Bmw Love Quotes

You are four days sober and I love you. You’re about to get in your BMW and I love you. You are not my problem to solve but my brother to love, all of you.

While they waited, Ronan decided to finally take up the task of teaching Adam how to drive a stick shift. For several minutes, it seemed to be going well, as the BMW had an easy clutch, Ronan was brief and to the point with his instruction, and Adam was a quick study with no ego to get in the way. From a safe vantage point beside the building, Gansey and Noah huddled and watched as Adam began to make ever quicker circles around the parking lot. Every so often their hoots were audible through the open windows of the BMW. Then—it had to happen eventually—Adam stalled the car. It was a pretty magnificent beast, as far as stalls went, with lots of noise and death spasms on the part of the car. From the passenger seat, Ronan began to swear at Adam. It was a long, involved swear, using every forbidden word possible, often in compound-word form. As Adam stared at his lap, penitent, he mused that there was something musical about Ronan when he swore, a careful and loving precision to the way he fit the words together, a black-painted poetry. It was far less hateful sounding than when he didn’t swear. Ronan finished with, “For the love of . . . Parrish, take some care, this is not your mother’s 1971 Honda Civic.” Adam lifted his head and said, “They didn’t start making the Civic until ’73.” There was a flash of fangs from the passenger seat, but before Ronan truly had time to strike, they both heard Gansey call warmly, “Jane! I thought you’d never show up. Ronan is tutoring Adam in the ways of manual transmissions.” Blue, her hair pulled every which way by the wind, stuck her head in the driver’s side window. The scent of wildflowers accompanied her presence. As Adam catalogued the scent in the mental file of things that made Blue attractive, she said brightly, “Looks like it’s going well. Is that what that smell is?” Without replying, Ronan climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Noah appeared beside Blue. He looked joyful and adoring, like a Labrador retriever. Noah had decided almost immediately that he would do anything for Blue, a fact that would’ve needled Adam if it had been anyone other than Noah. Blue permitted Noah to pet the crazy tufts of her hair, something Adam would have also liked to do, but felt would mean something far different coming from him.

I sell BMWs—I’m not sure if your mom told you?” No matter how good Alton was at selling stuff, he had nothing on my mom selling me on a new suitor. “They’re great cars. Sexy, stylish. Every man would love to drive one.” I watched as he arranged his face in a very practiced smolder. “Don’t say it,” I offered. “Just don’t say it.” “You remind me of a BMW.” “You said it.” I patted the bar in front of him. “Let me go get your tab.

Your BMW’s a convertible?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am.” “I like fast German cars.” “Riding or driving?” “Both.” “Is that a request?” “Mm-hm.” “I love my car, Savannah. I’m not a shallow man, but I love that vehicle. What’s your driving record look like?” “This question from the man who made me cry?” “I would love for you to drive my car as far and as fast as you like,” he amended. She leaned back and winked at him. “I thought so. Give me a minute to change?” “Must you?” “I’m afraid so.

When it passes us, the driver tips his cap our way, eying us as if he thinks we're up to no good-the kind of no good he might call the cops on. I wave to him and smile, wondering if I look as guilty as I feel. Better make this the quickest lesson in driving history. It's not like she needs to pass the state exam. If she can keep the car straight for ten seconds in a row, I've upheld my end of the deal. I turn off the ignition and look at her. "So, how are you and Toraf doing?" She cocks her head at me. "What does that have to do with driving?" Aside from delaying it? "Nothing," I say, shrugging. "Just wondering." She pulls down the visor and flips open the mirror. Using her index finger, she unsmudges the mascara Rachel put on her. "Not that it's your business, but we're fine. We were always fine." "He didn't seem to think so." She shoots me a look. "He can be oversensitive sometimes. I explained that to him." Oversensitive? No way. She's not getting off that easy. "He's a good kisser," I tell her, bracing myself. She turns in her seat, eyes narrowed to slits. "You might as well forget about that kiss, Emma. He's mine, and if you put your nasty Half-Breed lips on him again-" "Now who's being oversensitive?" I say, grinning. She does love him. "Switch places with me," she snarls. But I'm too happy for Toraf to return the animosity. Once she's in the driver's seat, her attitude changes. She bounces up and down like she's mattress shopping, getting so much air that she'd puncture the top if I hadn't put it down already. She reaches for the keys in the ignition. I grab her hand. "Nope. Buckle up first." It's almost cliché for her to roll her eyes now, but she does. When she's finished dramatizing the act of buckling her seat belt-complete with tugging on it to make sure it won't unclick-she turns to me in pouty expectation. I nod. She wrenches the key and the engine fires up. The distant look in her eyes makes me nervous. Or maybe it's the guilt swirling around in my stomach. Galen might not like this car, but it still feels like sacrilege to put the fate of a BMW in Rayna's novice hands. As she grips the gear stick so hard her knuckles turn white, I thank God this is an automatic. "D is for drive, right?" she says. "Yes. The right pedal is to go. The left pedal is to stop. You have to step on the left one to change into drive." "I know. I saw you do it." She mashes down on the brake, then throws us into drive. But we don't move. "Okay, now you'll want to step on the right pedal, which is the gas-" The tires start spinning-and so do we. Rayna stares at me wide-eyed and mouth ajar, which isn't a good thing since her hands are on the wheel. It occurs to me that she's screaming, but I can't hear her over my own screeching. The dust wall we've created whirls around us, blocking our view of the trees and the road and life as we knew it. "Take your foot off the right one!" I yell. We stop so hard my teeth feel rattled. "Are you trying to get us killed?" she howls, holding her hand to her cheek as if I've slapped her. Her eyes are wild and glassy; she just might cry. "Are you freaking kidding me? You're the one driving!

The story of the Lynch family was this: Once upon a time, a man named Niall Lynch had three sons, one of whom loved his father more than the others. Niall Lynch was handsome and charismatic and rich and mysterious, and one day, he was dragged from his charcoal-gray BMW and beaten to death with a tire iron. It was a Wednesday. On Thursday, his son Ronan found his body in the driveway. On Friday, their mother stopped speaking and never spoke again. On Saturday, the Lynch brothers found that their father’s death left them rich and homeless. The will forbade them to touch anything in the house — their clothing, the furniture. Their silent mother. The will demanded they immediately move into Aglionby housing. Declan, the eldest, was meant to control the funds and their lives until his brothers reached eighteen. On Sunday, Ronan stole his deceased father’s car. On Monday, the Lynch brothers stopped being friends.

Must be my lucky day, Mase thought as he dangled the keys in his hand. Whatever the hell she’d gotten herself into made her dumb as hell in his book, because nothing would make him give away a perfectly good new BMW.               Her loss, my muthafuckin’ gain.

Janine knew me well enough to know that if I ever found out what she’d done, I’d fuck her up. But apparently she’d thought that she outwitted me, because there at the end of the lot was her dark blue BMW.

BMW’s Chris Bangle says, “We don’t make ‘automobiles.’” BMW makes “moving works of art that express the driver’s love of quality.

1941 BMW R12 motorbike.

Yeah, she was. But I only loved one person and she wasn’t her. When she gave me that money, I used it to put the down payment on Savonna’s first BMW. Like I said, I don’t know why we as men run around looking for extras when we already have all we need at home. I’ll never give Savonna up. I don’t care if I have to load her up with twenty kids. I’ll never give another man the chance to take her away from me. It’s selfish, but it’s facts.

So heaven right? Do you just get to do what you love for all of eternity? Cause you know, you spend your life finding and trying your best to do what you love, some people have passions, others have hobbies, and some just like to sit and do nothing. So if you're into getting drunk at the bar with friends is that what you get to do in heaven - minus the hangover? I'm a musician, and I'd love to have an eternal jam session with Duke Ellington, but what about people who really enjoy screaming at rats? Would that be their version of heaven? Some people are sexually attracted to cars, will they just get to make out with a BMW for all eternity? Now let's say there's an unlimited all you can eat banquet in heaven of all the best food you can taste with your "heavenly" body. Would you still need to take a shit? I mean it's heaven that sounds rather unholy, maybe there'd just be food flavored gum... or maybe the shit would go down the heavenly sewer pipe and land on the heads of those in hell. Just an idea... I mean who the heck really knows? Maybe heaven is just getting to perpetually have the feeling of having just taken a fresh sip of water after being in the desert for a week. Or maybe it's the perpetual feeling of getting the text from your ex that they want you back. In the meantime, let's drink a nice hot cup of existentialism!

A breeze wafted over her face, and she realized she was in the parking lot next to Jean-Luc’s BMW. She must have

THE LAST REMNANTS OF THE WHISTLER The Viennese air was fogging up the windows of the train that morning, and as the people traveled obliviously to work, a murderer whistled his happy tune. He bought his ticket. There were polite greetings with fellow passengers and the conductor. He even gave up his seat for an elderly lady and made polite conversation with a gambler who spoke of Americanhorses. After all, the whistler loved talking. He talked to people and fooled them into liking him, trusting him. He talked to them while he was killing them, torturing and turningthe knife. It was only when there was no one to talk to that he whistled, which was why he did so after a murder. . . . “So you think the track will suit number seven, do you?” “Of course.” The gambler grinned. Trust was already there. “He’ll come from behind and kill the whole lot of them!” He shouted it above the noise of the train. “If you insist.” The whistler smirked, and he wondered at length when they would find the inspector’s body in that brand-new BMW

As she cut across the parking lot, Madison was nearly mowed down by an ice blue BMW. Reed Rawlings was the madman behind the wheel. He screeched to a stop right in front of her. “Reed, are you trying to kill the competition?” she shouted. “Is that your strategy?” “Not a bad idea,” Reed said, laughing as he rolled down his window. “Wish I’d thought of it.

It’s my turn. The only one I’m likely to get. I’ve got a month, Starfish.” Her eyebrows narrowed a bit at his use of her nickname, and he relaxed further as they eased into a far more familiar back and forth. Lord, but he’d missed her. “Like I said, let’s take the time we have now and find out what we find out. Then, when it’s your turn, we’ll already be that much closer to knowing what we know.” Her eyes remained narrowed, his feisty Kerry fully back at the fore. “Why is it that I feel like I just got played?” His grin got bigger. “Oh, we haven’t begun to play, love. There was nothing playful about that kiss. But next time?” He let that statement linger with no immediate follow-up. Instead, he dug the keys to his rental from the pocket of his Daks and unlocked the door to the sleek black roadster. At least he’d walked to the correct side this time. Took some getting used to, the whole wrong side of the road thing. Still, the little two-door BMW was a beauty. And about as far away from anything he’d ever driven on the station as it was possible to get. Which was exactly why he’d rented it. He looked back over to where she stood, arms folded now, defenses fully back up and battle ready. Good, he thought. Do what you need to do. Be sure of yourself, of me. Of us. Just remember, I know how to get you to lower those defenses. And he was looking forward to finding out how she’d come apart for him when he melted them completely. “Thirty days,” he said, opening the door. He tugged at the sunglasses that had been hanging down his back on a pair of Croakies and slid them around, putting them on before popping his hat back on his head. He rested folded forearms on the top of the open door, his grin still in place. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m really liking how Day One has worked out.” He tucked his long, rangy frame into the low-slung car and lowered the window as the sport engine purred to life. “Can’t wait to see what Day Two holds in store. G’day, Starfish.

I love the wheels, I mean steering wheel.

He showed his love and determination by burning her BMW and strangling her cat, then

Stay back, Charity. I warned you before ... this cable is dangerous. It can whip back and take your legs clean off.” I struggled to keep my tone light. I wasn’t in the mood for her jabbering about which jock was dating which cheerleader, which rich snob got accepted into an Ivy League college, or which momma’s boy received a sweet new BMW from his parents.

It was for times like this that I loved riding my bike. Those moments when all thoughts of the past and future slipped away and I existed entirely in the present, the miles rolling past beneath the wheels of my big BMW, the morning light clear and golden, throwing shadow bands across the road as I carved my way around the world. As I rode and the days and miles ticked past, I spoke to my bike, cajoling her with promises of an oil change and a clean air filter if she got me to Penang in time. It was the kind of bargain I’d struck many times since leaving London nearly eighteen months earlier.

The siren call of the azure sea left me no choice as I unleashed the rented BMW 318, reveling in the scenic spectacle along the resplendent Amalfi coast.

The success, growth and integrity of the company (and thus your investment) is tied inextricably to the personality, abilities and ambitions of the chairman and/or chief executive. If he owns a flashy BMW with personalised number plates, drips with gold jewellery and has ambitions to own the local football club - bad news. But a conservative car, gentleman's shoes, love for cricket, faded regimental tie and membership of the local school board spell good news. I exclude from all this the 30-year old, multi-millionaire, whiz-kid creators of IT companies on price/earnings ratio of 50-plus. These live on a different planet from me, anyway, so normal judgements and personality tests do not apply.

Yessssss. I-5 is backed up, a secret relief. It means more time to prepare myself for the maelstrom, not to mention to enjoy the BMW John surprised me with on my birthday last year. I’ve always appreciated a nice car, but I was never a car person until I drove this one for the first time. Maybe this is how it feels when a woman who never cared much for babies meets her baby and falls in love at first sight. It’s just so heavy and solid and safe, like having a really good dad.

Patrick Kelly was nearby and he was what she wanted, for however long it might last. Kate had never loved lightly, she had always loved one hundred per cent, and now Dan knew, looking into her eyes, that her allegiance to him had gone for good. He wasn’t really surprised when she pulled her arm free and, straightening her dressing gown, walked to the front door. With those few steps she finally severed any remaining ties between them. Patrick stood on the doorstep perplexed. He had seen the light from the front room and wondered what was keeping Kate. He was sorry now that he had come round so late, but he had felt an overwhelming urge to see her. He had been sitting in his house alone, and Mandy had invaded his thoughts as she always did when he had nothing else to occupy him, and suddenly the urge to see Kate was so strong it was almost tangible. Taking his BMW he had driven himself to her house. Now it did not seem like a very good idea. He saw her slim form walking down the hall and felt a surge of pleasure. As she opened the door he smiled at her crookedly. ‘I know it’s late but I saw your lights on . . .’ His voice trailed off. Kate had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. ‘Come in, it’s freezing.’ He followed her down the hall and into the lounge. Kate was not surprised to find it was empty. She had heard the back door close as she opened the door to Patrick. Dan was a lot of things but brave was not one of them. ‘How about a drink? Tea, coffee, a brandy?’ She saw Dan’s glass where he had left it on the coffee table. It was still half full. ‘Coffee will be fine, I’m driving myself tonight. Where’s your mother?’ ‘She’s in bed. I gave her a sleeping pill. All this with Lizzy has really hit her hard.’ Kate was amazed at how normal she sounded. ‘How’s Lizzy?’ ‘Better. She seems to be thriving on being somewhere different. I know that sounds crazy but from

Elle stood there a moment longer and realized her ephemeral lover was not going to profess true love and offer to sweep her off her feet and into his BMW-clad wheels. She stomped haughtily from the room and he breathed a sigh of relief. Oh well. She wasn’t the right type anyway. There would be others. In the meantime, he had time to catch a shower, load up the car, have a beer or two in the hotel bar, then make his way back to Nashville. *