Gorgeous Sister Quotes

Olly: jesus. is there a girl on this planet who doesn't love mr.darcy Madeline: All girls love Mr. Darcy? Olly: are you kidding? even my sister loves darcy and she doesn't love anybody Madeline: She must love somebody. I'm sure she loves you Olly: what's so great about darcy? Madeline: That's not a serious question Olly: he's a snob Madeline: But he overcomes it and eventually realizes that character matters more than class! He's a man open to learning life's lessons! Also, he's completely gorgeous and noble and brooding and poetic. Did I mention gorgeous? Also, he loves Elizabeth beyond all reason.

What about your freedom?" he whispered in her ear over a minute later, bracing his hands palms down on the wall beside her head. He made no move to stop her as she stroked and petted every inch of that sinfully gorgeous chest, all hard muscle and gleaming skin overlaid with silky-rough strands of dark hair. "Idiot." She nipped his jaw with her teeth. "The only freedom I ever wanted was the right to love you.

There's a moment when you realise all your worst fears have come true. When the fat girl stuffing her face in the corner finally recognises food gives her the comfort she can't find in anyone else. When the gorgeous man with the body of a god realises he changes women like shoes because he's scared one won't find enough reason to stay. When you see the world for what it really is, see it for all the horrors the news can't or won't report. There's a moment when you realise and accept that you are the worthless piece of shit your father always said you were, because even a diseased crack-head wouldn't kill their own sister. It was a moment Kerestyan, a defining moment...an epiphany of imperfection.

A woman is a blissful mother, a wonderful sister, a gorgeous daughter, and a friend with a kind heart who really cares. Wishing you a wonderful International Women’s Day

Bad news? The person driving said Aston Martin was the last person I wanted—or expected—to pick me up. He wasn’t an I’ll do my buddy a favor and rescue his stranded little sister kinda guy. He was a look at me wrong and I’ll destroy you and everyone you care about kinda guy, and he’d do it looking so calm and gorgeous you wouldn’t notice your world burning down around you until you were already a heap of ashes at his Tom Ford-clad feet.

I thought bridesmaid's dresses were supposed to be horrid and ugly to make the bride more stunning," I joked to her in a whisper. "Yeah right, you marry a gorgeous actor and you want me to show up in a Goodwill special? No way sister! There are bound to be other single, gorgeous actors around, and I intend to land one of them for myself. Or get laid at the very least."...

A bright haze seemed to lie over everything, and she had a feeling of unreality, but the scene itself looked almost unbelievably wholesome, like something out of a commercial. Just your average family sitting down to eat turkey, she thought. One slightly flustered aunt, worried that the peas will be mushy and the rolls burnt, one comfortable uncle-to-be, one golden-haired teenage niece and her baby sister. One blue-eyed boy-next-door type, one spritely girlfriend, one gorgeous vampire passing the vegetables. A typical American household.

A women living alone in a big ole house almost always invites the question of how she's going to fill it. Partner, kids, multiple rescue dogs, each with its own Instagram account. But a five-million-dollar shack in the most expensive beach destination in the country answers that question with gorgeous restraint. A woman in a home only big enough for herself is the ultimate fuck you to patriarchal society. It says, 'I am enough for me'.

Rose leaned against the bathroom door. Here it was — her real life, the truth of who she was, barreling down on her like a bus with bad brakes. Here was the truth — she wasn’t the kind of person Jim could fall in love with. She wasn’t what she’d made herself out to be — a cheerful, uncomplicated girl, a normal girl with a happy, orderly life, a girl who wore pretty shoes and had nothing more pressing on her mind that whether ER was a rerun this week. The truth was in the exercise tape she didn’t have time to unwrap, let alone exercise to; the truth was her hairy legs and ugly underwear. Most of all, the truth was her sister, her gorgeous, messed-up, fantastically unhappy and astoundingly irresponsible sister.

What then will you answer the Judge? You gorgeously array your walls, but do not clothe your fellow human being; you adorn horses, but turn away from the shameful plight of your brother or sister; you allow grain to rot in your barns, but do not feed those who are starving; you hide gold in the earth, but ignore the oppressed!

You’ve had twelve more years than my sister had, and what have you done with them? What would you tell her, Flint? I’d tell her to let her family have as much of her time as she can give them. Go to the zoo, and the beach, and every museum within a hundred-mile radius if that’s what they want, just to be in the car with them. I’d tell her to soak up whatever spots of joy she can. To slow down and savor that gorgeous sunset, a long hug, a warm blanket, her favourite food. To let in that old friend and all the good memories that come with them.

Stefano's the oldest. He has four brothers, equally hot. One sister, totally beautiful. When they walk around together, people just stare at them. That's how hot they are. Each one is supercool as well, which makes them scorching hot. I'm a little in love with them, including their sister. That's how totally gorgeous they are.

I have been searching for you for centuries, Jenna. I never knew your name or if you were even alive yet, but I had already memorized every part of your gorgeous face, your scent, the glimmer in your eyes. I had dreamed it all many times over the course of my long existence. I searched for you because I knew you were my mate.” - Lucas Thaler, Demon King

Adrienne snatched an hors d'oeuvre from a passing tray. She had eaten a sausage grinder for family meal but this food was too gorgeous to pass up. She stopped at the buffet table and dipped a crab claw in a lemony mayonnaise. Her champagne was icee cold; it was crisp, like an apple. Across the tent, she saw Darla Parrish and her sister Eleanor standing in front of a table where a man was slicing gravlax.

But I felt it now. Something was wrong, right here, very horribly wrong. I could picture Bob Nash sitting on the edge of Ann’s bed, trying to remember the last thing he said to his daughter. I saw Natalie’s mother, crying into one of her old T-shirts. I saw me, a despairing thirteen-year-old sobbing on the floor of my dead sister’s room, holding a small flowered shoe. Or Amma, thirteen herself, a woman-child with a gorgeous body and a gnawing desire to be the baby girl my mother mourned. My mother weeping over Marian. Biting that baby. Amma, asserting her power over lesser creatures, laughing as she and her friends cut through Natalie’s hair, the curls falling to the tile floor. Natalie, stabbing at the eyes of a little girl. My skin was screaming, my ears banged with my heartbeat. I closed my eyes, wrapped my arms around myself, and wept.

Earlier that night, after dinner, I had sung a few folk songs for Paul. He had inquired about what I had learned during the school year and, already steeped in summer and drawing a blank, I offered a few songs I had memorized from Lan. I sang, in my best effort, a classic lullaby Lan used to sing. The song, originally performed by the famous Khanh Ly, describes a woman singing among corpses strewn across sloping leafy hills. Searching the faces of the dead, the singer asks in the song's refrain, "And which of you, which of you are my sister?

I had no sister, but I felt as if she were one." "A sister? You think of a woman that gorgeous as a sister, but you fell in love with me?" "You are more beautiful than Asha. I see this inside of you as well as outside." Mari shook her head. "Have I told you that you sound totally crazy sometimes? You expect me to believe that she never lit any fires in you, and I did?" "Yes," Alain replied, his tone faintly bewildered as he looked at her. "Asha never changed the way I saw things, as you have." That reminded her of something. "What did you tell her about me? That I define your world or something? I couldn't believe you said that." Alain nodded. "You define the world I see. Yes. I needed to explain what you mean to me in terms another Mage would understand." Mari could feel her lips quivering but tried to fight of laughter. "Alain, I 'define the world' for you? That's too much." "Too much?" "It's so sweet, it's nauseating." Alain pondered her words. "What is wrong with that statement? I see the false world through my own illusions. You are now my reference for those illusions. Why should that make you feel ill? You define the world I see.

It was astonishing, Lara thought, the sheer outpouring of human desire. The need to record, to create, to be acknowledged. Read me read me read me. The queries tsunamied her inbox, twenty to thirty a day. Girl-meets-boy. Poor-kid-gets-rich. Rich-kids-go-bad. Boy-saves-the-world. Boy-writes-a-bestseller-then-gets-writer’s-block-but-lives-in-a-gorgeous-condo-while-his-girlfriend-helps-him-figure-it-out. Girl-meets-girl. Dog dies. First love. First fuck. Bad parents. Bad husbands. Bad habits. War. War. War. Robots. Fairies. Vampires. Dragons. Change centuries. Tell-alls. Tell-nothings. Pride and Prejudice on a ranch, at a mall; swap out the sisters for men, dogs, parakeets. Change countries. Add zombies. Repeat.

Thich Nhat Hanh. a venerated Vietnamese Buddhist, speaks of a solution that is so utterly simple it seems profane. Be, body and mind, exactly where you are. That is, practice a mindfulness that makes you aware of each moment. Think to yourself, "I am breathing" when you're breathing; "I am anxious" when you're anxious; even, "I am washing the dishes" when you're washing the dishes. To be totally into this moment is the goal of mindfulness. Right now is precious and shall never pass this way again. A wave is a precious moment, amplified: a dynamic natural sculpture that shall never pass this way again. Out interaction with waves - to be fully in the moment, without relationship troubles, bills, or worries - is what frees us. Each moment that we are fully with waves is evidence of our ability to live in the here and now. There is nothing else in the universe when you're making that elegant bottom turn. Here. Now. Simple, but so elusive. A wave demands your attention. It is very difficult to be somewhere else, in your mind, when there is such a gorgeous creation of nature moving your way. Just being close to a wave brings us closer to being mindful. To surf them is the training ground for mindfulness. The ocean can seem chaotic, like the world we live in. But somehow we're forced to slice through the noise - to paddle around and through the adversities of life and get directly to the joy. This is what we need for liberation.

Every night, I sit in the rocking chair in the nursery when I give Willow her bedtime bottle. Tonight, I burped her halfway through her feeding like always. Then I sat her on my knees facing me and made funny faces. She looked right into my eyes. And she smiled. She’s ten weeks old and she just gave me her very first smile. I wish I’d taken a picture. I’m probably supposed to be documenting everything better for her baby book or whatever. She’s going to have a terrible baby book. But at least she’ll have a father who loves her. Because when she smiled at me tonight, I finally felt it. Love. A rush of love. I was so blown away by it I laughed, which made her smile at me even more. Then I hugged her small body and breathed in the smell of her Johnson’s baby shampoo. I could feel her heartbeat. Up until tonight, I was pretty sure Willow didn’t like me, and I understood why she didn’t. I didn’t blame her for resenting the idiot, bumbling guy who started doing for her all the things her gorgeous, familiar mother had done before. But tonight . . . tonight my little girl smiled at me. She gave her very first smile to me because I’m her person now. I’m her daddy and, in her way, I think she might love me, too. When I laid her against the inside of my elbow to feed her the rest of her bottle, her hand made a fist in the fabric of my shirt. She watched me as she drank down her formula. I’m tired and lonely. Parenting is far more difficult than I understood when I was a son and not yet a father. I miss my freedom and my friends and the life I had before Sylvie told me she was pregnant. I miss who I used to be. But tonight my daughter, a tiny girl in pink pajamas, smiled at me. Because I’m her person. Letter

Next week is Beltane,” she reminded him. “Do you suppose we will make it through the wedding this time?” “Not if Gideon says you cannot get out of this bed,” he countered sternly. “Absolutely not!” she burst out, making him wince and cover the ear she’d been too close to. She immediately regretted her thoughtlessness, making a sad sound before reaching to kiss the ear she had offended with quiet gentleness. Jacob extricated himself from her hold enough to allow himself to turn and face her. “Okay, explain what you meant,” he said gently. “I refuse to wait another six months. We are getting married on Beltane, come hell or . . . necromancers . . . or . . . the creature from the Black Lagoon. There is no way Corrine is going to be allowed to get married without me getting married, too. I refuse to listen to her calling me the family hussy for the rest of the year.” “What does it matter what she says?” Jacob sighed as he reached to touch the soft contours of her face. “You and I are bonded in a way that transcends marriage already. Is that not what is important?” “No. What’s important is the fact that I am going to murder the sister I love if she doesn’t quit. And she will not quit until I shut her up either with a marriage or a murder weapon. Understand?” Clearly, by his expression, Jacob did not understand. “Thank Destiny all I have is a brother,” he said dryly. “I have been inundated with people tied into knots over one sister or another for the past weeks.” “You mean Legna. Listen, it’s not her fault if everyone has their shorts in a twist because of who her Imprinted mate is! Frankly, I think she and Gideon make a fabulous couple. Granted, a little too gorgeously ‘King and Queen of the Prom’ perfect for human eyes to bear looking at for long, but fabulous just the same.” Jacob blinked in confusion as he tried to decipher his fiancée’s statement. Even after all these months, she still came out with unique phraseologies that totally escaped his more classic comprehension of the English language. But he had gotten used to just shrugging his confusion off, blaming it on the fact that English wasn’t his first, second, or third language, so it was to be expected. “Anyway,” she went on, “Noah and Hannah need to chill. You saw Legna when she came to visit yesterday. If a woman could glow, she was as good as radioactive.” She smiled sweetly at him. “That means,” she explained, “that she looks as brilliantly happy as you make me feel.” “I see,” he chuckled. “Thank you for the translation.” He reached his arms around her, drawing her body up to his as close as he could considering the small matter of a fetal obstacle. He kissed her inviting mouth until she was breathless and glowing herself. “I thought I would be kind to you,” she explained with a laugh against his mouth. “You, my love, are all heart.” “And you are all pervert. Jacob!” She laughed as she swatted one of his hands away from intimate places, only to be shanghaied by another. “What would Gideon say?” “He better not say anything, because if he did that would mean he was in here while you are naked. And that, little flower, would probably cost him his vocal chords in any event.” “Oh. Well . . . when you put it that way . . .

Servers moved among the guests with trays of hors d'oeuvres and the signature cocktail, champagne with a honey infused liqueur and a delicate spiral twist of lemon. The banquet was bursting with color and flavor- flower-sprinkled salads, savory chili roasted salmon, honey glazed ribs, just-harvested sweet corn, lush tomatoes and berries, artisan cheeses. Everything had been harvested within a fifty-mile radius of Bella Vista. The cake was exactly what Tess had requested, a gorgeous tower of sweetness. Tess offered a gracious speech as she and Dominic cut the first slices. "I've come a long way from the city girl who subsisted on Red Bull and microwave burritos," she said. "There's quite a list of people to thank for that- my wonderful mother, my grandfather and my beautiful sister who created this place of celebration. Most of all, I'm grateful to Dominic." She turned to him, offering the first piece on a yellow china plate. "You're my heart, and there is no sweeter feeling than the love we share. Not even this cake. Wait, that might be overstating it. Everyone, be sure you taste this cake. It's one of Isabel's best recipes.

I recall when my youngest sister started to crawl. Papa insisted we have a party in the nursery, because his last little princess was up off the floor. I danced with him by standing on his shiny, tall boots.” “I can do that for you, you know.” “Let me dance on your boots?” She picked up a brush and tilted her head to the side so the mass of her hair fell over one shoulder. “Brush your hair.” He tossed the covers back, started across the room, and then caught sight of Sophie’s fascinated expression in the vanity mirror. He snatched the dressing gown from the bed and belted it snugly around his waist. When he stood directly behind her, she passed the brush back to him, letting their fingers barely touch. Ah, so she was teasing him. The subtle teasing of a woman who understood the value of anticipation, but teasing all the same. Vim smiled at her in the mirror. “You have gorgeous hair, Sophie Windham.” He drew the damp, curling length of it back over her shoulders in both of his hands and repeated the caress when she closed her eyes. “Shall I braid it?” “Please.” She opened her eyes. “Over the right shoulder, because I like to sleep on my left side.” “What

Well,’ she says, ‘shit happens. Life is a party, and parties weren’t meant to last.’ He looks sideways at her, a little startled. ‘Is that F. Scott Fitzgerald?’ ‘Prince,’ she says. ‘I can’t get over how gorgeous those mountains are. When the sun goes down I don’t think I’ll look. My heart might break. And the only reason I’m here is because those men raped me and threw me out in the rain. I guess everything happens for a reason.’ Billy has heard the saying many times before and it always makes him mad. ‘I don’t believe that. I won’t believe that.’ ‘Okay. I’m sorry.’ She sounds a little scared. ‘I didn’t mean to—’ ‘Believing that would mean believing that someone or something up the line was more important than my sister. Same with Albie Stark. Taco. Johnny Capps, who’ll never walk again. There’s nothing reasonable about any of that.’ She doesn’t answer. When he looks at her she’s looking down at her tightly clasped hands and there are tears on her cheeks. ‘Jesus, Alice, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ ‘You didn’t,’ she says, brushing away the evidence on her cheeks. ‘It’s just that if there’s a God, he’s doing a piss poor job.’ Alice points ahead, at the blue teeth of the Rockies. ‘If there’s a God, He made those.’ Well, Billy thinks, girl’s got a point.

Keeley, Burke tells me your new trainer is a natural with the horses, with Travis and with cards as well." "And I hear he's gorgeous,too," Mo added. "Where'd you hear that?" Keeley demanded before she could bite her tongue into two. "Oh,the word gets around in our snug little world," Mo said grandly. "And Shelley Mason-one of your kids? Her sister Lorna's in my Worl History class, a huge, bore by the way. The class, that is, not Lorna, who's only a small bore.Anyway, she picked Shelley up last week from your place and got a load of the Irish hunk, so I heard all about it. Which is why I'm planning on coming over as soon as I can and getting a load of him myself." "Trevor, give your sister your pork chop so the can stuff it in her mouth." "Dad." Giggling, Mo snatched another fry. "I'm just going to look. So, Keeley, is he gorgeous? I respect your opinion more than Lorna Mason's." "He's too old for you," Keeley said, a bit more sharply than she intended and had Mo rolling her eyes. "Jeez.I don't want to marry him and have his children." Travis's laugh prevented Keeley from snapping back with something foolish. "Good thing. Now that I've found someone who comes close to replacing Paddy,I don't intend to lose him to Three Acres." "okay." Mo licked salt from her fingertip. "I'll just ogle him.

But as he went up to London he told himself that the air of the House of Commons was now the very breath of his nostrils. Life to him without it would be no life. To have come within the reach of the good things of political life, to have made his mark so as to have almost insured future success, to have been the petted young official aspirant of the day, — and then to sink down into the miserable platitudes of private life, to undergo daily attendance in law-courts without a brief, to listen to men who had come to be much below him in estimation and social intercourse, to sit in a wretched chamber up three pairs of stairs at Lincoln’s Inn, whereas he was now at this moment provided with a gorgeous apartment looking out into the Park from the Colonial Office in Downing Street, to be attended by a mongrel between a clerk and an errand boy at 17s. 6d. a week instead of by a private secretary who was the son of an earl’s sister, and was petted by countesses’ daughters innumerable, — all this would surely break his heart. He could have done it, so he told himself, and could have taken glory in doing it, had not these other things come in his way. But the other things had come. He had run the risk, and had thrown the dice. And now when the game was so nearly won, must it be that everything should be lost at last?

KATHLEEN: I think I’m falling for Garner Bradford. ROSE: What! Hang on a minute. Let me pass the baby to Henry so I can concentrate on this conversation. One sec. Okay. I’m in my bedroom with the door closed. You’re falling for Garner Bradford? KATHLEEN: I’ve been trying hard not to and I’ve been doing an okay job of it, but the company held one of its family barbecue picnics this afternoon. I went and he was there with his girls and it melted me. Seeing him with them. ROSE: More details, please. KATHLEEN: I was talking with one of the women from accounting when I spotted him getting into the food line with the girls. I excused myself and hurried over because it looked like he could use an extra hand. He can’t very well hold three plates at once, right? ROSE: Right. KATHLEEN: I ended up filling his daughter Willow’s plate. ROSE: Which one is Willow? KATHLEEN: The older one. She’s four. Nora, the younger one, is two. After I carried Willow’s plate to their table, Garner was sort of honor-bound to invite me to join them. So I sat down, and when I looked across the table, I saw that Garner had a burger exactly like mine. We both chose the bun with sesame seeds. We both put tomatoes and pickles and grilled onions and ketchup and mustard on ours. ROSE: Let me guess. Neither one of your burgers had lettuce. KATHLEEN: Exactly! No lettuce. ROSE: It sounds like fate. KATHLEEN: That’s what I thought. It felt more and more like fate the longer I sat there. Willow is serious and quiet. Nora is sweet and busy. They’re gorgeous little girls, Rose. ROSE: I’m sure they are. KATHLEEN: And Garner was wonderful with them. He used a wet wipe to clean their hands. He cut their hot dogs into tiny pieces. He brought their sippy cups out of his bag. He redid Willow’s ponytail when it started to sag. The girls look at him like he hung the moon. ROSE: And by the time you finished your lettuce-free hamburger, you were looking at him like he hung the moon, too. KATHLEEN: Yes. ROSE: Mm-hmm. KATHLEEN:

The store smells of roasted chicken and freshly ground coffee, raw meat and ripening stone fruit, the lemon detergent they use to scrub the old sheet-linoleum floors. I inhale and feel the smile form on my face. It's been so long since I've been inside any market other than Fred Meyer, which smells of plastic and the thousands of people who pass through every day. By instinct, I head for the produce section. There, the close quarters of slim Ichiban eggplant, baby bok choy, brilliant red chard, chartreuse-and-purple asparagus, sends me into paroxysms of delight. I'm glad the store is nearly empty; I'm oohing and aahing with produce lust at the colors, the smooth, shiny textures set against frilly leaves. I fondle the palm-size plums, the soft fuzz of the peaches. And the berries! It's berry season, and seven varieties spill from green cardboard containers: the ubiquitous Oregon marionberry, red raspberry, and blackberry, of course, but next to them are blueberries, loganberries, and gorgeous golden raspberries. I pluck one from a container, fat and slightly past firm, and pop it into my mouth. The sweet explosion of flavor so familiar, but like something too long forgotten. I load two pints into my basket. The asparagus has me intrigued. Maybe I could roast it with olive oil and fresh herbs, like the sprigs of rosemary and oregano poking out of the salad display, and some good sea salt. And salad. Baby greens tossed with lemon-infused olive oil and a sprinkle of vinegar. Why haven't I eaten a salad in so long? I'll choose a soft, mild French cheese from the deli case, have it for an hors d'oeuvre with a beautiful glass of sparkling Prosecco, say, then roast a tiny chunk of spring lamb that I'm sure the nice sister will cut for me, and complement it with a crusty baguette and roasted asparagus, followed by the salad. Followed by more cheese and berries for dessert. And a fruity Willamette Valley Pinot Noir to wash it all down. My idea of eating heaven, a French-influenced feast that reminds me of the way I always thought my life would be.

 “You like me, though. You want to go on a date with me.” It wasn’t a question. “Cocky much?” “Confident. Don’t be mistaken.” “Why do you want to take me out so badly?” “Fishing for more compliments, are we?” He’d caught me, but went on anyway. “Obviously you’re beautiful. You have nice, you know, legs and . . . stuff.” “You’re laughing. I don’t think I’m really your type. I think you’re messing with me. I’m not at all like Charlize Theron.” We pulled up to my car but he let Charlize idle before getting out. “You are so my type. Charlize—at least the actress—is not. I mean, she’s gorgeous, in a blond, Amazonian, I-might-kill-and-eat-my-own-young kind of way, but I like your look better.” “Oh yeah? What’s my look?” “There’s something dark about you . . . and interesting. Your creamy skin, your black hair. The way you move. Your mouth.” He reached out to touch my cheek but I jerked away, breaking the seriousness of the moment. “What do you mean I’m dark?” He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I want to get naked with you and a Ouija board.” I burst out laughing. “And your laugh . . . it’s like the sound of someone squeezing the life out of a miniature trumpet. It’s really cute.” “That is not a compliment. I have a nice laugh. And by the way, your voice is nasally when you’re not trying to impress people.” He held his hand to his chest like he was offended, except he was still smiling. “I’m crushed. Penny, whatever your last name is—” “Piper.” “Ha! Penny Piper? You’ve got to be kidding! That’s either a children’s book character or a porn star’s name. Penny Piper picked a peck of pickled pep—” “Stop! I know, trust me. I have to live with this name. My poor sister’s name is Kiki Piper. Like we’re fucking hobbits or something.” “Penny Piper is worse than Kiki Piper, hands down.” I cocked my head to the side. “Thanks.” “Just sayin’. What’s your middle name?” “Isabelle.” “I’m gonna call you PIP Squeak.” “Thank you. I can’t wait.” “And by the way, I happen to have a deviated septum. That’s why my voice sounds like this sometimes, you asshole. Now get out and help me with your car.” As we stepped out, he pointed to my Honda and said, “Try and start it when I tell you.” I stopped and turned to him. “What’s your middle and last name?” “Gavin Augusta Berninger.” “Regal,” I said with a wink. “I know, right?” He shrugged one arm like he was royalty or something. “Is that French?” “Yeah, my dad’s family is French . . . sort of. Like, his great-great-grandfather came from France. No one in our family even speaks French.” “Hmm, not so regal anymore,” I said. “Whatever, Penny Piper.

If the claims of the papacy cannot be proven from what we know of the historical Peter, there are, on the other hand, several undoubted facts in the real history of Peter which bear heavily upon those claims, namely: 1. That Peter was married, Matt. 8:14, took his wife with him on his missionary tours, 1 Cor. 9:5, and, according to a possible interpretation of the "coëlect" (sister), mentions her in 1 Pet. 5:13. Patristic tradition ascribes to him children, or at least a daughter (Petronilla). His wife is said to have suffered martyrdom in Rome before him. What right have the popes, in view of this example, to forbid clerical marriage?  We pass by the equally striking contrast between the poverty of Peter, who had no silver nor gold (Acts 3:6) and the gorgeous display of the triple-crowned papacy in the middle ages and down to the recent collapse of the temporal power. 2. That in the Council at Jerusalem (Acts 15:1–11), Peter appears simply as the first speaker and debater, not as president and judge (James presided), and assumes no special prerogative, least of all an infallibility of judgment. According to the Vatican theory the whole question of circumcision ought to have been submitted to Peter rather than to a Council, and the decision ought to have gone out from him rather than from "the apostles and elders, brethren" (or "the elder brethren," 15:23). 3. That Peter was openly rebuked for inconsistency by a younger apostle at Antioch (Gal. 2:11–14). Peter’s conduct on that occasion is irreconcilable with his infallibility as to discipline; Paul’s conduct is irreconcilable with Peter’s alleged supremacy; and the whole scene, though perfectly plain, is so inconvenient to Roman and Romanizing views, that it has been variously distorted by patristic and Jesuit commentators, even into a theatrical farce gotten up by the apostles for the more effectual refutation of the Judaizers! 4. That, while the greatest of popes, from Leo I. down to Leo XIII. never cease to speak of their authority over all the bishops and all the churches, Peter, in his speeches in the Acts, never does so. And his Epistles, far from assuming any superiority over his "fellow-elders" and over "the clergy" (by which he means the Christian people), breathe the spirit of the sincerest humility and contain a prophetic warning against the besetting sins of the papacy, filthy avarice and lordly ambition (1 Pet. 5:1–3). Love of money and love of power are twin-sisters, and either of them is "a root of all evil." It is certainly very significant that the weaknesses even more than the virtues of the natural Peter—his boldness and presumption, his dread of the cross, his love for secular glory, his carnal zeal, his use of the sword, his sleepiness in Gethsemane—are faithfully reproduced in the history of the papacy; while the addresses and epistles of the converted and inspired Peter contain the most emphatic protest against the hierarchical pretensions and worldly vices of the papacy, and enjoin truly evangelical principles—the general priesthood and royalty of believers, apostolic poverty before the rich temple, obedience to God rather than man, yet with proper regard for the civil authorities, honorable marriage, condemnation of mental reservation in Ananias and Sapphira, and of simony in Simon Magus, liberal appreciation of heathen piety in Cornelius, opposition to the yoke of legal bondage, salvation in no other name but that of Jesus Christ.

I slowed my steps as I started up the path toward the front entrance, feeling like I was about to walk on smoldering embers. Had the fire burned down enough that it couldn’t harm me? Or would I be scorched? Reaching the front door, I took a deep breath, aware of the importance of what I was about to do and fearful that I would not succeed. Then I rapped firmly upon the dark wood. This was not the time to practice timidity. Grayden opened the door himself and our eyes met. For a moment, neither of us moved, equally flustered--he was stunned to find me on his stoop, while I had expected a servant to answer my knock. “May I come in, my lord?” I inquired, sounding more nervous than I would have liked. “As you wish.” He leaned back against the door frame and gestured for me to enter, his manner not entirely hospitable. I stepped inside and glanced around the spacious foyer, then cleared my throat, ready to begin a short, but well-rehearsed, statement of contrition. “I owe you an apology, Lord Grayden. I’m sorry for failing to attend the dinner to which you were invited at my family’s home. While I do not deserve your kind regard, I hope you will be gracious enough to forgive me.” “That depends on what you were doing instead.” “Excuse me?” I squeaked, for this was an unexpected reaction. My mind spun, trying to decide what to do. Did I need to apologize better? Or should I just leave? He laughed, and I felt even more flustered. “Your mother and sisters kept changing their stories. Makes me think they didn’t know what you were doing. I’d like the mystery solved.” Taken aback, I surveyed him, noting his dark brown hair that made his skin appear all the more fair, his perfectly proportioned nose, his gorgeous green eyes and his inviting smile. He wanted me to be honest. I decided to risk it, for nothing worse could come of his knowing the truth. “I forgot you were coming.” He straightened and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “At least I know you’re not a liar.” “Not usually,” I blurted, and he laughed once more. “Well then, I accept your apology.” “That’s very considerate of you.” I hesitated then gave him another curtsey. “Good day to you, my lord.” His eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’re leaving so soon?” “Yes,” I replied, a grin playing at the corners of my mouth. “You see, I haven’t been invited to stay.” Before he could respond, I slipped past him and out the door, pleased at his befuddled expression. All in all, things had gone well--I had accomplished my appointed task; at the same time, I was certain I could cross another suitor off the list. After all, even the best impressions Lord Grayden had of me left much to be desired. But I didn’t feel as happy about that outcome as I had expected. Strangely, the young man held more appeal for me now than he had before. I sighed, for my nature did indeed appear to be a fickle one.

I was too young then to see that she was staring into the great mystery just as intently as her sisters, her gorgeous, brown and white, philosophic sisters.

IT MUST SUCK TO BE BORN SUPER GORGEOUS. No, I’m serious. Think about it. Psyche should have had a happy childhood. Her parents were the king and queen of a Greek city. She had two older sisters, so the pressure was off about how well she did in school and who she would have to marry. She should’ve been able to kick back, enjoy being the baby princess, and live life however she wanted. Unfortunately, she was beautiful.

I loved the chase. Even Riveaux’s insane driving. Not just the velocity but the violence of it all. I liked speeding through red lights. Headfirst to the edge. Scraping enough skin to burn not bleed. Sleuthing was impossible sometimes, a doomed quest. It was godly, really. A gorgeous curse. Like a plague of locusts. Like kissing a married woman.

He really liked her—especially the way her femininity stimulated him. Alejandra was the type of girl that never let a boy entirely have her. If his lips tried to go for a random peck, she would turn the opposite way and smile a “no.” They would be seated at a restaurant and her peppy, shy voice would say, “Thank you for taking me here, but don’t expect anything.” He felt like he had her slippery heart in his hands, but never held it—instead her heart levitated, floating a few centimeters above his twitching fingertips, shining like a fickle disco ball, magnetized in the air by Alejandra’s masterfully crafted tension. She perfected this practice and learned it from her older sister. Except Alejandra felt that she was not as intelligent or gorgeous as other women, and that this prowess was all she had.

That’s what social media will give them—a glimpse at what makes Kendall Roy so fascinating. You’ve witnessed the rise and success of your sister, but I assure you, she’s plateaued. Her fame is going to be short-lived. Not you. They’re going to be captivated by your gorgeousness, which stretches far beyond your looks and body.

As always, she looks incredible. Perfect hair, perfect face, perfect body. My gorgeous older sister, fearless lion, effortless flirt, consumer of men’s souls.

If I wanted a girl instead of a woman, I’d be tupping the tavern keeper’s daughter. I want you, with all your gorgeous curves that show you live your life as you please and claim your joy whenever you can. I want you with the lines of laughter fanning from the corners of your smoke whiskey eyes like starlight,” he finished quietly, his fingertips tracing the contours of her face. - Ch. 9, When Araminta Greaves Traded Her Dignity for Bliss

I mean, how couldn’t I? Didn’t matter that she’s just doused me in overpriced airport coffee. She’s so gorgeous, and even more so when she gets mortified. Plus, I realized she wasn’t just my best friend’s kid sister anymore. Nope. She was now Audrey McCallister—the woman that made my heart beat erratically in the best way possible.

You gorgeously array your walls, but do not clothe your fellow human being; you adorn horses, but turn away from the shameful plight of your brother or sister; you allow grain to rot in your barns, but do not feed those who are starving; you hide gold in the earth, but ignore the oppressed!”28

So do beautiful women dating pieces of shit like Cal Winston. I pinch the bridge of my nose, irritated I have to play another year of football with that asshole. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not mad at Sienna. How could I ever be mad at her? She’s like a damn sunflower, all cheery and gorgeous and perfect. I vaguely remember her from freshman year, but until she moved in with my sister, we never ran in the same circle of friends. In retrospect, I’m a dumbass for not making a point to get to know her because she’s fucking spectacular. She has thick, dark hair and light brown eyes. An off-the-charts smile. A tight little body. A great personality. Literally the stuff of my fantasies. It took everything in me not to tell her Winston was likely planning to fuck a horde of women the second she steps on an airplane tonight.

My sister would be beautiful if she ever smiled. She’s got skin like marble, gorgeous green eyes, and lips as red as her hair. Unfortunately, she has the temperament of a pit bull. And not a nice pit bull—the kind that’s trained to go right for the throat in every encounter.

He wasn’t an I’ll do my buddy a favor and rescue his stranded little sister kinda guy. He was a look at me wrong and I’ll destroy you and everyone you care about kinda guy, and he’d do it looking so calm as gorgeous you wouldn’t notice your world burning down around you until you were already a heap of ashes at his Tom Ford-clad feet.

A relationship between us would never work," Ísa blurted out, terrified of how fast she was falling for this gorgeous, driven man. The way he'd been with Catie, it was exactly>/i> how she'd imagined the man of her dreams would be with her baby sister. Comfortable, affectionate, amazing. Catie was already half in love with him. Just like Ísa. "Why not?" he asked with a black scowl. "Are you still hung up on the age thing?" "You're twenty-three. I'm ready to settle down, have a child, build a life with someone." Tipping up her chin, he pressed his nose to hers. "Yeah? And who's this perfect man you're going to dump me for?" It was a growl of sound. Ísa scowled back at him. "I haven't met him yet." "So you're dumping me for an imaginary man?" "You're deliberately misunderstanding." She glared. "How am I supposed to find him when I'm with you?" A shrug. "I don't care. I'm not going to cooperate in your dump-Sailor-for-an-imaginary-man scheme." "You're infuriating." Fisting her hands in his hair, she kissed him, releasing all her fear, all her need, all her worry. His hands powerful and warm at her hips, he pulled her up against the hard length of his body and met her tongue lash for lash. Heart pounding when it was over, she broke the kiss--and he said, "Want to hear my suggestion?" "No." She folded her arms and drew her eyebrows together. "Too bad." A kiss on the nose again, the affectionate act smashing her walls to tiny fragments. "I say we don't run, we don't hide. We try. No laughter in his expression now, only a passionate tenderness. "I'm no poet, Ísa. I can't give you fancy words. But I know what we have is special. It's worth a fight.

Five years that she had been taking care of her sisters and the land. Five years where she’d dedicated everything to training for a supposed event that might or might not occur. How many of her ancestors had done the same thing? How many others had watched the years pass them by as they held to their believes with such certainty that they died for it? More importantly, did she want to be a casualty to this... whatever it was? “What do I do?” she asked the air. She threw out her arms and lifted her face to the sky. “What do I do?!” Her arms fell to her sides as she lowered her head. How could she have been so certain of things for so long, and now doubt everything? “What do you do about what?” The sound of the male voice startled her, causing her jerk around. She found him with one leg braced on the summit as he paused on the trail, a black brow quirked. Ettie opened her mouth, but there were no words as she took in the sight of him. He was...beautiful in a rugged, untamed way that made her heart race and her stomach quiver. It became impossible to breathe as she drank in the cut of his jaw and square chin. She tried not to stare at his mouth and thick bottom lip, but all she could think about was what it would be like to kiss him. Then she looked into his eyes. They were molten silver, dark and enigmatic like mercury. Those gorgeous eyes framed with long, black lashes watched her with the concentration of a hawk. Layers of thick ebony hair fell nearly to his shoulders with the top half of it pulled away from his face. He wore only a denim shirt and a cream tee beneath it along with faded jeans and black boots. She didn’t know how he was up there without a coat. His lips slowly pulled into a smile, and she realized she’d been ogling him. Ettie glanced away, but her gaze returned immediately. She laughed nervously, still unable to find words. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said as he took the last step to the top. “I assumed since you shouted your question you might want an answer.” His Irish brogue was deep, throaty, and absolutely sexy. It was slightly different than anything she’d heard before, and she wanted more.

Luke was welcomed by the brothers and drawn in with friendly approval. The conversation quickly turned to missions and commands as they compared notes, trying to figure out if they had mutual friends or had served in common battle arenas at the same time. Then more women began to arrive and Luke watched curiously as the men greeted each one as if she could be a sister or girlfriend. When Paige came out of her quarters with the new baby, the tot was passed around from man to man, each of whom took her close and affectionately, praised her beauty and snuggled her like any fond uncle might. Her son, Christopher, was soon riding on various shoulders while Paige was being embraced. Brie came in from the RV behind the bar, her home until her house was finished, and damned if each one of those men didn’t have his hands all over her belly like he’d been the one to put that baby in there. After a quick feel, they’d compliment Mike on his excellent potency. “You got her cooking a good one here, brother,” Josh said. “Baby, you are more gorgeous than ever!” said Tom. Then came Vanessa and Nikki and the whole process was repeated again, with bone-rattling hugs and sloppy kisses. It was a whole new experience for Luke. Even in his own family of biological brothers, he hadn’t seen anything like it. But it interested him, the way these men behaved toward each other’s women, as though it was expected. As if they idolized each other’s wives as much as their own, treating them with a fondness that was hardly superficial; an intimacy that was at once deep and completely respectful. The trust was implicit; the affection appeared genuine. The security they felt in their relationships was obvious. Luke had never lived in this kind of world. Preacher

Before our faces could touch I was yanked back and thrown over Chase’s shoulder as he yelled for the beer pong game to start. “CHASE! Put me down!” I couldn’t even enjoy the fact that his hands were touching my bare thighs. He’d just stopped what could have been my first kiss, and his shoulder was really uncomfortable against my stomach. “No way! The Princess needs her throne!” I started beating my fists on his back, which just made him laugh harder and smack my butt. Ugh, this was the worst position to be in, I couldn’t even get a good pressure point to hit. “If you don’t put me down I will make good on my previous threat!” He laughed for another few seconds before remembering the night in his bed, immediately his laughter stopped and I was set down. But of course, I couldn’t have the last word. Gripping my arm firmly, he pulled me towards the front door before bringing me close to his body so he could whisper roughly in my ear. “I don’t want you with him.” He growled and his grip tightened. Gah, even that sent shivers of pleasure through me. “What is your deal with him? Is there something he did that you’d like to share?” “He’s not good enough for you.” I shook my head and failed at yanking my arm free, it was starting to get painful. “How do you know what is and isn’t good for me? You don’t even know me!” I hissed. Warm hands were on my shoulders then, and though he dropped my arm, Chase looked more pissed off than he had before. I knew he’d been gripping me tight, but my arm was now throbbing where his hand had just been. “I thought I told you to back off man?” Chase’s voice got louder, I swear I could practically see his feathers ruffle. I could tell Brandon was standing in an intimidating stance, but he seemed perfectly at ease making soothing trails up and down my arms. “I don’t really think that’s up to you.” Chase looked at me softly, his voice still harsh, “You hurt her, I swear to God I’ll break your neck.” With that, he pushed past us and went back toward the kitchen. That was a little much. “Ridiculous.” I blew out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and turned to look at Brandon. “Before you ask, I have absolutely no idea.” He laughed and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close to his chest. “And you’re sure nothing’s going on between you?” “Positive. He probably just views me as his sister, so he’s a little protective.” “Hah! I’m pretty sure he doesn’t see you like he sees Bree.” “What do you mean?” I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow his voice got even lower and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and listen to him talk. “You’re gorgeous, funny and just all around amazing. And what makes it worse is that you don’t even see it. All the guys had been talking about you before I even got here, and after today, I see why.” “No they weren’t Brandon.” I rolled my eyes. He raised his eyebrow and smirked, “I wouldn’t lie to you. Harper, trust me when I say he doesn’t want to be your brother, but I’m not about to let him try to be anything else.” His

Easy does it, Mel. You’re in good health, you had a very successful delivery and at one time you would have said this was the answer to your prayers. Try not to make Jack feel like shit.” That night, lying in her husband’s arms, she asked, “Did I make you feel like shit?” “Only a little bit. It’s not like I tricked you. As I recall, you were an incredibly willing accomplice.” He sighed. “Incredibly.” “I’m just in shock. Stunned. Not quite ready.” “I know. Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are pregnant? You shine. There’s light around you. Your eyes are brighter, your cheeks rosy, you smile and feel your belly all the time—” “You smile and feel my belly all the time….” “I can’t believe I’m getting all this,” he said wistfully. “You and a couple of kids. A few years ago I thought I’d be alone the rest of my life.” “Do you know how old you’re going to be when David graduates from college?” “What’s the difference? Does Sam look old to you? I think I can hang in there.” “Snip, snip,” she said. He rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. “Everyone around me is in a mood,” he said. “Is that so?” “Well, there’s Preacher—he’s pretty prickly when it’s not ovulation day, which you might have warned me about….” “That would have been confidential.” “Well, not anymore. I think Paige might be a little put out that he told all the boys he was staying home to have sex.” “You think?” she asked, laughing in spite of herself. “And Mike is past moody. I think that’s because my sister isn’t here—and believe me, I don’t know how to take that. I want Brie to be happy. It would be nice to have Mike happy, but not if he’s getting happy on Brie, if you get my drift. I’m celebrating, I’m celebrating,” he said before she could scold him. “And this little surprise has had an effect on your mood, if you don’t mind me saying so.” “I mind,” she informed him. “I just wish things would get back to normal,” he said. And

Take a break for a second.” I gingerly sit down next to him. He scoots closer until his hip touches mine. I scoot away from him, but he scoots even closer. I look up, and I can’t keep from grinning at him. “You’re in my space,” I warn. “I like being in your space. I kind of want to be all up in your space,” he says, his voice teasing and playful. But then he pats his shoulder. “God didn’t give me broad shoulders just to hold up my T-shirts.” He uses his hand to push my head onto his shoulder. He’s quiet for a moment, but then he says, “Let me take some of your burden, Sky. Tell me what’s wrong.” He sits quietly and just breathes. He doesn’t say anything more. I sit there and take in the scent of him. It’s woodsy and manly and clean. It’s Matt, and I like it. I don’t want to cry anymore. I want to climb into his lap and kiss him. “Oh God,” I moan. “Nope. I’m just Matt,” he says with a chuckle. I punch his shoulder playfully. He pretends to fall to the side, but he pops right back up, getting even more in my space. “Is this about your boyfriend?” he asks quietly. I shake my head. I had almost forgotten about Phillip. “No,” I start. But I can’t get the words together. “Never mind.” He sits quietly, and then he starts to whistle. He’s not letting me off without an explanation. “It’s just that I never had a family.” There. I said it. Now he can pity me. “So when Seth was worried, not just about his sisters but about me too, it made me feel a little emotional.” I shrug. It sounds even more stupid now that it’s out of my mouth. “That’s all. I know it’s stupid.” He doesn’t say anything. He just nods. “I just am having a hard time finding my place in this situation. But I think I’m finding it, and it feels good.” He arches his brow. “So, that was a good cry?” he asks. “That was a very good cry.” A grin tugs at the corners of my lips even though I’m still feeling really emotional. “Okay,” he says with a nod. He pats his shoulder. “You want to cry on me some more? I kind of like having you touch me.” He grins and opens his arms in invitation. “I’m really good at hugs, too.” I bite my lower lip, trying not to grin. “I’ll pretend it’s a chore if it’ll make you feel better. I’ll even groan out loud.” This time I laugh. I can’t help it. He’s so damn sweet. “Is that a no?” he asks, deadpan. “I’m not usually this emotional,” I say. He shrugs. “All women say that. It usually precedes an episode of batshit craziness.” “Are you calling me crazy?” He shakes his head vehemently. “Definitely not.” He smiles. “There are a lot of words I would call you. Crazy isn’t one of them.” Now I’m intrigued. “Do tell.” “You’re fucking gorgeous as hell,” he says. His eyes drag up and down my body. Heat creeps up my cheeks. “And you’re smart. And loyal. And you’ve bitten off more than you can chew by taking on three kids that aren’t even yours.” I like that he thinks I’m smart. And loyal. “And you’re not mine.” He gets to his feet and reaches down to take my hand. “So we had better get out of the stairwell before I do something stupid like kiss you.

Alright, let’s see,” I said, tapping my chin with my free hand. “You’re a genius and a badass. You work well with the team, you can defend yourself pretty well, and you’re quick to act in the field. Oh, and I think your powers work well with mine. I can’t wait to see what we can do together.” She blushed and twisted in her seat, utterly embarrassed. Her cheeks were flushed. “You haven’t said anything about my body,” she pointed out. I chuckled. “Oh, well, if we’re going there, I think your red hair is absolutely fucking gorgeous. And your eyes... they could kill, given half a chance.” A hand came up to her hair. She combed the pretty red strands, pulling the long bangs out of her eyes self-consciously. “That all?” “Nah.” I grinned. “You also have a nice butt.” Finally, finally, she laughed. It was a bright burst of joy, and I felt my heart warm a little in response. Wiping the mirth from her eyes, she shook her head and said, “Your butt seems nice too, I guess.” I scoffed at the very notion and pretended to be offended. With one hand planted on my chest, I summoned my inner drama queen. “Nice? You guess? Oh no, sister, my butt is glorious,” I said. “You could flip a coin on it.

I can’t get over the smile on her face. The camera caught her mid-laugh. She’s gorgeous. And she’s mine.

She designed the cakes and I worked out the recipes. The first year we each created a signature cake. Genie's was called the Goddess: really tall, all white on the outside, wrapped in mountains of coconut and whipped cream, with a passion-fruit heart." "And yours was called the Shrinking Violet. Unassuming on the outside but pretty special once you worked your way in." She reached over and squeezed my wrist. "Wish I'd thought of that. You'd understand if you knew my sister." By now I was a little drunk. "One year Genie came up with Melting Cakes. You know, like flourless chocolate, the kind that are melted in the middle? They were gorgeous neon colors, and I made the flavors intense- blood orange, blueberry, lime, hibiscus, and caramel.

My sister had picked a gorgeous beach in northern Washington State called Gray’s Harbor.

You shouldn’t have come out on this, Duncan. We could have waited to see you when the roads cleared.” “It wasn’t that bad, Mom. The plows have been through.” “Yes, but your father cleared the driveway and he didn’t do that great of a job.” “He did fine, Mom. Hey, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Alex Hartfield. Alex, this is Meredith Wilde.” Meredith’s wide gaze switched to Alex immediately, excitement washing over her features so similar to Duncan’s. “You brought a woman to Christmas? Oh, you should have told me! Come in, come in!” Before she knew it Alex was drawn into a cushy hug and set back so Meredith could look her over. “Oh, my, aren’t you gorgeous? Duncan. She’s a pretty one.” Alex winced and when she glanced at Duncan he was shaking his head and mouthing ‘sorry’ to her behind Meredith’s back. Alex snickered. “We’ve long lost hope that Duncan would ever bring home a real girl. His aunt Helen, my sister, always said he was gay because he was so pretty, but I knew in my heart that it would just take the right woman to catch his attention.” Alex laughed out loud, loving the woman’s irrepressible nature. If Duncan was mid-forties, Meredith had to be mid-sixties to seventies, but she certainly didn’t look it, or act it. Alex looked at Duncan. His cheeks were a little pink and he had a strange expression on his face. “Aunt Helen thinks I’m gay? Seriously?” Meredith waved a hand at him. “Not really, dear. She was just talking out her ass trying to convince herself your cousin Martin isn’t gay.” Meredith turned back to Alex and stage whispered, “but he is.” Alex laughed, thoroughly enjoying herself. Then the other people started moving in. She lost track of names and faces but did single out Duncan’s brothers, Sam and Robert. Both were good looking men, and even Duncan’s father Joe still kept his good looks, though he was years older. He welcomed her with a light hug and a calm look. “Don’t let them overwhelm you.” Nodding,

JACK I’m Jack, the Sword of Summer, Sumarbrander, Blade of Frey. That is, I was his, until he tossed me away. FREY Jack, I did you wrong. You know I’m feeling the guilt. JACK Yeah, right. Forget you, man. Talk to my hilt! FREY Come on, Slice! Give me a chance. At least let me explain why I passed you off to Skirnir— JACK I know why. You were insane. You sat on Odin’s throne to search for Freya, your lost sister. A giantess caught your eye. So much for Freya. You just dissed her. FREY Gerd was gorgeous. Total hottie. I dream of her still. Shining face, lovely hair— JACK I think I’m going to be ill. FREY I know you’ve suffered, Blade of Frey, Sword of Summer, Sumarbrander. JACK The worst is yet to come, when I’m with my new commander. FREY You mean Surt, at Ragnarok. JACK The Black One of Muspellheim. On the day of doom, he’ll wield me— FREY —and free the Wolf. Chaos time. JACK Boiling seas. Bloodred skies. FREY Gods will vanish. Giants rise. JACK I’ll be sad to see you go. FREY Will you really? JACK Really? No. FREY Destiny is destiny. We all have our parts to play. JACK I’ll act mine now then, Nature Boy, and say, “See you later, Frey.” FREY There’ll never be another quite like you, Sword of Summer. Our paths may cross again. If not…good-bye, old friend.

Pulled or prompted, men cam to the Everleigh club...They came to see the library, filled floor to ceiling with classics in literature and poetry and philosophy, and the art room, housing a few bona fide masterworks and a reproduction of Bernini’s famous “Apollo and Daphne,” which the sisters had failed to find in America. After learning that the original statue was at the Villa Borghese in Rome, Minna sent an artist to capture its image. She was haunted by how the exquisite nymph’s hands flowered into the branches of a laurel tree just as the god of light reaches for her. A gorgeous piece, but she mostly admired the statue for the questions it posed about clients: why did men who had everything worth having patronize the Everleigh Club? And what if the thing they desired most in this world simply vanished?

Your breakfast is ready,” Toby said to Call, leaning through the open office door. “I made waffles--your favorite. And I’ve got some of that Saskatoon syrup you like.” “Someday, you’ll make someone a great wife, Toby,” Call grumbled, forcing himself to his feet though he wasn’t really hungry. Toby just grinned. Call walked past him into the kitchen and sat down at the breakfast table. Toby was babying him again. For nearly a week he’d been foul-tempered and edgy, and he hadn’t been sleeping well. Apparently Toby had noticed the shadows under his eyes and his surly disposition. Call raked a hand through his hair as the boy set a steaming plate of crisp golden waffles in front of him, then sat down in the chair across the table. “So…what’s going on with our gorgeous next-door neighbor?” Call nearly choked on the bite of bacon he’d just taken. “Nothing’s going on. She lives there. I live here. That’s all there is to it.” And Call was determined to keep it that way. To ensure that it did, he hadn’t seen Charity since last week, hadn’t even picked up the binoculars to see what she was up to. Since then, he had been able to block thoughts of her for, oh, maybe an hour or two at a time. Christ, the woman drove him crazy and she wasn’t even near. “Man, she is really something,” Toby went on between bites of waffle. “I wonder how old she is.” Call glanced up, caught the interest in Toby’s eyes. “Too old for you, so forget it.” “Hey--I like older women. And that one is definitely hot.” Too damned hot, Call thought, trying not to remember what it felt like to kiss her. “If you’re really not interested, maybe I could--” “I told you to forget it,” Call snapped, then looked over just in time to see Toby grin. “That’s what I thought.” Call just grunted.

His sister. Sweet. But a seventeen-year-old in a gorgeous new dress does not want to be told by any sort of prince, Rescuing or Regular, that she reminds him of his eleven-year-old sister.

didn’t know then what the word meant, despite all those men, the flirtations, sex and analysis. But I learned. Perhaps it was Will, or Henry, or Noni, or my sisters or their children who taught me. Perhaps it was Joe and Luna. I was wrong to tell you that this is a story about the failures of love. No, it is about real love, true love. Imperfect, wretched, weak love. No fairy tales, no poetry. It is about the negotiations we undertake with ourselves in the name of love. Every day we struggle to decide what to give away and what to keep, but every day we make that calculation and we live with the results. This then is the true lesson: there is nothing romantic about love. Only the most naïve believe it will save them. Only the hardiest of us will survive it. And yet. And yet! We believe in love because we want to believe in it. Because really what else is there, amid all our glorious follies and urges and weaknesses and stumbles? The magic, the hope, the gorgeous idea of it. Because when the lights go out and we sit waiting in the dark, what do our fingers seek? Who do we reach for?

Oh, Jet, you’ve cut your hair,” Franny said when she witnessed what her sister had done. Jet was still in her nightgown, barefoot. She resembled a cat, with a cat’s suspicion and mistrust, a gorgeous creature despite her attempt to ruin herself. Jet had already decided she would not be finishing high school. She felt far too old for that, and from that day forward, she wore only black. She rid herself of the girlish clothing she’d favored in the past—frilly, floaty dresses in shades of pink and violet—giving it all to Goodwill. Her clothes no longer suited her, for she wasn’t the same person she’d been before her birthday. That girl was gone forever. Sometimes she went back to the scene of the accident. She could no longer hear other people’s thoughts and was so alone she felt like a moth in a jar. She sat on the curb, like a beggar woman, but no one passing by could grant her forgiveness and that was something she certainly couldn’t allow herself. Her one salvation was the novels she read. On nights when she thought it might be better not to be alive without Levi in the world, she opened a book and was therefore saved, discovering that a novel was as great an escape as any spell. She favored Jane Austen and the Brontës and Virginia Woolf, reading one book after another. On most days, she was happy not to leave home. She, who was once the most beautiful girl in two states, who had inherited their mother’s gorgeous features, now seemed mousy and unremarkable, a bookworm who could hardly be convinced to look away from the page. Boys no longer noticed her, and if they did, she made it clear she wasn’t interested. She walked late at night, when the avenues were deserted, as if tempting fate. She felt a kinship with the lonely, forsaken people drifting through the streets at that blue hour.