Chicks Who Lift Quotes

We walked hand in hand toward the diner, until Ivy froze in her steps. 'What's wrong?' I asked, skimming the area around us, looking for some kind of threat. She made a sound of panic. 'Ivy?' My heart was starting to beat faster. 'I'm still wearing your shirt!' She hissed. 'Is that all, woman? Please.' I started walking again. She refused to budge. I turned back and lifted and eyebrow. 'What now?' She stepped up close and whispered dramatically, 'I'm not wearing a bra either!' I matched her tone to whisper back, 'Good thing the girls are perky!' 'Braeden!' She gasped. I threw back my head and laughed. 'C'mon. I'm so hungry I could eat the rotten end of a pig.' 'Oh my gosh, that's disgusting!' she burst out as I towed her along behind me. 'Awe, baby. That hurts my feelings.' She made a rude noise, and I grinned. I opened the door to the diner, and she walked in first. I had to hold back a smile when she crossed her arms over her unleashed girls. This chick was fucking hilarious. Rimmel waved wildly from a booth near the window. Ivy hurried to the table and slid in across from Romeo and Rimmel. I followed with a lot less hurry in my step and slid in right next to Ivy. Romeo looked at Ivy, then at me. We exchanged a look. He held out his fist to pound it out. I obliged. 'About damn time,' he grunted. Then he glanced at Rimmel, who had her hair piled on the top of her head and a pencil sticking out of the mess. 'Can we order now, smalls? I'm so hungry I could eat the ass out of a skunk.' Ivy and Rimmel both made gagging sounds. 'Good one,' I congratulated him. -Braeden, Ivy, Romeo and Rimmel

Alex, are you okay?” Brittany asks, looking totally concerned. Should I tell her I was spacing out while thinking about us having sex? Mrs. P. walks up the aisle with a stern look on her face. “This is a library, you two. Keep it down.” But then she notices the small line of blood snaking down my arm and staining my sleeve. “Brittany, help him to the nurse. Alex, next time come to school with that thing bandaged.” “Don’t I get sympathy, Mrs. P.? I’m bleedin’ to death.” “Do something to help mankind or the planet, Alex. Then you’ll get my sympathy. People who get into knife fights don’t earn anything from me except disgust. Now go get cleaned up.” Brittany lifts my books off my lap and says in a shaky voice, “Come on.” “I can hold the books,” I tell her as I follow her out of the library. I’m pressing my sleeve against the wound, hoping to stop more blood from leaking out. She’s walking ahead of me. If I tell her I need help walking because I feel faint, will she believe me and come to my rescue? Maybe I should stumble…although knowing her she wouldn’t care. Right before we reach the nurse’s office, she turns around. Her hands are shaking. “I’m so sorry, Alex. I di--didn’t m--mean--” She’s freaking out. If she cries, I won’t know what to do. I’m not used to crying chicks. I don’t think Carmen cried once during our entire relationship. In fact, I’m not sure Carmen has tear ducts.

You’re home.” Emmie stopped her puttering, a luminous, beaming smile on her face, a pan of apple tarts steaming on the counter before her. “I am home”—he returned her smile—“though soaked and chilled to the bone.” “I thought I heard the door slam.” Val appeared at Emmie’s elbow. “It looks like a half-drowned friend of Scout’s has come to call. Come along, Devlin.” Val tugged at his wet sleeve. “Emmie had the bathwater heated in anticipation of your arrival. We’ll get you thawed and changed in time for dinner, and then you can regale us with your exploits.” “Behold,” Val announced when they returned forty-five minutes later, “the improved version of the Earl of Rosecroft. Scrubbed, tidied, and attired for supper. He need only be fed, and we’ll find him quite civilized.” Emmie smiled at them both, and Winnie looked up from the worktable where she was making an ink drawing. “I made you a picture,” she said, motioning St. Just over. “This is you.” She’d drawn Caesar and a wet, shivering, bedraggled rider, one whose hat drooped, whose boots sagged, and whose teeth chattered. “We must send this to Her Grace,” St. Just said, “but you have to send along something cheerier, too, Win. Mamas tend to worry about their chicks.” “I thought she wasn’t your mama,” Winnie countered, frowning at her drawing. “She is, and she isn’t.” St. Just tousled Winnie’s blond curls—so like Emmie’s—and blew a rude noise against the child’s neck. “But mostly she is.” “When will you go see her again?” “I just did see her in September. It’s hardly December.” “She’s your mother,” Winnie said, taking the drawing back. “Every now and then, even big children should be with their mothers.” In the pantry, something loud hit the tile floor and shattered. Val and his brother exchanged a look, but Emmie’s voice assured them it had just been the lid to the pan of apple tarts, and no real harm had been done. “That’s fortunate,” St. Just said, going to the pantry and taking the pan from Emmie’s hands. “Watch your step, though, as there’s crockery everywhere.” “I’m sorry.” Emmie stood in the middle of the broken crockery, her cheeks flushed, looking anywhere but at him. “It was my own pan, though, so you won’t need to replace anything of Rosecroft’s.” “Em.” He sighed and set the tarts aside. “I don’t give a tin whistle for the damned lid.” He lifted her by the elbows and hauled her against his chest to swing her out of the pantry. “We’ve a scullery maid, don’t we?” “Joan.” “Well, fetch her in there. I am ravenous, and I will not be deprived of your company while I sup tonight.” “You didn’t stay in York,” Emmie said, searching his eyes. “There is very little do in York on a miserable afternoon that could compare with the pleasure of my own home, your company, and a serving of hot apple tarts.” She blinked then offered him a radiant smile and sailed ahead of him to the dining parlor. “Winnie,” St. Just barked, “wash your paws, and don’t just get them wet. Val, it’s your turn to say grace, and somebody get that damned dog out of here.” Scout slunk out, Winnie washed her paws, Val went on at hilarious length about being appreciative of a brother who wasn’t so old he forgot his apple tart recipe nor how to stay clean nor find his way home. Except

The front door flew open.   His gaze went there and he saw Margot swan in, Dave at her back carrying a pie.   She stopped, did a sweep of the place with her eyes, it halted on Izzy in his kitchen and her expression shifted straight to sheer bliss.   “Eliza!” she cried. “My darling girl! Could you be more adorable in that dress?”   As Johnny rolled up to his feet holding Brooks to him, Margot swept in, latched onto Izzy and hugged her like she was her favorite daughter who’d married a Russian who’d whisked her off to the cold of Siberia and she hadn’t seen her in a decade.   “Totally . . . dig . . . this chick,” Addie murmured.   Johnny moved their way as Margot let go of Izzy, assessed Addie, and Dave moved into Iz and gave her a hug, muttering, “Great to see you again, child.”   “You too, Dave,” she said back.   “You must be the sister,” Margot decreed.   “That I am,” Addie replied. “And you must be the awesome Margot.”   Margot arched a brow. “Awesome?”   “Izzy thinks your da bomb.”   “Did she use that vernacular?”   “No, she said, ‘I can’t wait for you to meet Margot. She’s class on a stick.’”   Margot’s face grew smug and she aimed a look Izzy’s way, murmuring demurely, “Darlin’.”   Izzy was blushing.   Johnny waded in.   “Let’s finish this up. Dave, this is Addie, Izzy’s sister. And guys, this is Brooks.” He lifted the baby a couple of inches. “Addie’s boy.”   “Oh . . . my . . . word! Look at that handsome child!” Margot lifted both hands his way. “Give him to me immediately, Johnathon.