go talk to her!’ Chiaz Naztherth- ‘No way!’ Melvin Shezor- ‘Why not, you pussy!’ Chiaz Naztherth- ‘If Alissa finds out that I like her, or even looked at her I am going to die.’ Melvin Shezor- ‘Ha, it sucks to be you man.’ Chiaz Natherth- ‘Hey, I will see you later, I got to go.’ (Text messages are going off… like crazy) Melvin Shezor- ‘Pu-ss-y!’ (Shouting as Chiaz Natherth is walking out the exit gate.) (Chiaz- He just waved it off, with the finger that is not supposed to be used in public, and does not think any more about it from that point on.) Chiaz Naztherth- Summer is over! Yet she is with him… he is so unconfident in himself that he has to follow me around. He gives me vain advice on what to do, and how to do it, yet I would have to say I need to stand up for myself more than what I do, yet I do not because of her. He attempts to belittle me, with his words of temperament to her. These results lead to her having breakdowns, where she is feeling miserable because she is stuck in the middle. She does not know what to do! She doesn't know how to feel! She does not want to hurt anyone's feelings, yet she is the one that is left to choke on her tears. Yes, I will save you long before you drowned!

Montreal October 1704 Temperature 55 degrees Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.” Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl. “I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.” Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.” “I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.” They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission? “My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.” Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.” The Indians rather enjoyed being French allies one day and difficult neighbors the next. Lorette Indians might find this a fine way to stab a French soldier in the back without drawing blood. They would need Father Meriel. He could arrange anything if he chose; he had power among all the peoples. But he might say no, and so might Eben’s Indian family. Mercy translated what was going on for Nistenha and Snow Walker. “They want to get married,” she told them. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She couldn’t help laughing from the joy and the terror of it. Ransom would no longer be the first word in Sarah’s heart. Eben would be. Mercy said, “Eben asked her right here in the street, Snow Walker. He wants to save her from marriage to a French soldier she doesn’t want. He’s loved Sarah since the march.” The two Indians had no reaction. For a moment Mercy thought she must have spoken to them in English. Nistenha turned to walk away and Snow Walker turned with her. If Nistenha was not interested in Sarah and Eben’s plight, no Indian would be. Mercy called on her memory of every speech in every ceremony, every dignified phrase and powerful word. “Honored mother,” she said softly. “Honored sister. We are in need and we beg you to hear our petition.” Nistenha stopped walking, turned back and stared at her in amazement. Sarah and Eben and Snow Walker stared at her in amazement. Sam can build canoes, thought Mercy. I can make a speech. “This woman my sister and this man my brother wish to spend their lives together. My brother will need the generous permission of his Indian father. Already we know that my sister will be refused the permission of her French owners. We will need an ally to support us in our request. We will need your strength and your wisdom. We beseech you, Mother, that you stand by us and help us.” The city of Montreal swirled around them. Eben, property of an Indian father in Lorette; Sarah, property of a French family in Montreal; and Mercy, property of Tannhahorens, awaited her answer. “Your words fill me with pride, Munnunock,” said Nistenha softly. She reached into her shopping bundle. Slowly she drew out a fine French china cup, undoubtedly meant for the feast of Flying Legs. She held it for a moment, and then her stern face softened and she gave it to Eben. Indians sealed a promise with a gift. She would help them. From her bundle, Snow Walker took dangling silver earrings she must have bought for Mercy and handed them to Sarah. Because she knew that Sarah’s Mohawk was not good enough and that Eben was too stirred to speak, Mercy gave the flowery thanks required after such gifts. “God bless us,” she said to Sarah and Eben, and Eben said, “He has.

Life’s got an interesting sense of humor.” He was relaxing now that she’d decided to drop the subject. A long, put-upon sigh. “Isn’t that the truth? Clearly, I’m being tested.” Curious, he asked, “And are you passing?” Another adorable pout. “I don’t think so.” That mouth looked like she’d just eaten a bowl of strawberries and the juices had stained her lips. He wanted to bite her. Lick her to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked. She got all squinty, another pretzel firmly in hand. “I’m drunk.” Unfortunately. “I don’t doubt that.” Her gaze caught his. Darted away. Her pink tongue flitted out to wet her full lower lip. It glistened like an invitation. “I’d leave, but I can’t walk. My feet hurt.” “I wouldn’t let you go, anyway.” He was a little taken aback to find the words true. It had been a long time since he’d wanted anything, but he still recognized the spark of desire. He wanted her, and wasn’t ready for her to walk off into the sunset yet. The right or wrong of the situation didn’t much matter. She swirled a finger over the edge of her ice water. “Do you think you could stop me? He cocked a brow and gave her a once-over. “Considering the way you hobbled in here, I think I can take you.” Dark lashes almost obscured the green of her irises as she squinted. “I’m supposed to be getting independent now.” “I see,” he said, considering the guy she’d ditched at the altar for the first time. It took a lot to drive a woman out a church window with nothing but the clothes on her back. “Everyone needs a little rescue sometime.” “You’re not one of those knight-in-shining-armor guys, are you?” She said the words as if they were foul. “Not normally, but I’m making an exception for you.” He was surprised to find he wanted the role, despite her distain. “I don’t want an exception.” Her tone had taken on a decided wail. “Too bad.” Yep, he wasn’t budging on this one. She wanted to stand on her own two feet. He understood, but it only made him more determined. “Why me?” “Because I want to.” It was that simple. Besides, she’d probably take off in the morning and he’d never see her again. One night to break the monotony wouldn’t hurt. Before she could respond, he turned and walked the length of the bar. Flipping open the counter, he rounded the corner, striding to stand in front of her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything chivalrous. Won’t you let me?” Even white teeth nibbled on her bottom lip and he curled his hand into a fist to keep from stroking his thumb over the abused, moist flesh. Glassy, pensive eyes blinked up at him. He stepped close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. “What kind of a man would I be if I left you stranded?” “I’m

Snuggling comfortably in her corner, Beatrix gave her older sister a perplexed glance. “Win? You have the oddest look on your face. Is something the matter?” Win had frozen in the act of lifting a teacup to her lips, her blue eyes round with alarm. Following her sister’s gaze, Amelia saw a small reptilian creature slithering up Beatrix’s shoulder. A sharp cry escaped her lips, and she moved forward with her hands raised. Beatrix glanced at her shoulder. “Oh, drat. You’re supposed to stay in my pocket.” She plucked the wriggling object from her shoulder and stroked him gently. “A spotted sand lizard,” she said. “Isn’t he adorable? I found him in my room last night.” Amelia lowered her hands and stared dumbly at her youngest sister. “You’ve made a pet of him?” Win asked weakly. “Beatrix, dear, don’t you think he would be happier in the forest where he belongs?” Beatrix looked indignant. “With all those predators? Spot wouldn’t last a minute.” Amelia found her voice. “He won’t last a minute with me, either. Get rid of him, Bea, or I’m going to flatten him with the nearest heavy object I can find.” “You would murder my pet?” “One doesn’t murder lizards, Bea. One exterminates them.” Exasperated, Amelia turned to Merripen. “Find some cleaning women in the village, Merripen. God knows how many other unwanted creatures are lurking in the house. Not counting Leo.” Merripen disappeared at once. “Spot is the perfect pet,” Beatrix argued. “He doesn’t bite, and he’s already house-trained.” “I draw the line at pets with scales.” Beatrix stared at her mutinously. “The sand lizard is a native species of Hampshire—which means Spot has more right to be here than we do.” “Nevertheless, we will not be cohabiting.

Sir Templeton was not feeling himself last night,” said Aunt Saffronia, her eyes flicking from plate to Jane and back to plate, “so Mr. Nobley offered to accompany him to see an apothecary in town, and Colonel Andrews went as well, having some business to attend to there. They are so attentive, such honest, caring lads. I shall feel their loss when they leave.” “I feel it today.” Miss Charming pursed her lips. “Eating breakfast with no gentlemen and that Heartwright girl poaching on my men--this isn’t what I was promised.” She looked at Aunt Saffronia with the eye of a haggler. Aunt Saffronia placed her hands in her lap, a calming gesture. “I know, my dear, but they will be back, and in the meantime…” “I didn’t come here for the meantime. I came for the men.” Poor Aunt Saffronia! Jane felt for her. She put a hand on Miss Charming’s arm. “Lizzy, maybe you and I could go visit the stables and go for a ride or--” “Not today, Jane. My feelings are hurt.” A tear formed in one eye. “I was promised certain things about this place and I can tell you one thing--so far, no one’s made me feel enchanting.” “Oh, my,” Aunt Saffronia said, “I can’t have unhappiness at my table. Spoils the digestion. Miss Charming, what say we call on Mrs. Wattlesbrook? I believe she would be very concerned to hear of any dissatisfaction during your visit.” Miss Charming looked at Aunt Saffronia with her dry eye, like a goose considering biting, then nodded her head and said, “Done.” Jane thought, Mrs. Wattlesbrook will have Mr. Nobley tamed into Charming’s personal pet by sundown. He’d been Miss Charming’s choice from the beginning, though he’d quickly proved too much work to keep the woman’s interest. He was the most eye-catching, no question, and he gave the appearance of having some real depth, if he’d just relax a bit. Jane was curious to see how he changed once Wattlesbrook ordered him to charm Miss Charming. And that would be fine by Jane. So what that he’d come (needlessly) running to her rescue in his shirttails? They way he’d said, “Don’t be a fool, Miss Erstwhile,” made her want to poke him in the eye. He was supposed to be Darcy-adorable, not teeth-grindingly maddening.

work vehicles and a lone motorcycle, her SUV had the road to itself, which meant she would get there faster. Indeed, the familiarity of turning onto Caroline’s street was a lifeline. Once she parked in front of the mint-over-teal Victorian, she put Tad on her hip and hurried up the walk. The squeak of the screen was actually reassuring. And the smell of time when she stepped inside? Heaven. “Mom?” Caroline ran barefoot from the kitchen, stopped short, and put a hand to her heart. “Mother and child,” she breathed and slowly approached. Her hair was a wavy mess, and her face blushed in a way that made her look forty, but her eyes, moist now, held adoration. Wrapping a firm arm around Jamie, she said by her ear, “We will not mention the show. It has no place in this house with us right now, okay?” Jamie hadn’t even thought about the show, and certainly couldn’t think of it with Caroline’s soft, woodsy scent soothing her nerves and giving her strength. “Mom,” she began, drawing back, but Caroline was studying Tad. “Oh my. A real little boy. Hey,” she said softly and touched his hair. Jamie felt the warmth of the touch, but Tad just stared without blinking. “I think I know you. Aren’t you Theodore MacAfee the Second?” Those very big eyes were somber as he shook his head. “Who, then?” “Taddy,” came the baby voice. “The Taddy who likes cats?” Caroline asked, to which he started looking around the floor, “or the Taddy who likes pancakes?” “Pancakes, please,” Jamie inserted. “I promised him we’d eat here. Mom—” She broke off when Master meowed. Setting Tad on the floor, she waited only until he had run after the cat before turning back to her mother and holding out her left hand. Caroline frowned. “You’re shaking.” She had steadied the hand with her own before she finally focused on that bare ring finger. Wide eyes flew to Jamie’s. In that instant, with this first oh-so-important disclosure, it was real. Jamie could barely breathe. “I returned it. Brad and I split.” “What happened?” Caroline whispered, but quickly caught herself. Cupping Jamie’s face, she said, “First things first. I don’t have a booster seat for Tad.” “He’ll kneel on a chair. He looks like Dad. Do you hate him for that?” Tad was on his haunches on the other side of the room, waiting for Master to come out from under the spindle legs of a lamp stand. “I should,” Caroline confessed, “but how to hate a child? He may have Roy’s coloring, but he’ll take on your expressions, and soon enough he’ll look like himself. Besides,” she gave a gritty smirk, “it’s not like your father gets the last laugh. If he thought I was a withered-up old hag—” “He didn’t.” “Yes, he did. Isn’t that what booting me off Gut It! was about?” “You said we weren’t talking about that,” Jamie begged, knowing that despite this nascent reconciliation, Gut It! remained a huge issue. Not talking about it wouldn’t make it go away, but she didn’t want the intrusion of it now. Caroline seemed to agree. She spoke more calmly. “Your father’s opinion of me went way back to our marriage, so this, today, here, now, is satisfying for me. How happy do you think he is looking down from heaven to see his son at my house, chasing my cat and about to eat my grandmother’s pancakes, cooked by me in my kitchen and served on a table I made?” The part of Jamie that resented Roy for what he had made Caroline suffer shared her mother’s satisfaction. She might have said that, if Caroline hadn’t gone from bold to unsure in a breath. “I’m not equipped yet, baby. Does Tad need a bottle for his water?” “No. He’s done with bottles. Just a little water in a cup will do, since I forgot the sippy.” In her rush to get out of the house, she had also left Moose, which meant she would have to go back for him before dropping Tad off, which meant she would be late for her first appointment, which she couldn’t reschedule because she had back-to-backs all day, which meant she would have to postpone to another day, which

We're having roast beef tonight, Lord Charles," Mildred announced, as though the smell that wafted throughout the house was not enough reason for Charles to guess that fact for himself. "I wouldn't have known." "I just adore roast beef," she continued breezily.  "It is one of my absolute favorite dishes." "Mine too," Ophelia added.  "Do you like roast beef, Captain?" "I do.  And did you cook it yourself, Miss Leighton?" "Oh no, Amy makes all the meals around here." "So I've noticed.  She is a very accomplished cook." "Oh, she's passably fair," Ophelia said, with an airy little laugh.  "I'm a better one, when I put my mind to it." "Are you?  Perhaps, then, you should put your mind, and your hands, to it tomorrow.  I daresay I would enjoy sampling your efforts and deciding for myself whether or not your claim is a valid one." Ophelia's smug smile promptly vanished.  She was trapped, and she knew it. Will saw instantly what the captain was up to.  "What a good idea!" he said loudly, earning a vicious glare from his sister.  "You haven't cooked anythin' in ages, Ophelia!  Why, I'll bet you're so out of practice that even the water won't remember how to boil for you!" "I'm not cooking unless Millie helps me!" "Do you mean that Mildred can also cook?" Charles murmured, raising his brows.  "Dear me.  I didn't know that either of you possessed such . . . talents." "Of course I can cook!  And I can make anything that Ophelia makes taste like slops in comparison!" "I should like to see you try!" snapped Ophelia. "Yes, so would I," mused Charles.  "But since you are both so eager to prove your culinary expertise to me, perhaps Ophelia can cook tomorrow, and Mildred can have her turn the following day." ""I can't cook tomorrow, I have other things to do.  Besides, Amy does the all the cooking around here." Charles smiled thinly.  "Yes, so I've noticed," he murmured.  And then, his voice hardening, "As well as all the baking, sewing, mending, cleaning, washing, weaving, marketing, and soap-making.  Rather a lot for one woman, isn't it?" Ophelia

Let me tell you something, missy. You young maidens nowadays get misty-eyed thinking about true love and the fathomless adoration you will share. It’s not like that. Real love is looking at someone and knowing that you wouldn’t mind waking up to their bad breath for the next century, and you are fine with them seeing you before you brush your hair and fix your face for the day. Elle blinked, surprised by the housekeeper’s sudden outburst, but Heloise wasn’t finished. She erased the message and wrote again. Loving a person isn’t a magical, sparkly passion. It’s hard work. It’s putting the other person before yourself. It’s companionship and being able to trust and depend on each other. That theatrical true love everyone spouts about is really finding a partner who will go through the heartbreaks and joys of life with you.

I love my sister dearly, but she is everything I am not. Sweet, friendly, outgoing…and borderline delusional. She is an avid believer in fate, happy endings, and everything else that she has been told she should believe in. I sometimes wondered if a part of her still believed in Santa Claus. She is naïve, and it drives me bonkers. Denise has never challenged herself to think outside the proverbial box. She’s never thought about expanding her horizons regarding the plausible. She’s just lived her whole life doing what she was told, making all the “right” choices. Actually, maybe choices isn’t the right word. They’re more like steps. And she’s followed the staircase that was put in front of her, one precise step at a time. She’s a puppet. She’s an adorable, likable, bubbly little puppet. My thoughts amused me while I watched my sister bounce from person to person—chatting with them, helping them look for their seats, and laughing a little too hard when Samantha started down the wrong aisle. I sighed, jealous of her freedom. Life had to be easier when lived like Denise. Often, I’ve wondered how much easier my life would be if I had been able to just accept the stories that others did. But it was too late for me. I knew those stories were nonsense. Life wasn’t fair. It wasn’t tidy. It sure as hell wasn’t easy, and it never would be. Life is hard, and “Happily Ever Afters” don’t exist. They were manufactured and marketed to keep the masses, people like my sister, dumb and happy. Watching my happy, naïve sister, I longed for the freedom of ignorance. Because once you know the aforementioned things, you can’t un-know them. You become a ‘realist’ (i.e. a major buzz-kill). And you can’t go back.

I don’t know much about kissing or about courting, Alex, but I do know that Blackmoor has always adored you. Always.” “Then why is he ignoring me? Why hasn’t he mentioned it? Why hasn’t he tried to kiss me again?” She gasped, covering her mouth. “What if I was terrible at it?” “You weren’t,” Vivi said. “Certainly not,” Ella agreed. “Oh, how do you know?” Alex said, now enveloped in self-doubt. “Maybe I did it all wrong!” “This might be a good time to discuss the kiss in question,” Ella offered. “What was it like?” “I thought it was wonderful! I wanted to do it again, immediately! But what if it was awful and I just didn’t know it?!” “That simply cannot be the case!” Vivi shook her head in earnest. “Indeed,” Eliza broke her silence, “if it made you want to do it again, and soon, ’twas a good kiss.” “For me…but what about for him?” “He had to have enjoyed it, Alex,” Ella said. Alex’s frantic frustration bubbled over. “Then why isn’t he interested in me? Why doesn’t he want to do it again? Maybe he does want Penelope!” Her voice became small. “Why doesn’t he want me?” “Alex,” Ella asked curiously, “are you saying…Do you want him?” Alex thought carefully about Ella’s question. Did she want Gavin? “Well…the kiss was quite lovely.” “Of course, it was,” Vivi said, “but…what about the man himself? Could you love him?” Love? Gavin? She looked at the other three girls, each staring back at her as though she were about to reveal some history-altering secret. It was too much to think about, really. “I…I don’t know. I’ve always thought of him as a brother. But recently…everything has changed. He kissed me and I wanted him to and it…everything feels different. But I don’t know what to think. Maybe nothing is different to him. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him.” Vivi walked over to Alex, then took her shoulders in hand and spoke with firm conviction, “I may not know much about this kissing business, Alex, but I do know that Gavin would never do anything to hurt you. Including kissing you if he didn’t mean it at least a little.” Alex

The word is pure magic — the most powerful gift we have as humans — and we use it against ourselves. We plan revenge. We create chaos with the word. We use the word to create hate between different races, between different people, between families, between nations. We misuse the word so often, and this misuse is how we create and perpetuate the dream of hell. Misuse of the word is how we pull each other down and keep each other in a state of fear and doubt. Because the word is the magic that humans possess and misuse of the word is black magic, we are using black magic all the time without knowing that our word is magic at all. There was a woman, for example, who was intelligent and had a very good heart. She had a daughter whom she adored and loved very much. One night she came home from a very bad day at work, tired, full of emotional tension, and with a terrible headache. She wanted peace and quiet, but her daughter was singing and jumping happily. The daughter was unaware of how her mother was feeling; she was in her own world, in her own dream. She felt so wonderful, and she was jumping and singing louder and louder, expressing her joy and her love. She was singing so loud that it made her mother’s headache even worse, and at a certain moment, the mother lost control. Angrily she looked at her beautiful little girl and said, “Shut up! You have an ugly voice. Can you just shut up!” The truth is that the mother’s tolerance for any noise was nonexistent; it was not that the little girl’s voice was ugly. But the daughter believed what her mother said, and in that moment she made an agreement with herself. After that she no longer sang, because she believed her voice was ugly and would bother anyone who heard it. She became shy at school, and if she was asked to sing, she refused. Even speaking to others became difficult for her. Everything changed in the little girl because of this new agreement: She believed she must repress her emotions in order to be accepted and loved. Whenever we hear an opinion and believe it, we make an agreement, and it becomes part of our belief system. This little girl grew up, and even though she had a beautiful voice, she never sang again. She developed a whole complex from one spell. This spell was cast upon her by the one who loved her the most: her own mother. Her mother didn’t notice what she did with her word. She didn’t notice that she used black magic and put a spell on her daughter. She didn’t know the power of her word, and therefore she isn’t to blame. She did what her own mother, father, and others had done to her in many ways. They misused the word. How

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. I mentioned I’d been in contact with her mother. “Oh crikey, that sounds dangerous!” “She’s a feisty woman, isn’t she?” William giggled. “Granny’s great fun after a few gin and tonics.” “Sh, William,” Diana said, giggling too. “My mother’s been a tremendous source of support to me. She never talks publicly; she’s just there for me.” “And what about William’s other granny?” “I have enormous respect for the Queen; she has been so supportive, you know. People don’t see that side of her, but I do all the time. She’s an amazing person.” “Has she been good over the divorce?” “Yes, very. I just want it over now so I can get on with my life. I’m worried about the attacks I will get afterward.” “What attacks?” “I just worry that people will try and knock me down once I am out on my own.” This seemed unduly paranoid. People adored her. I asked William how he was enjoying Eton. “Oh, it’s great, thanks.” “Do you think the press bother you much?” “Not the British press, actually. Though the European media can be quite annoying. They sit on the riverbank watching me rowing with their cameras, waiting for me to fall in! There are photographers everywhere if I go out. Normally loads of Japanese tourists taking pictures. All saying “Where’s Prince William?’ when I’m standing right next to them.” “How are the other boys with you?” “Very nice. Though a boy was expelled this week for taking ecstasy and snuff. Drugs are everywhere, and I think they’re stupid. I never get tempted.” “Does matron take any?” laughed Diana. “No, Mummy, it gives her hallucinations.” “What, like imagining you’re going to be king?” I said. They both giggled again. “Is it true you’ve got Pamela Anderson posters on your bedroom wall?” “No! And not Cindy Crawford, either. They did both come to tea at the palace, though, and were very nice.” William had been photographed the previous week at a party at the Hammersmith Palais, where he was mobbed by young girls. I asked him if he’d had fun. “Everyone in the press said I was snogging these girls, but I wasn’t,” he insisted. Diana laughed. “One said you stuck your tongue down her throat, William. Did you?” “No, I did not. Stop it, Mummy, please. It’s embarrassing.” He’d gone puce. It was a very funny exchange, with a flushed William finally insisting: “I won’t go to any more public parties; it was crazy. People wouldn’t leave me alone.” Diana laughed again. “All the girls love a nice prince.” I turned to more serious matters. “Do you think Charles will become king one day?” “I think he thinks he will,” replied Diana, “but I think he would be happier living in Tuscany or Provence, to be honest.” “And how are you these days--someone told me you’ve stopped seeing therapists?” “I have, yes. I stopped when I realized they needed more therapy than I did. I feel stronger now, but I am under so much pressure all the time. People don’t know what it’s like to be in the public eye, they really don’t.

Tell me something about you I don’t know.” “Heavens, Nathaniel, I’m sure you know everything.” “I do not.” He rested his elbow on his one raised knee, while the other leg folded underneath it. “If I did, then I would have known all about the infamous James Pigley, so I must assume there are more secrets to you that need discovering.” “Secrets?” Her voice cracked. Chest heaving, she turned away. Did he have to use such a word? She struggled to find something within her stalled mind to ease the suffocating silence.  “Come now Kitty, don’t play coy with me.” Nathaniel’s inviting timbre woke her from the shadows. The playful glint in his face pulled a full smile from her lips when he continued. “Here is what I know of Miss Katherine Campbell formerly of Boston. She enjoys Shakespeare and is a gifted cook. I know she is fascinated with medicine and I know her political standings. She loves God and family...” He grinned wider, a gentle kind of grin that sparkled in his eyes. “But I desire to know more.” The warmth in his stare eased around Kitty as real as if it had been an embrace, soothing away the tension that clung to her neck and shoulders. She leaned one hand on the ground and rested against it. “You’re very kind, Nathaniel, but I don’t know what to tell. I’m quite ordinary.” “Ordinary? I should say not.” Nathaniel reached for a small stick and played with it in his fingers before he snapped it in half and tossed the pieces in the water. He cast his eyes her direction and glared playfully. “No matter. If you choose to be so demure then I shall ask questions. Do you enjoy the ocean?” “Aye, the seaside is very calming, but I don’t care for boats.” He nodded with his lips pursed in thought. “I’ll keep that in mind. Do you play an instrument?” “Nay, much to my mother’s disappointment.” She sighed and looked heavenward with a tiny laugh, remembering the hours of practice that produced embarrassingly little results. Kitty sat up and hugged her knees. “Do you enjoy reading?”  Nathaniel scowled. “This conversation isn’t supposed to be about me.” “Well, do you?” She grinned wider. He shook his head with a disapproving lift to his brow, but the smoldering grin expressed his merriment. “I enjoy reading. Especially Milton.” “Milton? I adore Milton.

Lady Jenny, your turn.” She passed her sketch pad over to him, feeling a pang of sympathy for accused criminals as they stood in the dock. And yet, she’d asked for this. Gotten together all of her courage to ask for this one moment of artistic communion. “Well,” Mr. Harrison said, “isn’t he a handsome fellow? What do you think, ladies?” “You look like a papa,” Fleur observed. “Though our papa doesn’t sketch. He reads stories.” “And hates his ledgers,” Amanda added. “Is my hair that long in back?” “Yes,” Jenny said, because she’d drawn not only Elijah Harrison’s hands, but all of him, looking relaxed, elegant, and handsome, with Amanda crouched at his side, fascinated with what he created on the page. “I look…” He regarded the sketch in silence, while Jenny heard a coach-and-four rumbling toward her vulnerable heart. “I look… a bit tired, slightly rumpled, but quite at home. You are very quick, Lady Genevieve, and quite good.” Quite good. Like saying a baby was adorable, a young gentleman well-mannered. “The pose was simple,” Jenny said, “the lighting uncomplicated, and the subject…” “Yes?” He was one of those men built in perfect proportion. Antoine had spent an entire class wielding a tailor’s measure on Mr. Harrison’s body, comparing his proportions to the Apollo Belvedere, and scoffing at the “mistakes” inherent in Michelangelo’s David. Jenny wanted to snatch her drawing from his hand. “The subject is conducive to a pleasing image.” He passed the sketch pad back, but Jenny had the sense that in some way, some not entirely artistic way, she’d displeased him. The disappointment was survivable. Her art had been displeasing men since she’d first neglected her Bible verses to sketch her brothers. “You

Are you suffering a bilious stomach, Deene, or have you taken to glowering the matchmakers into submission?” Kesmore’s question caused Deene a start, for the man had given no warning of his presence. “And when did you take to lurking among the ferns, Kesmore?” “Perhaps I’m lurking among the shy, retiring bachelors. It isn’t like you to be demonstrably out of sorts, Deene, particularly not in company with the fair flowers of Polite Society.” No, it was not, which sorry state of affairs Deene laid directly at Lady Eve Windham’s dainty feet. “Cleaveridge is all but drooling on his partner’s bosom.” “What a lovely bosom it is, too. Moreland’s women are a pretty bunch.” This casual observation from a man who appeared to have no interest whatsoever in bosoms pretty or otherwise—save for that of his countess—made Deene want to stomp across the dance floor and pluck Eve from Cleaveridge’s arms. “She’s up to something.” “The ladies usually are. We adore them for it, and in polite company refer to it as a mysterious feminine quality.” Deene

That’s some shit, and it hurts. We talked about the disconnect between the adoration so many black men shower on their mothers and grandmothers and their refusal to spend the rest of their lives with a woman who resembles their hue. “Why isn’t the same type of woman good enough or even worth considering?” she asked me. “And do they even know they’re doing this?

She knew it was a lizard from pictures in the fairy-tale book, long and lithe and dry and scaly but with legs, unlike a snake (lizards were turned into handsome footmen in "Cinderella"). Probably a skink of some kind. The reptile bore her touch with the vacuous patience of a cold-blooded creature that liked to be warm and didn't smell anything dangerous like a fox or a hawk. Its experience with humans was minimal to none. Rapunzel, of course, assumed this not-running-away meant it was a potential Wilderness Friend. "I'm not going to kill you," she promised the little lizard and herself. "You adorable soft-skinned thing! You're perfect!" She would tell her mother what she had done and then show her mother the lizard... and then it was only a matter of convincing her to take her to the floating lights. She wasn't a danger. "Isn't that right... Pascal? I'm going to call you Pascal!" And with that she plucked the lizard deftly up and put him on her shoulder.

Kim Dokja x Hansooyoung PART 1 [I shall kill you, Yoo Joonghyuk.] ~ Kim Dokja pg 4110 46. ⸢(Looks like you still don't know how it works. The heroine loses her consciousness, her hand falling away. And the male hero awakens! You see, in all the movies I've seen so far…) pg 4112 47. These idiots, I even died so that you two could talk to each other, but this…' She figured that she really needed to give these two men a harsh earful when she arrived there. But, when she pushed past the bushes and stepped forward, the ensuing spectacle freaked her out in a rather grand manner. Kwa-aaang!! Bang!!! Yoo Joonghyuk was mercilessly slamming his sword down on Kim Dokja, currently sprawled out on the ground. "Hey!! You crazy son of a bitch!!" pg 4125 48. There were plenty of things she wanted to ask, but she chose not to. Instead, she poked Kim Dokja's cheek and spoke up. "Still, this guy looks like he got completely fooled, doesn't he." "Looks that way." "How did it go?" "He went crazy and attacked me." Han Sooyoung smirked and lightly pinched Kim Dokja's cheek as if she was proud of him. pg 4127 49. the events of her dying at Yoo Joonghyuk's sword, me fighting against him, and then, passing out from his attack, and finally, sharing a conversation with Yoo Sangah inside the Library… Han Sooyoung approached the bed before I noticed it and pinched my cheek. "In any case, Kim Dokja. You can be really adorable sometimes." pg 4144 50. The moment Han Sooyoung's fist bumped into mine, she was completely enveloped in bright light. As I watched her figure disappear, I became aware once more that she had become my companion for real. pg 4165 51. ⸢And…⸥ My heart began powerfully pounding away. ⸢The woman that I used to love.⸥ pg 4189 52. Her emotionless eyes; the beauty spot just below one of them; and her lips that always mocked me for fun, now arching up in a smooth line. "Proceed with the execution pg 4191 53. "But, should you be doing something like that? She's originally your bride, isn't she?" "Correction. She was supposed to be one. The throne was usurped on the first day of the wedding, however." Oh, I see. So, it's that sort of development? I felt just a bit relieved now. Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk as a couple? hadn't allowed any dating at the workplace yet, so hell no. pg 4202 54. ⸢By the time you're reading this book, I…⸥ I steeled my heart and read the next line of the text. ⸢…I'd still be living a pretty good life, I guess. Hahah, were you scared?⸥ This idiot… pg 4212 55. The following words were eerily similar to a certain body of text that I was familiar with. ⸢The you reading this story will definitely make it out of here alive.⸥ Han Sooyoung's afterwords came to an end there. For the longest time, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the full-stop at the end of the sentencepg4216 56. "Looks like the company's internal rules need to be changed somewhat…" pg 4234 57. She spoke in a fed-up tone of voice. And then, issued an order to me. "Marry me, Ricardo Von Kaizenix." pg 4244 58. "I didn't want to extend her 50 years by even one minute if I could help it." I was being serious here. The moment I arrived in this world and realized that Han Sooyoung had to spend 50 years here, I just couldn't escape from this one overwhelming emotion. Someone was sacrificed again because of me. Han Sooyoung who had to endure the time frame of 50 years – could she still maintain a normal, functioning mind? Was she able to maintain the ego of the Han Sooyoung that I know of?pg4254 59. Her palm smacked me in the back of the head again. God damn it, this punk… "The third method, 'Romance'." "And its contents are?" "Marry Yuri di Aristel." "And just what did you choose?" "The third method?" "And are we currently married?" "Nope." "And why the hell not?!" pg 4256

I tilt my head slightly in “only my mom” realization because she’s wearing a reindeer headband. A jingly, Christmas reindeer headband. I’ll even bet it. . . My mom reaches up and presses an unseen button. “It lights up! Isn’t it adorable?

Nothing will ever transpire between the Italian and me. I want it too much, and I've based it all on a silent film. The Italian and I have dinner with his friends - a guild of young writers. I can tell he wants to know me but he's also afraid of something he senses. He isn't quite sure whether his admiration has anything to do with desire, and I'm still trying to adjust to the isolation that comes with being adored from afar. He asks, 'How do you write the way you do?' So earnest in his curiosity. It's quite evident that I've been a subject of enquiry between them. The twenty-one-year-old girl who writes poems about old men. Who is she? They wonder. Men love to sit amongst themselves and mythologise our shame. The trouble was that I wrote about these things as though they were removed from me, like I was now here reflecting on despairing events that occurred in a distant past. But the old man is pervasive, always here, hunching my shoulders, adding weight to my sluggish stance. He makes it almost impossible for me to regard a young man with any feeling of equality.

Is it possible?” he asked. “But you said—that you wanted to go. I thought you’d marry someone back home.” “But you know that—that I’ve cared. That I do—” Kyunghee looked around. The shopkeeper of the convenience store was seated in the back and couldn’t hear them over the noise of his radio program. On the road, a few cars and bicycles passed by, but not many, because it was Saturday morning. The red-and-white pinwheels attached to the store awning spun slowly in the light winter breeze. “If you said it is possible—” “You can’t talk that way,” she said softly. She didn’t want to hurt him. All these years, his adoration and kindness had nourished her but had also caused her anguish, because she could not care for him in that way. It was wrong to do so. “Changho, you have a future. You must find a young woman and have children. There isn’t a day when I don’t feel heartbroken that my husband and I couldn’t have them. I know it was the Lord’s plan for me, but I think you might have some. You’d make a wonderful husband and father. I couldn’t ask you to wait. It would be sinful.” “It’s because you don’t want me to wait. Because I would if you told me to.” Kyunghee bit her lip. She felt cold suddenly and put on her blue wool mittens. “I have to make dinner.” “I leave tomorrow. Your husband said I should wait. Isn’t that what you wanted? For him to give you permission? Wouldn’t that make it okay in the eyes of your god?” “It isn’t up to Yoseb to change God’s laws. My husband is alive, and I wouldn’t want to hasten his death. I care for you very much, Changho. You have been the dearest friend to me. I’m not sure if I can bear it when you go, but I know we’re not supposed to be man and wife. To even talk about it while he is alive cannot be right. I pray that you’ll understand.

Hilde’s lip trembled as she saw her dolly beneath Adler’s elbow. Tears formed in her eyes. Adler glanced down at her, his face dark, lips drawn into a deep frown. He followed her gaze down to the cloth doll. Rolling his eyes, Adler moved his elbow and tossed the doll to Hilde. “It’s not worth crying over.” “It is when you’re five and some mean fellow’s got your baby,” Sarge teased as he took a seat next to Hilde. He smiled. “Isn’t she adorable?

Men are seeking a divinity to serve and adore. But the reality is, most women are so disconnected from their sensual feminine self that, as men, the only option we now have is to turn inwards to our own anima, or turn to other men for sensual feminine affection. A lot of men are becoming accustomed to embracing romance from the same sex, others opted to having sex with ANY woman they can get to console themselves. Problem is, we are living in a generation of women that are constantly protesting “Accept me for who I am!” IN THEIR MASCULINE ENERGY. They don’t know what it truly means to be a woman. But there’s a new breed of men that are awakened and of high quality in every respect of the word, and they’re not willing to settle for any woman that simply wants to be accepted for who she is. They want a woman who wants to be challenged for growth purposes. “I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.” ~Anaïs Nin Listen ladies, you have not yet fully become a woman if no man is seeking to serve and adore you. Now, understand the meaning of ‘serve and adore’. This means that a man has to NOT want to see you struggle in any way, shape or form that he can change for the better. So, if you’re still struggling in ANY way that a man can change for the better for you as a female, then you have not yet become a full grown WOMAN. The ultimate sign that you’ve become a full grown woman is when you are constantly being served and adored, especially by an emotionally healthy masculine man, without you having to ask. So tell me, are you a woman yet? "One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman." ~Simone de Beauvoir Too bad that so many of you are so hellbent on fighting to be ‘yourselves’ (masculine selves), yet that very ‘self’ isn’t serving you like you need to be served. For many of you, fighting to be ‘yourselves’ is, for the most part, fighting to be independent of the masculine and of your divine purpose which is to be a WOMAN. It’s easier to be disagreeable than it is to surrender to your true calling. A lot of women are just fighting to be a nonentity and they don’t even know it. They resent the divine masculine with passion, not realizing that it is the ultimate key to fully unlocking their WOMANHOOD.

saddlebags. “And please tell Kiri she should put her shoes on. Lucas will have a fit if she serves like that.” “Mummy, why do I have to put on shoes? Kiri isn’t wearing any.” George met Gwyneira and her daughter in the corridor outside his room just as he was about to go down to dinner. He had done his best as far as evening wear went. Though slightly wrinkled, his light brown suit was handsomely tailored and much more becoming than the comfortable leather pants and waxed jacket he had acquired in Australia. Gwyneira and the captivating little red-haired girl who was squabbling so loudly were likewise elegantly attired. Though not in the latest fashion. Gwyneira was wearing a turquoise evening gown of such breathtaking refinement that, even in the best London salons, it would have created a stir—especially with a woman as beautiful as Gwyneira modeling it. The little girl wore a pale green shift that was almost entirely concealed by her abundant red-gold locks. When Fleur’s hair hung down loose, it frizzed a bit, like that of a gold tinsel angel. Her delicate green shoes matched the adorable little dress, but the little one obviously preferred to carry them in her hands than wear them on her feet. “They pinch!” she complained. “Fleur, they don’t pinch,” her mother declared. “We just bought them four weeks ago, and they were on the verge of being too big then. Not even you grow that fast. And even if they do pinch, a lady bears a small degree of pain without complaining.” “Like the Indians? Ruben says that in America they take stakes and hurt themselves for fun to see who’s the bravest. His daddy told him. But Ruben thinks that’s dumb, and so do I.” “That’s her opinion on the subject of being ‘ladylike,’” Gwyneira remarked, looking to George for help. “Come, Fleurette. This is a gentleman. He’s from England, like Ruben’s mummy and me. If you behave properly, maybe he’ll greet you by kissing your hand and call you ‘my lady.’ But only if you wear shoes.” “Mr. McKenzie always calls me ‘my lady’ even if I walk around barefoot.” “He must not come from England, then,” George said, playing along. “And he certainly hasn’t been introduced to the queen.” This honor had been conferred on the Greenwoods the year before, and George’s mother would probably chatter on about it for the rest of her

once confided to him late at night after a game of billiards and rather a lot of excellent port that his wife hated it so much that she’d only let him do it when she wanted a baby. She was a damned attractive woman, too, and a wonderful wife, as Martyn had said. In other ways. They had five children, and Martyn didn’t think she was going to wear a sixth. Rotten for him. When Edward had suggested that he find consolation elsewhere, Martyn had simply gazed at him with mournful brown eyes and said, ‘But I’m in love with her, old boy, always have been. Never looked at anyone else. You know how it is.’ And Edward, who didn’t, said of course he did. That conversation had warned him off Marcia Slocombe-Jones anyhow. It didn’t matter, because although he could have gone for her there were so many other girls to go for. How lucky he was! To have come back from France not only alive, but relatively unscathed! In winter, his chest played him up a bit due to living in trenches where the gas had hung about for weeks, but otherwise . . . Since then he’d come back, gone straight into the family firm, met Villy at a party, married her as soon as her contract with the ballet company she was with expired and as soon as she’d agreed to the Old Man’s dictate that her career should stop from then on. ‘Can’t marry a gal whose head’s full of something else. If marriage isn’t the woman’s career, it won’t be a good marriage.’ His attitude was thoroughly Victorian, of course, but all the same, there was quite a lot to be said for it. Whenever Edward looked at his own mother, which he did infrequently but with great affection, he saw her as the perfect reflection of his father’s attitude: a woman who had serenely fulfilled all her family responsibilities and at the same time retained her youthful enthusiasms – for her garden that she adored and for music. At over seventy, she was quite capable of playing double concertos with professionals. Unable to discriminate between the darker, more intricate veins of temperament that distinguish one person from another, he could not really see why Villy should not be as happy and fulfilled as the Duchy. (His mother’s Victorian reputation for plain living – nothing rich in food and no frills or pretensions about her own appearance or her household’s had long ago earned her the nickname of Duchess – shortened by her own children to

Are you busy?" I ask. "I'm working on a paper. Recall? The phone conversation we had fifteen minutes ago?" I glance up at a clock in the hall, and then back at his smart-ass mouth. "It was twenty minutes ago." "I need coffee," he says, and why is he being such an adorable dick, still smiling at me like that? "Want to walk up to Dunkin' Donuts?" "What about Millie?" I say. "What about her?" "Does she want any?" "Should we call her and ask?" "Isn't she upstairs?" "How hard did you hit your head last night?

Suspicion prickled at Ravenna. "Who is to say you are not the murderer, and now that you know I have useful information you won't dispatch me too?" "None but me." She glanced into the darkness where the butler had disappeared, then back at the tall, dark man who had subdued her quite effectively in a stable the previous night. "This is the part where you pull out the bloodstained dagger, isn't it?" "Why wouldn't I have done it earlier, before Monsieur Brazil knew of your involvement?" "No doubt you only thought of it at this moment." "It seems I am carelessly shortsighted." "It does." "Miss Caulfield?" "You are not the murderer?" "Go to bed." -Ravenna & Vitor

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. The conversation moved swiftly to the latest edition of “Have I Got News for You.” “Oh, Mummy, it was hilarious,” laughed William. “They had a photo of Mrs. Parker Bowles and a horse’s head and asked what the difference was. The answer was that there isn’t any!” Diana absolutely exploded with laughter. We talked about which was the hottest photo to get. “Charles and Camilla is still the really big one,” I said, “followed by you and a new man, and now, of course, William with his first girlfriend.” He groaned. So did Diana. Our “big ones” are the most intimate parts of their personal lives. It was a weird moment. I am the enemy, really, but we were getting on well and sort of developing a better understanding of each other as we went along. Lunch was turning out to be basically a series of front-page exclusive stories--none of which I was allowed to publish, although I did joke that “I would save it for my book”--a statement that caused Diana to fix me with a stare, and demand to know if I was carrying a tape recorder. “No,” I replied, truthfully. “Are you?” We both laughed, neither quite knowing what the answer really was. The lunch was one of the most exhilarating, fascinating, and exasperating two hours of my life. I was allowed to ask Diana literally anything I liked, which surprised me, given William’s presence. But he was clearly in the loop on most of her bizarre world and, in particular, the various men who came into it from time to time. The News of the World had, during my editorship, broken the Will Carling, Oliver Hoare, and James Hewitt scoops, so I had a special interest in those. So, unsurprisingly, did Diana. She was still raging about Julia Carling: “She’s milking it for all she’s worth, that woman. Honestly. I haven’t seen Will since June ’95. He’s not the man in black you lot keep going on about. I’m not saying who that is, and you will never guess, but it’s not Will.” William interjected: “I keep a photo of Julia Carling on my dartboard at Eton.” That was torture. That was three fantastic scoops in thirty seconds. Diana urged me to tell William the story of what we did to Hewitt in the Mirror after he spilled the beans in the ghastly Anna Pasternak book. I dutifully recounted how we hired a white horse, dressed a Mirror reporter in full armor, and charged Hewitt’s home to confront him on allegations of treason with regard to his sleeping with the wife of a future king--an offense still punishable by death. Diana exploded again. “It was hysterical. I have never laughed so much.” She clearly had no time for Hewitt, despite her “I adored him” TV confessional.

Jesus, Kash!” “What are you doing?” “What are you doing? Why are you just standing out here like a creeper?” He smirked and followed me over to my apartment. “I’m trying to figure out why you’re army-crawling all over the breezeway and shouting for a candy bar.” “I’m not shouting for a candy bar, I’m looking for a cat that isn’t there.” One of his thick eyebrows rose and he bit down on his lip ring to try to hide his smile as he held my door open for us. “Mrs. Adams . . . isn’t exactly all there. She thinks she has cats and she doesn’t. And every Thursday since we moved in, she’s come knocking at eight thirty asking for me to help her look for them.” “And you help her, knowing they aren’t there?” “Well, I didn’t know the first time until I got into her apartment. Her cats are really stuffed animals and pillows.” “But you helped her every other time knowing what you know?” He’d stopped biting on that ring and his lips kept tilting up as he tried to control his smile. “Yeah, Kash, I did. Because no one else does, and don’t laugh at me! It’s not funny, I feel really bad for her! You should see how upset she gets over this.” I turned to walk into my room, but he caught me around my waist and hauled my body back to his. “I’m not laughing at you, Rach,” he mumbled huskily, and his gray eyes roamed my face. “I think it’s adorable that you help her. You’re really just a big softy, aren’t you?” Laughing when I growled at him, he continued to piss me off even more. “You’re like Sour Patch Kids candy.” “What the hell?” “Sour . . . then sweet.” “I will castrate you if you don’t let me go right now.

When we’re outside, I hear Brittany take a deep breath. I swear it sounds as if she’s holding herself together by a thin thread. Not the way it’s supposed to go down: bring girl home, kiss girl, mom insults girl, girl leaves crying. “Don’t sweat it. She’s just not used to me bringin’ girls in the house.” Brittany’s expressive blue eyes appear remote and cold. “That shouldn’t have happened,” she says, throwing back her shoulders in a stance as stiff as a statue’s. “What? The kiss or you likin’ it so much?” “I have a boyfriend,” she says as she fidgets with the strap on her designer book bag. “You tryin’ to convince me, or yourself?” I ask her. “Don’t turn this around. I don’t want to upset my friends. I don’t want to upset my mom. And Colin…I’m just really confused right now.” I hold out my hands and raise my voice, something I usually avoid because like Paco says, it means I actually care. I don’t care. Why should I? My mind says to shut the fuck up at the same time words spout from my mouth. “I don’t get it. He treats you like you’re his damn prize.” “You don’t even know what it’s like with me and Colin…” “Tell me, dammit,” I say, unable to hide the edge to my voice. Initially I hold myself back from what I really want to say, but I can’t resist and tell it to her straight up. “’Cause that kiss back there…it meant somethin’. You know it as well as I do. I dare you to tell me bein’ with Colin is better than that.” She looks away hastily. “You wouldn’t understand.” “Try me.” “When people see Colin and me together, they comment on how perfect we are. You know, the Golden Couple. Get it?” I stare at her in disbelief. That is beyond fucked up. “I get it. I just can’t believe I’m hearin’ it. Does bein’ perfect mean that much to you?” There’s a long, brittle silence. I catch a flicker of sadness in those sapphire eyes, but then it’s gone. In an instant her expression stills and grows serious. “I haven’t been doing a bang-up job at it lately, but yes. It does,” she finally admits. “My sister isn’t perfect, so I have to be.” That is the most pathetic shit I’ve ever heard. I shake my head in disgust and point to Julio. “Get on and I’ll take you back to school to get your car.” Silently, Brittany straddles my motorcycle. She holds herself so far away from me I can barely feel her behind me. I almost take a detour to make the ride last longer. She treats her sister with patience and adoration. God knows I wouldn’t be able to spoon-feed one of my brothers and wipe his mouth. The girl I once accused of being self-absorbed is not one-dimensional. Dios mío, I admire her. Somehow, being with Brittany brings something to my life that’s missing, something…right. But how am I going to convince her of that?

Listen to me. I admire you. Adore you. Hell, I’ve spent four years constructing some twisted, blasphemous religion around you. And you must know how badly I want you.” He slid a hand to the small of her back and crushed her belly against his aching groin, then kissed her again, to stifle his unwilling groan. “But I can’t love you, Cecily, not the way you deserve.” “Who are you, to judge what I deserve?” She wrestled away from him and stalked to the cottage door, taking hold of the door handle and giving it a full-force tug. “And what do you mean, you can’t love me? Love isn’t a matter of can or can’t.” She pulled again, but the door would not budge. “It’s a matter of do or don’t. Either you do love me, and damn the consequences”—she tugged again, to no avail—“or you don’t, and we go our separate ways.” She

But damn if she isn't an adorable little murderer.

That isn’t the problem,” Abraham replied. “There’s certain words in there that are against her beliefs.” He cited the word adore. There was also a problem with the phrase — roughly translated — “If he doesn’t come back, kill me, sky, eat me, dirt, take me, Jesus.” “She can’t do it. José, you gotta understand.” Hernández removed adore and replaced “take me, Jesus” with the line, “I want to die.” That led to hours of deep discussion with Abraham about God, Jesus, and religion. “Hey, compadre, bring me the Bible,” he shouted out. With the Good Book in hand, Abraham began to talk theology. “He was trying to convince me there was no Holy Spirit, that Jesus is just a teacher,” said Hernández, himself a born-again Christian. “He said, ‘Before you get out of here, I’m gonna convert you.’ He was trying to explain his beliefs and what he thinks about life after death, who he thinks Jesus was. It was really deep. A lot of people see him as a hard business guy, but I know how strong his beliefs are — so strong he tried to convince me.” Hernández left Corpus believing the same things he had when he arrived. But he also realized that both Abraham and Selena shared a deep spirituality he’d rarely seen before. Neither was a member of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. As long as Selena pranced around the stage in clothes that were provocative and revealing, she couldn’t be accepted into the faith. Bustiers and bare midriffs did not qualify as the sort of modest dress required of women of the church. But that didn’t stop them from believing God’s kingdom was an actual government ruling in heaven that would soon return to earth to bring