Cushions With Happy Quotes

The belief that unhappiness is selfless and happiness is selfish is misguided. It's more selfless to act happy. It takes energy, generosity, and discipline to be unfailingly lighthearted, yet everyone takes the happy person for granted. No one is careful of his feelings or tries to keep his spirits high. He seems self-sufficient; he becomes a cushion for others. And because happiness seems unforced, that person usually gets no credit.

Cherish all your happy moments: they make a fine cushion for old age.

Picture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched on a cushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezes indolently soft.

I love the stillness of a room, after a party. The chairs are moved, the cushions disarranged, everything is there to show that people enjoyed themselves; and one comes back to the empty room happy that it's over, happy to relax and say, 'Now we are alone again.

The couple sat side by side on cushions on the floor, quietly eating breakfast from the low table. They munched in happy and enjoyable silence, of the kind that grows like a vine through the long years of a good marriage, so that when everything that needs to be said has already been pronounced, it is mutually understood that there is an intimate silence that has its own loquacity.

It was painful to contemplate the distance between the future of accomplishment I'd imagined for myself twenty years earlier...it was painful to understand that the cushion of exceptionality invoked by the drug had made me oblivious to my inertia. And it was painful to have to define myself again, at an age when most people are happy in their own skins.

Don't be shy to show your love, verbalise it and cushion it because it is the most beautiful and fragile gift that God has ever given to the humankind. Happy Valentines Day.

I used to think that happiness, like God, was an idea weaker people were sold on, to manage the grief of a world with so much suffering. It is just easier, I thought, to decide that you are doing something wrong and you just need to buy the right thing, read the right book, find the right guru, or pray more to be happy than to accept that life is a great long heartbreak. Happiness is not what I imagined that mirage to be: an unending ecstasy or state of perpetual excitement. Not a high or a mirage, it is just being okay. My happiness is the absence of fear that there won't be enough -- enough money, enough power, enough security, enough of a cushion of these things to protect me from the everyday heartbreaks of being human. Heartbreak doesn't kill you. It changes you.

I tried to catch the eye of everyone around me who wasn’t a soprano I. I get it. First sopranos don’t feel this. You hear it, but you don’t feel it. You don’t know that those lowly peasants making a nice vocal cushion for you to step on had parts that were every bit as rapturous as yours

Whats it like, to be in love? The servants speak of it when they think I can't hear. I only wonder." Lia turned around and tossed the cushion back to the chaise lounge. She found she didn't have an answer to Mari's question. She couldn't say what she'd heard her sisters always say, It's thrilling, or It's bliss, or He makes me so happy. She raised her head and swallowed the strangeness in her throat, walking to the fireplace, to the pianoforte, pressing a finger against the honey-buffed wood. "It is," she said at last, "the most terrible feeling in the entire world." And she meant it. "Yes," the girl agreed, examining her face. "I think it must be.

I’m not saying I know it all. In one way, we’ve all just got the time since we got up this morning. But I’ve seen a lot of people walk a lot of roads. Some not so happy. And it makes them what they are. So if you run around putting a pillow under people to cushion their fall . . . well, I’m just not sure it’s quite the favor we think it is.

It's like lifting off in an airplane: you're on the ground, on the ground, on the ground... and then you're up, riding on a magical cushion of air and prince of all you survey. That makes me happy, because it's what I was made to do.

It was painful to contemplate the distance between the future of accomplishment I'd imagined for myself twenty years earlier, and the reality...it was painful to understand that the cushion of exceptionality invoked by the drug had made me oblivious to my inertia. And it was painful to have to define myself again, at an age when most people are happy in their own skins.

I feel that buzz of happiness, that sense of having found the right words and put them in a line. It's like lifting off in an airplane: you're on the ground, on the ground, on the ground... and then you're up, riding on a magical cushion of air and prince of all you survey.

Millennials: We lost the genetic lottery. We graduated high school into terrorist attacks and wars. We graduated college into a recession and mounds of debt. We will never acquire the financial cushion, employment stability, and material possessions of our parents. We are often more educated, experienced, informed, and digitally fluent than prior generations, yet are constantly haunted by the trauma of coming of age during the detonation of the societal structure we were born into. But perhaps we are overlooking the silver lining. We will have less money to buy the material possessions that entrap us. We will have more compassion and empathy because our struggles have taught us that even the most privileged can fall from grace. We will have the courage to pursue our dreams because we have absolutely nothing to lose. We will experience the world through backpacking, couch surfing, and carrying on interesting conversations with adventurers in hostels because our bank accounts can't supply the Americanized resorts. Our hardships will obligate us to develop spiritual and intellectual substance. Maybe having roommates and buying our clothes at thrift stores isn't so horrible as long as we are making a point to pursue genuine happiness.

Once I started trying to give positive reviews, though, I began to understand how much happiness I took from the joyous ones in my life---and how much effort it must take for them to be consistently good=tempered and positive. It is easy to be heavy; hard to be light. We nonjoyous types suck energy and cheer from the joyous ones; we rely on them to buoy us with their good spirit and to cushion our agitation and anxiety. At the same time, because of a dark element in human nature, we're sometimes provoked to try to shake the enthusiastic, cheery folk out of their fog of illusion---to make them see that the play was stupid, the money was wasted, the meeting was pointless. Instead of shielding their joy, we blast it.

Familiar mahogany-stained pews with red velvet cushions sucked the light from the interior.

I love the stillness of a room after a party. The chairs are moved, the cushions disarranged, everything is there to show that people enjoyed themselves; and one comes back to the empty room happy that it’s over, happy to relax and say, ‘Now we are alone again.’ Ambrose used to say to me in Florence that it was worth the tedium of visitors to experience the pleasure of their going. He was so right.

HYGGE WISHLIST: TEN THINGS THAT WILL MAKE YOUR HOME MORE HYGELLIG 1. A HYGGEKROG. 2. A FIREPLACE 3. CANDLES 4. THINGS MADE OUT OF WOOD 5. NATURE 6. BOOKS 7. CERAMICS 8. THINK TACTILE 9. VINTAGE 10. BLANKETS AND CUSHIONS

We went back into the drawing room. The evening had passes pleasantly enough, heaven knows, but I was glad that they had gone and the house was silent once again. She must have had the same thought, for she stood a moment, looking around her in the drawing room, she said, 'I love the stillness of a room, after a party. The chairs are moved, the cushions disarranged, everything is there to show that people enjoyed themselves; and one comes back to the empty room happy that it's over, happy to relax and say, "Now we are alone again." Ambrose used to say to me in Florence that it was worth the tedium of visitors to experience the pleasure of their going, He was so right.

As I know only too well, anticipation od happiness can sometimes be as gratifying as its consummation. Even during the first months of my separation, every footstep on the pavement would have me racing to the window, and every ring of the doorbell would set my heart beating as fast as a bird's. But as the months went by without even a word, I gradually had to relinquish my hopes of seeing him again. It was not easy to do so, and I am not sure whether I have managed it entirely; however I did stop waking with that thought in my head, imagining what he was doing every hour of the day, and whether his journey would by chance take him past my door. I tried to tell myself instead that I was fortunate in my neglect; that now I needed have no fear that he would arrive and his gimlet eye start to anatomize the cushions, or the curtains, or the state of the fireplace; that now, at last, my life was my own. But truth to tell, I would have given anything to see him walk with his jaunty step up to my front door and rap out a cheerful rhythm with his silver-topped cane.

Security ... what does this word mean in relation to life as we know it today? For the most part, it means safety and freedom from worry. It is said to be the end that all men strive for; but is security a utopian goal or is it another word for rut? Let us visualize the secure man; and by this term, I mean a man who has settled for financial and personal security for his goal in life. In general, he is a man who has pushed ambition and initiative aside and settled down, so to speak, in a boring, but safe and comfortable rut for the rest of his life. His future is but an extension of his present, and he accepts it as such with a complacent shrug of his shoulders. His ideas and ideals are those of society in general and he is accepted as a respectable, but average and prosaic man. But is he a man? has he any self-respect or pride in himself? How could he, when he has risked nothing and gained nothing? What does he think when he sees his youthful dreams of adventure, accomplishment, travel and romance buried under the cloak of conformity? How does he feel when he realizes that he has barely tasted the meal of life; when he sees the prison he has made for himself in pursuit of the almighty dollar? If he thinks this is all well and good, fine, but think of the tragedy of a man who has sacrificed his freedom on the altar of security, and wishes he could turn back the hands of time. A man is to be pitied who lacked the courage to accept the challenge of freedom and depart from the cushion of security and see life as it is instead of living it second-hand. Life has by-passed this man and he has watched from a secure place, afraid to seek anything better What has he done except to sit and wait for the tomorrow which never comes? Turn back the pages of history and see the men who have shaped the destiny of the world. Security was never theirs, but they lived rather than existed. Where would the world be if all men had sought security and not taken risks or gambled with their lives on the chance that, if they won, life would be different and richer? It is from the bystanders (who are in the vast majority) that we receive the propaganda that life is not worth living, that life is drudgery, that the ambitions of youth must he laid aside for a life which is but a painful wait for death. These are the ones who squeeze what excitement they can from life out of the imaginations and experiences of others through books and movies. These are the insignificant and forgotten men who preach conformity because it is all they know. These are the men who dream at night of what could have been, but who wake at dawn to take their places at the now-familiar rut and to merely exist through another day. For them, the romance of life is long dead and they are forced to go through the years on a treadmill, cursing their existence, yet afraid to die because of the unknown which faces them after death. They lacked the only true courage: the kind which enables men to face the unknown regardless of the consequences. As an afterthought, it seems hardly proper to write of life without once mentioning happiness; so we shall let the reader answer this question for himself: who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?

Statements made by distant church bells remind me it is Sunday. Today the sky has become cloudy. I have been watching the clouds and it occurs to me that I have never done this in my life before, simply sit and watch clouds. As a child I would have been far too anxious to ‘waste time’ in this way. And my mother would have stopped me. As I write this I am sitting on my plot of grass behind the house where I have put a chair, cushions, rugs. It is evening. Thick lumpy slate-blue clouds, their bulges lit up to a lighter blue, move slowly across a sky of muddy and yet brilliant gold, a sort of dulled gilt effect. At the horizon there is a light glittering slightly jagged silver line, like modern jewellery. Beneath it the sea is a live choppy lyrical goldeny-brown, jumping with white flecks. The air is warm. Another happy day. (‘Whatever will you do down there?’ they asked.) In a quiet surreptitious way I am feeling very pleased with myself.

Anyway,'' Rachel continues, ''she told me that sometimes, when you lose your happiness, it's best to look for it the same way you'd look for anything else.'' ''By groaning and hurling couch cushions around?'' I guess. ''By retracing your steps.'' Rachel says. ''So, Poppy, all you have to do is think back and ask yourself, when was the last time you were truly happy?

Morgan just has to be the center of attention or she isn’t happy,” Bella whispered. Everyone turned to her, in stun. She sat, thumbing through her iPhone and slouching against the couch cushions. “Bella…” Alani whispered. “No, I want to hear this,” Morgan said, voice trembling. “Is that what you think, B?” “You’ve always been that way,” Bella said. “If Daddy wasn’t always paying attention to you, you’d have a fit. So, he took some of mine and gave it to you. He took some of Eazy’s and gave it to you. He loved us half the time, so he could extra love you. Now, he loves Alani, and you want to take what he’s giving her too. You’re selfish with him, Mo, but he isn’t just yours. He’s all of ours! The whole family needs him, not just you.

But at least the Brother wasn’t kicking him out. So bonus. Boone scrambled across the room and threw himself down on the cushions like his ass was putting a brushfire out. He crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. Then played I’m-looking, I’m-not-looking with Helania. He was pretty sure she’d glanced at him when he’d come in, although if she had, she hadn’t stared at him for long. But what she had done? Smiled at his stupid joke. She had actually laughed a little, too. In the back of his mind, because he was insane, he decided this meant they were totally compatible and destined to be together forever. Yup, one lift to her lips and an awkward giggle were totally signs of eternal passion and happiness. Annnnnnnnd on that note, he had to ease back on his fantasy life.

Another time, the power cut out and we dug up a headlamp and a few candles from one of the still-unpacked moving boxes. While the storm went on outside, we went round and placed the candles at various guiding points throughout the house. When I lit them in the kitchen, it smelled briefly of birthday cakes. I remember cooking a simple dinner, pulling the skins off the tomatoes in the near darkness, going by feel rather than by sight. Laurie had put the record player on, and danced slowly and achingly in front of the cat, who continued to glower from her cushion on the floor. We could barely see the food on the table, noticing only the shapes and textures of the vegetables in their bowls. I had taken the washing in and sheets were hung and draped over the rack, a ladder, a glass door. Outside, we could hear that the wind was strong, but inside it was still. I remembered thinking, as we ate, how such happiness could come from such simple things." (71)

Venting’ does not solve emotional problems as the metaphor of pipes, valves and steam suggests. In the mid-twentieth century, the human-potential movement encouraged us to cry, scream and beat ‘boffers’ (cushioned pads) to release our pain. The therapy rooms and encounter groups of the 1970s reverberated with the thwump of fist meeting cushion. More recently, Brad Bushman and team at Iowa State University effectively demolished the myth that this kind of activity helps us to feel better. In fact, their research shows it actually tends to make us more aggressive. Beating a pillow might legitimise our feelings of anger, encouraging us to relive them

The story of Cinderella and her glass slipper had spread far and wide, and many wished to hear it from her own lips. But as she and the prince traveled the far corners of the world, recounting how they'd met and come to fall in love, they emphasized that their story didn't end with the glass slipper being found and returned to Cinderella. No, their fairy tale continued on, with each day together and later with their children. As for the glass slippers, Cinderella and Charles kept them displayed in the garden for all to see- as a reminder that magic, as wonderful as it could be, was never the key to making one's dreams come true or making one happy. After all, spells were fragile, hopes could shatter, and dreams could stay dreams, never given a chance to take wing. If one looked very carefully, sewn onto the cushion upon which the slippers stood was the word for what Cinderella and the prince found to be even greater than magic, than dreams, than happily ever afters, than even hope- It was love.

CORE MEDITATION: Breathing This classic meditation can deepen concentration by teaching us to focus on the “in breath” and the “out breath.” Sit comfortably on a cushion or chair and keep your back upright, without straining or overarching. If you can’t sit, then lie on your back on a yoga mat or folded blanket with your arms at your sides. Just be at ease and close your eyes, or gaze gently a few feet in front of you and aim for a state of alert relaxation. Take three or four deep breaths, feeling the air as it enters your nostrils, fills your chest and abdomen, and flows out again. Then let your breathing settle into a natural rhythm, and just feel the breath as it happens, without trying to change it or improve it—all you have to do is feel it. Notice where you sense your breath most intensely. Perhaps it’s at the nostrils, or at the chest or abdomen. Then rest your attention as lightly as a butterfly rests on a flower—only on that area—and become aware of the sensations there. For example, if you’re focusing on the breath at the nostrils, you may experience tingling, vibration, or pulsing, or you may observe that the breath is cooler when it comes in and warmer when it goes out. If you’re focusing on the breath at the abdomen, you may feel movement, pressure, stretching, or release. You don’t need to name these feelings—simply let your attention rest on them, one breath at a time. (Notice how often the word rest comes up in this instruction. This is a very restful practice). You don’t need to make the inhalation deeper or longer or different from the way it is. Just be aware of it, one breath at a time. Whenever you notice your attention has wandered and your mind has jumped to the past or the future, to judgment or speculation, don’t worry about it. Seeing your attention has wandered is the signal to gently let go of whatever has distracted you and return your attention to the feeling of the breath. If you have to let go over and over again, that’s fine—being able to more gracefully start over when we’ve become distracted or disconnected is one of the biggest benefits of meditation practice.

When they had gone less than a bowshot from the shore, Drinian said, “Look! What’s that?” and everyone stopped. “Are they great trees?” said Caspian. “Towers, I think,” said Eustace. “It might be giants,” said Edmund in a lower voice. “The way to find out is to go right in among them,” said Reepicheep, drawing his sword and pattering off ahead of everyone else. “I think it’s a ruin,” said Lucy when they had got a good deal nearer, and her guess was the best so far. What they now saw was a wide oblong space flagged with smooth stones and surrounded by gray pillars but unroofed. And from end to end of it ran a long table laid with a rich crimson cloth that came down nearly to the pavement. At either side of it were many chairs of stone richly carved and with silken cushions upon the seats. But on the table itself there was set out such a banquet as had never been seen, not even when Peter the High King kept his court at Cair Paravel. There were turkeys and geese and peacocks, there were boars’ heads and sides of venison, there were pies shaped like ships under full sail or like dragons and elephants, there were ice puddings and bright lobsters and gleaming salmon, there were nuts and grapes, pineapples and peaches, pomegranates and melons and tomatoes. There were flagons of gold and silver and curiously-wrought glass; and the smell of the fruit and the wine blew toward them like a promise of all happiness. “I say!” said Lucy. They came nearer and nearer, all very quietly. “But where are the guests?” asked Eustace. “We can provide that, Sir,” said Rhince.

This has been a wonderful day!' said he, as the Rat shoved off and took to the sculls again. 'Do you know, I've never been in a boat before in all my life.' 'What?' cried the Rat, open-mouthed: 'Never been in a—you never—well I—what have you been doing, then?' 'Is it so nice as all that?' asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and felt the boat sway lightly under him. 'Nice? It's the ONLY thing,' said the Water Rat solemnly, as he leant forward for his stroke. 'Believe me, my young friend, there is NOTHING—absolute nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing,' he went on dreamily: 'messing—about—in—boats; messing——' 'Look ahead, Rat!' cried the Mole suddenly. It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air. '—about in boats—or WITH boats,' the Rat went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. 'In or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not. Look here! If you've really nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long day of it?' The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, and leaned back blissfully into the soft cushions. 'WHAT a day I'm having!' he said. 'Let us start at once!

He ought to be more clever in his murder attempt. Done properly, he could make a wealthy widow of you, and then you’d both have your happy ending.” Harry knew instantly that he shouldn’t have said it—the comment was the kind of cold-blooded sarcasm he had always resorted to when he felt the need to defend himself. He regretted it even before he saw Merripen out of the periphery of his vision. The Rom was giving him a warning shake of his head and drawing a finger across his throat. Poppy was red faced, her brows drawn in a scowl. “What a dreadful thing to say!” Harry cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said brusquely. “I was joking. It was in poor—” He ducked as something came flying at him. “What the devil—” She had thrown something at him, a cushion. “I don’t want to be a widow, I don’t want Michael Bayning, and I don’t want you to joke about such things, you tactless clodpole!” As all three of them stared at her openmouthed, Poppy leapt up and stalked away, her hands drawn into fists. Bewildered by the immediate force of her fury—it was like being stung by a butterfly—Harry stared after her dumbly. After a moment, he asked the first coherent thought that came to him. “Did she just say she doesn’t want Bayning?” “Yes,” Win said, a smile hovering on her lips. “That’s what she said. Go after her, Harry.” Every cell in Harry’s body longed to comply. Except that he had the feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff, with one ill-chosen word likely to send him over. He gave Poppy’s sister a desperate glance. “What should I say?” “Be honest with her about your feelings,” Win suggested. A frown settled on Harry’s face as he considered that. “What’s my second option?” “I’ll handle this,” Merripen told Win before she could reply. Standing, he slung a great arm across Harry’s shoulders and walked him to the side of the terrace. Poppy’s furious form could be seen in the distance. She was walking down the drive to the caretaker’s house, her skirts and shoes kicking up tiny dust storms. Merripen spoke in a low, not unsympathetic tone, as if compelled to guide a hapless fellow male away from danger. “Take my advice, gadjo . . . never argue with a woman when she’s in this state. Tell her you were wrong and you’re sorry as hell. And promise never to do it again.” “I’m still not exactly certain what I did,” Harry said. “That doesn’t matter. Apologize anyway.” Merripen paused and added in whisper, “And whenever your wife is angry . . . for God’s sake, don’t try logic.” “I heard that,” Win said from the chaise.

My cold-weather gear left a lot to be desired: black maternity leggings under boot-cut maternity jeans, and a couple of Marlboro Man’s white T-shirts under an extra-large ASU sweatshirt. I was so happy to have something warm to wear that I didn’t even care that I was wearing the letters of my Pac-10 rival. Add Marlboro Man’s old lumberjack cap and mud boots that were four sizes too big and I was on my way to being a complete beauty queen. I seriously didn’t know how Marlboro Man would be able to keep his hands off of me. If I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the feed truck, I’d shiver violently. But really, when it came right down to it, I didn’t care. No matter what I looked like, it just didn’t feel right sending Marlboro Man into the cold, lonely world day after day. Even though I was new at marriage, I still sensed that somehow--whether because of biology or societal conditioning or religious mandate or the position of the moon--it was I who was to be the cushion between Marlboro Man and the cruel, hard world. That it was I who’d needed to dust off his shoulders every day. And though he didn’t say it, I could tell that he felt better when I was bouncing along, chubby and carrying his child, in his feed truck next to him. Occasionally I’d hop out of the pickup and open gates. Other times he’d hop out and open them. Sometimes I’d drive while he threw hay off the back of the vehicles. Sometimes I’d get stuck and he’d say shit. Sometimes we’d just sit in silence, shivering as the vehicle doors opened and closed. Other times we’d engage in serious conversation or stop and make out in the snow. All the while, our gestating baby rested in the warmth of my body, blissfully unaware of all the work that awaited him on this ranch where his dad had grown up. As I accompanied Marlboro Man on those long, frigid mornings of work, I wondered if our child would ever know the fun of sledding on a golf course hill…or any hill, for that matter. I’d lived on the ranch for five months and didn’t remember ever hearing about anyone sledding…or playing golf…or participating in any recreational activities at all. I was just beginning to wrap my mind around the way daily life unfolded here: wake up early, get your work done, eat, relax, and go to bed. Repeat daily. There wasn’t a calendar of events or dinner dates with friends in town or really much room for recreation--because that just meant double the work when you got back to work. It was hard for me not to wonder when any of these people ever went out and had a good time, or built a snowman. Or slept past 5:00 A.M.

On quitting Bretton, which I did a few weeks after Paulina’s departure—little thinking then I was never again to visit it; never more to tread its calm old streets—I betook myself home, having been absent six months. It will be conjectured that I was of course glad to return to the bosom of my kindred. Well! the amiable conjecture does no harm, and may therefore be safely left uncontradicted. Far from saying nay, indeed, I will permit the reader to picture me, for the next eight years, as a bark slumbering through halcyon weather, in a harbour still as glass—the steersman stretched on the little deck, his face up to heaven, his eyes closed: buried, if you will, in a long prayer. A great many women and girls are supposed to pass their lives something in that fashion; why not I with the rest? Picture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched on a cushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezes indolently soft. However, it cannot be concealed that, in that case, I must somehow have fallen overboard, or that there must have been wreck at last. I too well remember a time—a long time—of cold, of danger, of contention. To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats the rush and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressure on my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that not of one hour nor one day. For many days and nights neither sun nor stars appeared; we cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship; a heavy tempest lay on us; all hope that we should be saved was taken away. In fine, the ship was lost, the crew perished. As far as I recollect, I complained to no one about these troubles. Indeed, to whom could I complain? Of Mrs. Bretton I had long lost sight. Impediments, raised by others, had, years ago, come in the way of our intercourse, and cut it off. Besides, time had brought changes for her, too: the handsome property of which she was left guardian for her son, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint-stock undertaking, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its original amount. Graham, I learned from incidental rumours, had adopted a profession; both he and his mother were gone from Bretton, and were understood to be now in London. Thus, there remained no possibility of dependence on others; to myself alone could I look. I know not that I was of a self-reliant or active nature; but self-reliance and exertion were forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousands besides; and when Miss Marchmont, a maiden lady of our neighbourhood, sent for me, I obeyed her behest, in the hope that she might assign me some task I could undertake.

My third son banged his head against the crib every night after we moved into a new house. Actually, he struck his shoulder blades more than his head against the headboard of his crib. My solution was to use soft cushions to pad both ends and both sides completely. Now when he banged away there was no racket, no pain, and no parental attention. After a few days he stopped. Other parents are not so lucky. About 5 to 10 percent of children will bang or roll their heads before falling asleep during their first few years. This usually starts at about eight months of age. Boys behave this way more than girls. No behavioral or emotional problems are seen in these children as they develop, and they certainly have no neurological problems. Body rocking before falling asleep also occurs in normal children.

But I’ve seen a lot of people walk a lot of roads. Some not so happy. And it makes them what they are. So if you run around putting a pillow under people to cushion their fall . . . well, I’m just not sure it’s quite the favor we think it is.

Thirty-six years. I’m not saying I know it all. In one way, we’ve all just got the time since we got up this morning. But I’ve seen a lot of people walk a lot of roads. Some not so happy. And it makes them what they are. So if you run around putting a pillow under people to cushion their fall . . . well, I’m just not sure it’s quite the favor we think it is.

Mate. He’d told Hayden he would stick to his routine. That meant watching the game at her apartment on Sunday and maintaining their friendship. His logical mind fought against his growing urges. Last night, he couldn’t have a simple conversation without touching her. And she didn’t make things any easier. He could smell the desire pouring out of her. It took every ounce of his self-control to hold himself back. At times, it was painful. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve got the situation under control.” Cam laughed. “Like you did yesterday? Dude, we both know it’s only going to get worse. You’re like a ticking sex bomb.” Deep down, Kaden knew he was right. Annabelle would become an irresistible, unquenchable thirst. Ordinarily, she would feel the same pull, but there was no way to know how a human would react. “There’s no such thing as a sex bomb.” Cam spread himself flat across the sofa with his arms crossed behind his head. “Yeah, well, there definitely should be.” “Be serious.” He sat up. “I’m trying to tell you, it’s foolish to fight the bond between you. You’d be better off going with it and letting the panties drop where they may.” And what would happen if he did bond with her? There was no chance it would ever work out between them. He had to hide who he was from the world. A life with him meant Annabelle would have to lie to her friends and family about their relationship. He would never be able to marry her or give her the children she wanted. They’d talked about her dreams for a white picket fence and a family. Even if she were willing to give up those things, wouldn’t he be putting her life in danger? A dull ache formed in the pit of his chest. “You know that’s not possible.” If he could somehow push away these human emotions of his, maybe he stood a chance of keeping her in his life. Maybe someday he could actually be happy for her if she found a suitable mate. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands at the thought of her with a human. “I have to go. She’s waiting for me.” “Don’t forget the condoms,” Cam shouted out. “Matter of fact, you might want to double up. With all your pent-up frustration, there’s bound to be an explosion.” “Hilarious,” he replied, shutting the door behind him as he made his way toward his truck. Once inside, he slid his seat belt on and leaned back against the head cushion with his eyes closed. Filled with self-doubt, he worried that he wouldn’t be able to handle it. But he had to. For the sake of everyone he loved, he had to find a way.

You have to be an optimist to believe in the Singularity,” she says, “and that’s harder than it seems. Have you ever played Maximum Happy Imagination?” “Sounds like a Japanese game show.” Kat straightens her shoulders. “Okay, we’re going to play. To start, imagine the future. The good future. No nuclear bombs. Pretend you’re a science fiction writer.” Okay: “World government … no cancer … hover-boards.” “Go further. What’s the good future after that?” “Spaceships. Party on Mars.” “Further.” “Star Trek. Transporters. You can go anywhere.” “Further.” I pause a moment, then realize: “I can’t.” Kat shakes her head. “It’s really hard. And that’s, what, a thousand years? What comes after that? What could possibly come after that? Imagination runs out. But it makes sense, right? We probably just imagine things based on what we already know, and we run out of analogies in the thirty-first century.” I’m trying hard to imagine an average day in the year 3012. I can’t even come up with a half-decent scene. Will people live in buildings? Will they wear clothes? My imagination is almost physically straining. Fingers of thought are raking the space behind the cushions, looking for loose ideas, finding nothing. “Personally, I think the big change is going to be our brains,” Kat says, tapping just above her ear, which is pink and cute. “I think we’re going to find different ways to think, thanks to computers. You expect me to say that”—yes—“but it’s happened before. It’s not like we have the same brains as people a thousand years ago.” Wait: “Yes we do.” “We have the same hardware, but not the same software. Did you know that the concept of privacy is, like, totally recent? And so is the idea of romance, of course.” Yes, as a matter of fact, I think the idea of romance just occurred to me last night. (I don’t say that out loud.) “Each big idea like that is an operating system upgrade,” she says, smiling. Comfortable territory. “Writers are responsible for some of it. They say Shakespeare invented the internal monologue.” Oh, I am very familiar with the internal monologue. “But I think the writers had their turn,” she says, “and now it’s programmers who get to upgrade the human operating system.” I am definitely talking to a girl from Google. “So what’s the next upgrade?” “It’s already happening,” she says. “There are all these things you can do, and it’s like you’re in more than one place at one time, and it’s totally normal. I mean, look around.” I swivel my head, and I see what she wants me to see: dozens of people sitting at tiny tables, all leaning into phones showing them places that don’t exist and yet are somehow more interesting than the Gourmet Grotto. “And it’s not weird, it’s not science fiction at all, it’s…” She slows down a little and her eyes dim. I think she thinks she’s getting too intense. (How do I know that? Does my brain have an app for that?) Her cheeks are flushed and she looks great with all her blood right there at the surface of her skin. “Well,” she says finally, “it’s just that I think the Singularity is totally reasonable to imagine.

You wouldn’t be happy with him,” Marcus said, disregarding her struggles as easily as if she were a writhing cat he had caught by the scruff of the neck. The coat he had placed around her shoulders fell to the floor. “What makes you think I would be any better off with you?” He clamped his hands around her wrists, and twisted her arms behind her back, giving a grunt of surprise as she stomped hard on his instep. “Because you need me,” he said, drawing in his breath as she squirmed against him. “Just as I need you.” He crushed his mouth on hers. “I’ve needed you for years.” Another kiss, this one deep and drugging, his tongue searching her intimately. She might have continued to grapple with him had he not done something that surprised her. He released her wrists and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close in a warm, tender embrace. Caught off-guard, she went still, her heart thumping madly. “It wasn’t a meaningless act for me either,” Marcus said, his raspy whisper tickling her ear. “Yesterday I finally realized that all the things I thought were wrong about you were actually the things I enjoyed most. I don’t give a damn what you do, so long as it pleases you. Run barefoot on the front lawn. Eat pudding with your fingers. Tell me to go to hell as often as you like. I want you just as you are. After all, you’re the only woman aside from my sisters who has ever dared to tell me to my face that I’m an arrogant ass. How could I resist you?” His mouth moved to the soft cushion of her cheek. “My dearest Lillian,” he whispered, easing her head back to kiss her eyelids. “If I had the gift of poetry, I would shower you with sonnets. But words have always been difficult for me when my feelings are strongest. And there is one word in particular that I can’t bring myself to say to you…‘ goodbye.’ I couldn’t bear the sight of you walking away from me. If you won’t marry me for the sake of your own honor, then do it for the sake of everyone who would have to tolerate me otherwise. Marry me because I need someone who will help me to laugh at myself. Because someone has to teach me how to whistle. Marry me, Lillian… because I have the most irresistible fascination for your ears.” “My ears?” Bewildered, Lillian felt him duck his head to nip at the pink tip of her earlobe. “Mmmm. The most perfect ears I’ve ever seen.

Rachel continues, “she told me that sometimes, when you lose your happiness, it’s best to look for it the same way you’d look for anything else.” “By groaning and hurling couch cushions around?” I guess. “By retracing your steps,” Rachel says. “So, Poppy, all you have to do is think back and ask yourself, when was the last time you were truly happy?

We sat down to eat, right?” continued Gonzales. “And so... yeah, we sat down to eat and then we talked about chairs. Chairs! That drove our conversation gooooood. And none of us wanted to talk about it, but we smiled and made the best of it. Said a bunch of smart things about chairs—and French café chairs, and shopping for one, and sofas and her thoughts on the proper cushioning. And it was very engaging, but why didn’t any of us cut the crap and say, ‘I don’t care about chairs. I want to— I don’t know—roll around in the grass with you!’ We just spend the whole couple of hours able to grasp each other’s ideas and respond perfectly, but it’s so careful that we don’t get anywhere. I don’t know why that happens. We got love all up in our heads, man. We articulate who we are, but we don’t show people. She and I are just clever. There’s no chemistry in being clever. I mean, why interview on dates man? It’s not like anyone’s gonna tell the truth. Better to lay down with her, like cubs, really be with her, and see if we want to hold each other or not. But you can’t ask someone to do that, huh?” said Gonzales, defeated.

Find a quiet place where you can practice consistently. This way the physical space—a room, a corner, a cushion—will help signal to your body that this is a time for your practice. Sit comfortably. If you are sitting on a cushion or chair, try to lean slightly forward, away from the back of the chair so that your back will be straight. If you have chronic back pain, adjust as necessary. Close your eyes or keep them slightly open in a restful position. Place your hands gently on your knees or in your lap. Focus your attention on your breath. Breathe in deeply through your nose as your belly expands. As a jug of water fills from the bottom, your lungs should also fill from the bottom. Breathe out slowly. On each inhalation you can think in, and on each exhalation you can think out. Alternatively, you can count each breath after each exhalation. You can count out five to ten breaths and then repeat. If you lose your focus and your mind begins to wander, as minds do, just gently bring your attention back to your breath. You can start by doing this for five to ten minutes and extend the time as your practice develops. If you are feeling particularly stressed, you can imagine each breath bringing in calming cool air and it spreading throughout your body. Then, as you release your breath, you can imagine the stress leaving your body from the neck, shoulders, back, tummy, or wherever you tend to hold on to stress.

The cat had missed him. Deeply. It was soothing to Tagen's soul to be greeted in so enthusiastic a manner. He solemnly offered up his body to be the cushion for Grendel's enormous bulk, and massaged happy growls from the creature while he studied his map.

The rough, gray stone was warm under hand from the heat of the sun. In the cracks, a scarlet snapdragon flourished, and further on, a yellow-brown wallflower, and nearer at hand, a cushion of gray-green upheld the roundness of sea pinks on their stiff stems, like old-fashioned hatpins. A seagull planed its way down to the water on curving, outstretched wings. The salt air blew coolly on her flushed cheeks and she smiled to herself in her happiness. ‘I wonder if there is something wrong with me?’ she wondered. ‘That I can get so much from so little?

What goes down always comes up and what comes up always goes down. Such is Life. Celebrate its suchness. And keep flowing with Life. Sometimes reaping rich dividends and sometimes feeling good you have either cushioned well for a loss or learning that you could have cushioned better. Enjoy the ride!

You do know scones are not donuts, right?" Nina wasn't one to pass up any baked goods, but a donut was a donut. No scone would do. "This is not your white, British-royals high tea, my friend. This is Highland Park high tea. It opened a month ago, and I think we're about to have our whole world rocked." The Jam's exterior was black-and-white---- if you blinked you'd miss it. But when they went inside Nina immediately spotted a colorful mural of dinosaurs seated on velvet cushions, eating donuts and drinking out of porcelain cups. A pristine glass display case on the opposite wall featured rows and rows of endless donuts--- a happy welcoming committee of frosting and dough. "We'll be having tea for two," Jasmine said at the counter. "And for my donut, could I get the Swirly Rosewater, please?" As soon as she saw the names and flavors of the donuts, she instantly knew two things: one, she was going to love these, and two, Leo would absolutely hate them. Nina suddenly felt sympathy for Leo any time a contestant created a unique flavor pairing on the show. She raced to find the donut her friend had ordered in the case, and landed on a frosted pink cake donut that had a lemon rosewater glaze topped with roasted pistachios. "You live your life in pink, Jas." "No better color. So from what I read online, the deal is that instead of scones, they do vegan donuts---" Nina's eyes narrowed, and Jasmine glared right back. "Don't judge. What are you going to get?" "I need chocolate," Nina said. She scanned the rows in search of the perfect solution. "May I recommend our Chocolate from the Crypt donut?" the saleswoman suggested from behind the display. Her sharp bangs and blunt ponytail bobbed as she explained, "It's our fall-themed donut--- chocolate cake with a chocolate glaze, and it's got a kick from the cayenne pepper and cinnamon we add in." "Oh, my donut," Nina said. In the case was an absolutely gorgeous chocolate confection--- the cayenne and cinnamon flakes on the outside created a black-and-orange effect. "I am sold." "You got it." The saleswoman nodded and rang them up. A narrow hallway covered in murals of cartoon animals drinking tea led them to the official tearoom. Soaring ceilings revealed exposed beams and brick walls, signaling that the building was likely older and newly restored. Modern, barrel-back walnut chairs were clustered around ultrasleek Scandinavian round tables. Nina felt like she'd followed Jasmine down a rabbit hole and emerged into the modern interpretation of the Mad Hatter's tea party. "This is like..." Nina began. "It's a fun aesthetic." "I know, right?" Jasmine replied as they sat down. "It makes me feel like I'm not cool enough to be here, but glad I got invited." Nina picked up the prix fixe high tea menu on the table. The Jam's version of finger sandwiches were crispy "chicken" sliders, potato-hash tacos and mini banh mi, and in lieu of scones, they offered cornbread with raspberry jam and their signature donuts. "And it's all vegan...?" "Yes, my friendly carnivore, and hopefully delicious.

We nonjoyous types suck energy and cheer from the joyous ones; we rely on them to buoy us with their good spirit and to cushion our agitation and anxiety. At the same time, because of a dark element in human nature, we're sometimes provoked to try to shake the enthusiastic, cheery folk out of their fog of illusion—to make them see that the play was stupid, the money was wasted, the meeting was pointless. Instead of shielding their joy, we blast it.

lot of roads. Some not so happy. And it makes them what they are. So if you run around putting a pillow under people to cushion their fall . . . well, I’m just not sure it’s quite the favor we think it is.

Your wish, my command.’ Marcel sprawled on the couch while I started the movie, fast-forwarding through the opening credits. When I perched on the edge of the sofa in front of him, he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me against his chest. It wasn't exactly as comfortable as a sofa cushion would be, what with his chest being hard and cold-and perfect-as an ice sculpture, but it was preferable. He pulled the old afghan off the back of the couch and draped it over me, so I wouldn't freeze beside his body. ‘You know, I've never had much patience with Romeo,’ he commented as the movie started. ‘What's wrong with Romeo?’ I asked, a little offended. Romeo was one of my favorite fictional characters. Until I'd met Marcel, I'd had a thing for him. ‘Well, first, he's in love with this Rosaline-don't you think it makes him seem a little fickle? And then, a few minutes after their wedding, he kills Juliet's cousin. That's not very brilliant. Mistake after mistake. Could he have destroyed his happiness any more thoroughly?’ I sighed. ‘Do you want me to watch this alone?’ ‘No, I'll mostly be watching you, anyway.’ His fingers traced patterns across the skin of my arm, raising goosebumps. ‘Will you cry?’ ‘Probably,’ I admitted, ‘if I'm paying attention.’ ‘I won't distract you then.’ But I felt his lips on my hair, and it was very distracting. The movie eventually captured my interest, thanks in large part to Marcel whispering Romeo's lines in my ear-his irresistible, velvet voice made the actor's voice sound week and coarse by comparison. And I did cry, to his amusement, when Juliet woke and found her new husband dead. ‘I'll admit, I do sort of envy him here, ‘Marcel said, drying the tears with a lock of my hair.

Imagine an alien species with the power to fall asleep at will – they would regard human bedtime behaviour as essentially ridiculous. ‘Rather than just going to sleep, they go through a strange religious ritual,’ an alien anthropologist would remark. ‘They turn off lights, reduce all noise to a minimum and then remove the seven decorative cushions which for no apparent reason are placed at the head of the bed.* Then they lie in silence and darkness, in the hope that sleep descends upon them. And rather than simply waking up when they wish, they program a strange machine which sounds a bell at an appointed time, to nudge them back into consciousness. This seems ridiculous.’ Similarly, imagine an alien species that could decide how happy it wanted to be. They would regard the entire human entertainment industry as a spectacular economic waste.

Anyway,” Rachel continues, “she told me that sometimes, when you lose your happiness, it’s best to look for it the same way you’d look for anything else.” “By groaning and hurling couch cushions around?” I guess. “By retracing your steps,” Rachel says.

she told me that sometimes, when you lose your happiness, it’s best to look for it the same way you’d look for anything else.” “By groaning and hurling couch cushions around?” I guess. “By retracing your steps,” Rachel says. “So, Poppy, all you have to do is think back and ask yourself, when was the last time you were truly happy?

I heard Chuck Swindoll share another refreshing thought on one of his broadcasts. He said that Christians can be like a sack of marbles—unfeeling, unloving, just clacking against each other as they go through life. Or, they can be caring people—like a sack of grapes pressing together to provide a soft, loving place to cushion and comfort each other from the hard crushes of life.

I was going to wait for a special occasion, but I don’t want to wait. I want to put a ring on her as soon as possible. I want her to be mine. All mine. Her eyes go wide when I show her the box. “I can’t quite go down onto one knee,” I say in apology. Her eyes fill with tears, and I stuff the box back down in the cushions. “We can do this another time,” I say. “Are you kidding?” she asks. She takes my shirt in her fists and jerks me toward her. “Ask me. Ask me. Please ask me.” She’s in my face, and I’ve never been more in love with her than I am right now. But she sits back, looks at me sheepishly, and says, “If you want to ask me, that is. You don’t have to ask me if you don’t want to.” I wrap my arm around her head and give her a noogie. “I don’t just want to. I have to.” She looks up at me, her thoughts in as much turmoil as her hair. “I can’t live without you, dummy,” I try to explain. She grins at the term of endearment. There was a time that a word like that would have shredded her; now it’s just a word. A funny one, too, because she’s the opposite of dumb. “I love you,” she says. She kisses me, her tongue sweeping into my mouth, the gentle touch of it against mine making me go rock hard immediately. “Get the box back out,” she says. I can feel her grin against my lips when she goes back to kissing me. “What box?” I ask. “The ring. Ask me. I promise I’ll say yes.” “You’re so easy,” I tease. She wasn’t always easy. It was damn hard loving her in the beginning, but I couldn’t avoid it. She’s like a piece of me that was missing all my life. I can’t imagine a day without her. I reach into the cushions and pick up the box. My heart is thumping in my chest like a roofer’s hammer, even though she just told me she was going to accept. I open the box, and it creaks on its hinges. “Will you marry me?” I ask. She takes the box and sits back, an open-mouth grin on her face. It’s a mixture of awe and happiness. “I used to look at this when I was little. My dad said my rich husband would get me a big, fat rock and we’d live happily ever after. But all I ever wanted was this ring and a husband who loved me.” I tip her face up to mine with a crooked finger under her chin. “I love you.” I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Did you forget to say yes?” “I didn’t forget,” she tosses back at me. She sets the box on the table and gets up. “I just haven’t said yes, yet.” She points toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I’m thirsty.” She gets up like she’s going to walk away, but I grab her shirt in my fist and pull her back down. I pick up the box, take the ring out of it, and hold it up. “Marry me, Em,” I plead. “If you say yes, we can have lots of crazy sex and live happily ever after.” I want to laugh, but I can’t. It’s not really funny. “Marry me, Em,” I repeat. “Please.” She smacks me on the forehead with palm of her hand, and I’m momentarily stunned. “Of course I’ll marry you,” she says. She lets me slide the ring onto her finger. “I couldn’t make it easy for you, dummy,” she says. She settles into my side and nuzzles into that spot that’s all hers. There are no secrets between us. Not anymore. And it feels so fucking good.

Nic walked to the end of the hallway and opened the door that led to the unfinished attic. She flipped on the light switch and gasped aloud. The attic wasn’t merely finished. It had been transformed. He’d chosen a mountain wildlife theme for the nursery that suited the space to a T, and he’d included two sets of everything—two cribs, two dressers, two changing tables, and even two full-size rocking chairs. Both rockers sported cushions that had been embroidered with two words: Mama Bear on one, Papa Bear on the other. “Oh, Gabe,” she said with a sigh. She sat in the Mama Bear rocker, rubbed her belly, and that’s when she saw the mural on the wall. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, two Baby Bears, and a crooked-tailed boxer sprawled at their feet. Papa Bear held a T-square. Mama Bear had a stethoscope draped around her neck. In the sky to the right, a happy-faced sun shined down upon them. In the sky to the left, two silhouettes with angel wings sat perched at the apex of a rainbow. Gabe

The major set Lily in a chair near the fire, and he dropped to one knee in front of her, took her hand in his, and kissed it He looked so like a prince from a fairy tale that Lily was nearly overcome. “I didn’t make a proper proposal before,” he said quietly. “Oh, Caleb.” “There’s never been anyone else for me, Lily,” he went on, “and there never will be again. I’m promising you right now that your happiness will always be as important to me as my own.” Lily’s eyes brimmed with joyous tears. Why had she waited so long? She put her arms around Caleb’s neck and embraced him, and his head was cradled against the plump cushion of her breasts. “I love you so much,” she whispered. He looked up at her, a glint dancing in his eyes. “Show me, Mrs. Halliday.” Lily

So, I thought. At the end of the day, it’s pointless speculating what a kid might think. There’s no way to know ahead of time. I’ll do everything I can so that my kid is happy they were born. What more can you do? At the moment, I had 7,250,000 yen in my fixed deposit bank account. The sum total of my royalties. I hadn’t dipped into it once. I grew up in a house where there was no such thing as wiggle room. We were barely scraping by. Saving absolutely nothing. Zero. Sometimes we had to take on debt. It wasn’t uncommon for us to live without heat or gas for a while. Compared with that, I had more of a cushion than I knew what to do with. There probably aren’t too many parents in their late thirties who had saved as much as me. Since it would be just the two of us, me and my baby, I was confident that if I tracked all of our expenses, we would have enough to lead a decent life. Sure, I might get sick, or get into an accident, and sure, we would be basically alone—there was no shortage of potential problems, but the same goes for most married couples, or parents left

She lifts her feet up onto the couch. Her thighs are plump and perfect and I suddenly want to touch them. I have to fight to keep my hands on my side of the couch, because while she might like me, she’s definitely not at the same place I’m at. “Stop it,” she says. I jerk my eyes back up to her face. “Stop what?” “Stop staring at my fat.” “I wasn’t staring at fat.” I look into her eyes. “I was staring at those awesomely gorgeous legs, if you must know.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, stop it.” “Can’t. Sorry. They’re awesome. And awesome things get stared at. Deal with it.” I grin at her. She’s not amused. She puts her feet back down on the floor. “I think I’m going to go to bed.” “Don’t go.” I grab her as she tries to get up, but with my bum leg, I can’t chase her down. I grab her forearm and gently pull her back down, only this time she’s on the middle couch cushion. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” I hold up my hands like I’m surrendering to the cops. “I promise.” She settles back against the sofa. “You make me nervous,” she admits. What? “Why?” “I don’t know how to take you.” I shrug. “Just take me at face value, I guess?” I make it sound like a question, but it’s not. “But you have so many faces.” She covers her own face with her hands and groans. “No, I don’t.” I look at her. Really look at her. “I’m the same guy you see every single time I’ve been with you.” “I didn’t mean to make you angry.” She has been talking to me for about five minutes without tapping or banging anything. I look down at her feet. She’s tapping out a rhythm with her bare, pink little toes. “I’m not angry,” I tell her. “Then what are you?” “I’m just a guy with a seriously hot chick on his couch watching the chef cook-off show.” I lay my hands on my stomach. “My belly is full, my apartment’s not empty for the first time in months, and I’m happy you’re here. Can you just live with that?” She

After changing into a yellow day dress with airy pagoda sleeves that ended at the elbow, she went to the family's private upstairs parlor. The family dogs, a pair of small black spaniels named Napoleon and Josephine, saw her in the hallway and trotted after her. The parlor was comfortably cluttered with heaps of colorful cushions on the furniture, a battered piano in the corner, and piles of books everywhere. She sat cross-legged on the carpet with the dogs, smiling as they bounded in and out of her lap excitedly. "We don't need Prince Charming, do we?" she asked them aloud. "No, we do not. There's a patch of sun on the carpet and books nearby- that's all we need to be happy." The spaniels stretched out in a bright yellow rectangle, wriggling and sighing in contentment. After petting and scratching the dogs for a while, Cassandra reached out to a stack of books on a low table, and sorted through them idly. Double Wedding... The Secret Duke... My Dashing Suitor, and other romantic novels she had read and reread. Much lower in the pile, there were books such as History of the Thirty Years' Peace and Life of Nelson, the kind one read in case one was called upon to make insightful comments at dinner.

She had expected that sleep would be elusive, with all the thoughts buzzing through her mind. However, a deep slumber soon overtook her, and she sagged against the seat cushions. Shifting, twisting restlessly, she sought a more comfortable position. She felt herself being gathered up and held like a child, and the dream was so soothing that she couldn't help but surrender to the insidious pleasure. Something soft brushed her forehead, and the last few pins that anchored her coiffure were gently drawn from her hair. She inhaled the a wonderful scent, the crispness of wool and shaving soap overlaying the essence of clean male skin. Realizing that she was lying in Gentry's arms, snuggled in his lap, she stirred groggily. "What... what..." "Sleep," he whispered. "I won't harm you." His long fingers moved through the loose locks of her hair. The part of Lottie's mind that protested such a circumstance grappled with the rest of her brain, which pointed out that she was exhausted, and at this point it hardly mattered what liberties she allowed him. However, she stubbornly tugged free of him and pushed away from the invading warmth of his body. He released her easily, his eyes a dark glitter in the shadows. "I'm not your enemy, Lottie." "Are you my friend?" she parried. "You haven't behaved like one so far." "I haven't forced you to do anything you didn't want to do." "If you hadn't found me, I would still be residing happily at Stony Cross Park-" "You weren't happy there. I'll wager you haven't been happy a day in your life since you met Lord Radnor." Oh, how she longed to contradict him! But it was pointless to lie, when the truth was obvious. "You'll find life a hell of a lot more enjoyable as my wife," Gentry continued. "You won't be anyone's servant. You can do as you please, within reasonable limits. And you won't have to fear Lord Radnor any longer." "All for the price of sleeping with you," she muttered. He smiled, all velvety arrogance as he replied. "You may come to enjoy that part of it most of all.

We’re home,” I said. “Well, not our home but…” I leaned back into the cushions and let out a happy sigh. “Close enough for now.” “Feels good, doesn’t it?” “Unbelievably good.” I opened my eyes and glanced at him. “Thank you. For keeping me on my feet and getting us back here.” “Um, pretty sure you did at least half of the ‘getting us back here’ part. And I needed some help staying afloat, too.” He paused. “Well, not as much as you, but that’s because I’m a guy and we’re naturally tougher.” I threw a pillow at him.

Our immaturity is scaring her off,” I said. “Sorry, Sam. Come back and we’ll act our age.” “No, I’m just grabbing some food. You two carry on. You’ve earned a maturity time-out.” I let go of Daniel’s feet and he pulled them off my lap. “We’re home,” I said. “Well, not our home but…” I leaned back into the cushions and let out a happy sigh. “Close enough for now.