Happily Engaged Quotes

Sam chuckled. “She probably won’t be too mad. Go. Get it over with.” Easy for Sam to say. She knew exactly where she stood in her relationship with Amir. She was happily engaged and never had to worry about secret kisses under blankets because she was a good Muslim girl and would never do such a thing. I, alas, was not a good Muslim girl.

Liz looks at the tissue box, which is decorated with drawings of snowmen engaged in various holiday activities. One of the snowmen is happily placing a smiling rack of gingerbread men in an oven. Baking gingerbread men, or any cooking for that matter, is probably close to suicide for a snowman, Liz thinks. Why would a snowman voluntarily engage in an activity that would in all likelihood melt him? Can snowmen even eat? Liz glares at the box.

I am convinced that human life is filled with many pure, happy, serene examples of insincerity, truly splendid of their kind - of people deceiving one another without (strangely enough) any wounds being inflicted, of people who seem unaware that they are deceiving one another. But I have no special interest in instances of mutual deception. I myself spent the whole day long deceiving human beings with my clowning. I have not been able to work much up much concern over the morality prescribed in textbooks of ethics under the name as “righteousness.” I find it difficult to understand the kind of human being who lives, or who is sure he can live, purely, happily, serenely while engaged in deceit. Human beings never did teach me that abstruse secret. If I had only known that one thing I should never have had to dread human beings so, nor should I have opposed myself to human life, nor tasted such torments of hell every night.

From one point of view, the Bible is the story of a romance, a heavenly Father seeking an earthly bride for his Son. Like every good romance, they ‘get married and live happily ever after’. But this climax is only reached in the Book of Revelation, without which we would never know whether the engagement (or ‘betrothal’; 2 Corinthians 11:2) ever came to anything or was broken off!

It’s April 2006. It’s a Saturday. I’m walking through a market in Seoul, Korea, having a very public screaming match with a young Chinese-Korean woman whom I have recently promoted to Asia-Pacific Regional Manager. Despite the promotion, she is not happy. I think she wants my job. Right now, I’d happily give it to her if it would shut her up and calm me down. If I’d wanted a screaming match, I could have stayed at home; no, correct that, I’ve never had a domestic dispute as loud and unpleasant as this is turning out to be.

Happiness is a state of mental,physical and spiritual well-being. Think pleasantly,engaged sport and read daily to enhance your well-being.

I find it difficult to understand the kind of human being who lives, or who is sure he can live, purely, happily, serenely while engaged in deceit.

They look so relaxed, so happily engaged in the present moment, these four women drinking cappuccinos and savoring the creamy cannolis.

While you’re playing yourself out in lonesome dissipation in front of a pinball machine, someone else might be reading through Proust. Still another might be engaged in heavy petting with a girlfriend at a drive-in theater showing of Paths of Courage. The one could well become a writer, witness to the age; the others, a happily married couple. Pinball machines, however, won’t lead you anywhere. Just the replay light. Replay, replay, replay...

The choice for devoted Latter-day Saint women is not just to simply go forward and try to be happy and create a fulfilling life. As women of covenant our goal is to go forward and develop stron testimonies and nurturing and caring hearts that will prepare us for our roles as mothers in eternity. With that end in mind, I determined to go on happily, to become 'anxiously engaged in a good cause' (D&C 58:27), and to believe that the rest would take care of itself.

And now I can tell everyone my dog poops diamonds!

Her father said, whenever the subject came up, that if she'd lose some weight, she'd find a boyfriend. She knew that wasn't necessarily the case, since plenty of girls who had perfect figures and were half her size couldn't find a boyfriend. And other girls who were overweight were happily married, engaged or had significant others.Romance, she knew, wasn't directed tied to your weight, there were a lot of other factors.

I find it difficult to understand the kind of human being who lives, or who is sure he can life, purely, happily, serenely while engaged in deceit.

You got me an engagement ring?” “Oh no,” I chirped, trying as hard as I could to keep my composure. “That’s for you to put on my finger.” When his eyes flashed back to mine, I waggled my eyebrows. “Guess you got me something after all.” His hand fell to his lap, ring all but forgotten as he stared at me with wide eyes. “Are you asking me to marry you?” I brushed off the question as if it was the silliest one he’d ever asked. “Heavens, no. That’s your job. I’m just dropping a subtle hint that I might be ready for you to do that. Whenever you’re ready, of course.” Once

I loved how Piglet personified the idea that even without all of the five senses, he used what he had - with determination and perseverance - to do virtually everything he needed to do to engage happily and confidently with his people, his dog pack, and his environment.

Tell me how badly you need me.

I find it difficult to understand the kind of human being who lives, or who is sure he can live, purely, happily, serenely while engaged in deceit. Human beings never did teach me that abstruse secret.

I find it difficult to understand the kind of human being who lives, or who is sure he can live, purely, happily, serenely while engaging in deceit. Human beings never did teach me that abstruse secret.

The avatar smiled silkily as it leaned closer to him, as though imparting a confidence. "Never forget I am not this silver body, Mahrai. I am not an animal brain, I am not even some attempt to produce an AI through software running on a computer. I am a Culture Mind. We are close to gods, and on the far side. "We are quicker; we live faster and more completely than you do, with so many more senses, such a greater store of memories and at such a fine level of detail. We die more slowly, and we die more completely, too. Never forget I have had the chance to compare and contrast the ways of dying. [...] "I have watched people die in exhaustive and penetrative detail," the avatar continued. "I have felt for them. Did you know that true subjective time is measured in the minimum duration of demonstrably separate thoughts? Per second, a human—or a Chelgrian—might have twenty or thirty, even in the heightened state of extreme distress associated with the process of dying in pain." The avatar's eyes seemed to shine. It came forward, close to his face by the breadth of a hand. "Whereas I," it whispered, "have billions." It smiled, and something in its expression made Ziller clench his teeth. "I watched those poor wretches die in the slowest of slow motion and I knew even as I watched that it was I who'd killed them, who at that moment engaged in the process of killing them. For a thing like me to kill one of them or one of you is a very, very easy thing to do, and, as I discovered, absolutely disgusting. Just as I need never wonder what it is like to die, so I need never wonder what it is like to kill, Ziller, because I have done it, and it is a wasteful, graceless, worthless and hateful thing to have to do. "And, as you might imagine, I consider that I have an obligation to discharge. I fully intend to spend the rest of my existence here as Masaq' Hub for as long as I'm needed or until I'm no longer welcome, forever keeping an eye to windward for approaching storms and just generally protecting this quaint circle of fragile little bodies and the vulnerable little brains they house from whatever harm a big dumb mechanical universe or any conscience malevolent force might happen or wish to visit upon them, specifically because I know how appallingly easy they are to destroy. I will give my life to save theirs, if it should ever come to that. And give it gladly, happily, too, knowing that trade was entirely worth the debt I incurred eight hundred years ago, back in Arm One-Six.

Why is it the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? 'I love you' is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them. It's the cliches that cause the trouble. A precise emotion seeks a precise expression. If what I feel is not precise then should I call it love? It is so terrifying, love, that all I can do is shove it under a dump bin of pink cuddly toys and send myself a greetings card saying 'Congratulations on your engagement.' But I am not engaged I am deeply distracted. I am desperately looking the other way so that love won't see me. I want the diluted version, the happy language, the insignificant gestures. The saggy armchair of cliches. It's all right, millions of bottoms have sat here before me. The springs are well worn, the fabric smelly and familiar. I don't have to be frightened, look, my grandma and grandad did it, he in a stiff collar and club tie, she in white muslin straining a little at the life underneath. They did it, my parents did it, now I will do it won't I, arms outstretched, not to hold you, just to keep my balance, sleepwalking to that armchair. How happy we will be. How happy everyone will be. And they all lived happily ever after.

I’ve seen middle grade books criticized by adult readers for leaving things for the reader to figure out, for not having perfect happily-ever-after endings. They get knocked for being too depressing, for using too many big words, for featuring parental characters who are too clueless. Girl protagonists are “too angry” or “too self-absorbed.” The issues raised are “too heavy,” the books “too earnest,” “too quiet,” “too hard,” “too far-reaching,” “too strange,” and it is all too too much for the reader. Except it’s never the readers themselves saying these things. Our critical discourse in middle grade is sometimes much more about what the reviewer believes children’s books should be rather than about engaging with the book itself and the literature as a whole. When we say a book is “too sad,” “too scary,” “too complicated;” when we demand that endings are perfectly happy and all tied up; when we demand that the themes not be too weighty or the characters not face too much hardship; we are projecting our own biases onto the book, and using them to prescribe what books for this age range can or cannot do. This is nannying, not literary criticism—and it doesn’t give kids much credit.

There are two types of women in particular who inspire my envy. The first is an ebullient one, happily engaged from morning until night, able to enjoy things like group lunches, spontaneous vacations to Cartagena with gangs of girlfriends, and planning other people's baby showers. The bigger existential questions don't seem to plague her, and she can clean her stove without ever once thinking, What's the point? It just gets dirty again anyway and then we die. Why don't I just stick my head...

If you like, I can leave and let you figure this—” Legna grabbed his arm at the bicep when he made a strong movement to get up off the bed, jerking him back down definitively. “Absolutely not! You did this to me; therefore, you get to enjoy the fallout.” “You make it sound like a punishment,” he remarked, his eyes dancing with silver humor. “There is nowhere I would rather be than in my bed with my beautiful mate.” He leaned forward to engage her mouth in a tender kiss, their lips clinging together as if reluctant to release. Finally, he sat back, leaving her warm and happily flushed. “Charmer,” she accused him without malice. “Siren,” he countered, pulling them back together. And into a deep kiss that left them both longing for breath.

When you reassess where you are and what you’ve done, new factors may come to light to help you make more informed choices moving forward. Whether your assessment encourages you to rest happily on your laurels or change directions, reassessment is incredibly valuable.

Just the opposite. In childhood and youth their study, and what philosophy they learn, should be suited to their tender years: during this period while they are growing up towards manhood, the chief and special care should be given to their bodies that they may have them to use in the service of philosophy; as life advances and the intellect begins to mature, let them increase the gymnastics of the soul; but when the strength of our citizens fails and is past civil and military duties, then let them range at will and engage in no serious labour, as we intend them to live happily here, and to crown this life with a similar happiness in another. How

Do I think I made a mistake in getting engaged? Yes. Obviously, considering it didn’t last. Do I regret it? Yes. I regret the fact that I will never get that first proposal back; that moment won’t go to my husband, but rather will always belong to my ex. But, I’ve never believed in living life free of regrets, it’s too much pressure. In fact, I regret plenty of things: the terrible bangs I had in third grade, the hideous sequined corset I wore to the prom—hell, I regret what I wore last weekend. Regrets are mistakes that we learn from. They don’t dictate the rest of our lives, they’re just little glitches, and impulsive choices we made in the moment. But it’s just that, a moment and the moment eventually passes.

Soon, he brought her to the nicest restaurant he could find. Gave her a dozen roses, and an engagement ring. "When I commit to someone, I really commit to them. I know now that there's nobody out there who I care about as much as I do you. There's no one I would rather spend my life with." They kissed. It's true then, they thought. You really can meet the perfect person and live happily ever after.

The point here is that straight men, by definition, have nothing to cry about, ever—since, after all, the hold all the cards in contemporary society. What's bizarre is that the author of these words spent forty years of her life married (happily, by all accounts, including her own) to a straight man. The only way to reconcile such rhetoric with her actual life and feelings is to recognize that Sedgwick truly is engaged in an act of performance here—playing a role, putting one over on us.

Almost nothing can be gained from pinball. The only payoff is a numerical substitution for pride. The loses, however, are considerable. You could probably erect bronze statues of every American president (assuming you are willing to include Richard Nixon) with the coins you will lose, while your lost time is irreplaceable. When you are standing before the machine engaged in your solitary act of consumption, another guy is plowing through Proust, while still another guy is doing some heavy petting with his girlfriend while watching "True Grit" at the local drive-in. They're the ones who may wind up becoming groundbreaking novelists or happily married men. No, pinball leads nowhere. The only result is a glowing replay light. Replay, replay, replay — it makes you think the whole aim of the game is to achieve a form of eternity. We know very little of eternity, although we can infer its existence. The goal of pinball is self-transformation, not self-expression. It involves not the expansion of the ego but its diminution. Not analysis but all-embracing acceptance. If it's self-expression, ego expansion or analysis you're after, the tilt light will exact its unsparing revenge. Have a nice game!

For all their shared boundaries, the experiences of fiction and nonfiction are fundamentally different. In the traditional short story or novel, a fictive space is opened up that allows you the reader to disappear into the action, even to the point of forgetting you are reading. In the best nonfiction, it seems to me, you’re always made aware that you are being engaged with a supple mind at work. The story line or plot in nonfiction consists of the twists and turns of a thought process working itself out. This is certainly true for the essay, but it is also true, I think, for classic nonfiction in general, be it Thucydides or Pascal or Carlyle, which follows an organizing principle that can be summarized as “tracking the consciousness of the author.” What makes me want to keep reading a nonfiction text is the encounter with a surprising, well-stocked mind as it takes on the challenge of the next sentence, paragraph, and thematic problem it has set for itself. The other element that keeps me reading nonfiction happily is an evolved, entertaining, elegant, or at least highly intentional literary style. The pressure of style should be brought to bear on every passage. “Consciousness plus style equals good nonfiction” is one way of stating the formula.

I am convinced that human life is filled with many pure, happy, serene examples of insincerity, truly splendid of their kind—of people deceiving one another without (strangely enough) any wounds being inflicted, of people who seem unaware even that they are deceiving one another. But I have no special interest in instances of mutual deception. I myself spent the whole day long deceiving human beings with my clowning. I have not been able to work up much concern over the morality prescribed in textbooks of ethics under such names as “righteousness.” I find it difficult to understand the kind of human being who lives, or who is sure he can live, purely, happily, serenely while engaged in deceit. Human beings never did teach me that abstruse secret.

What makes me want to keep reading a nonfiction text is the encounter with a surprising, well-stocked mind as it takes on the challenge of the next sentence, paragraph, and thematic problem it has set for itself. The other element that keeps me reading nonfiction happily is an evolved, entertaining, elegant, or at least highly intentional literary style. The pressure of style should be brought to bear on every passage. “Consciousness plus style equals good nonfiction” is one way of stating the formula. For me, the great adventure in reading nonfiction is to follow, as I say, a really interesting, unpredictable mind struggling to entangle and disentangle itself in a thorny problem, or even a frivolous problem that is made complex through engagement with a sophisticated mind.

The day we visited, mothers were chatting comfortably on one of the benches while their children ran around happily exploring and playing games. The beauty of natural playgrounds is that they tap directly into children’s passions. In traditional playspaces constructed of metal and plastic, decisions about what to play are made by the designers. First you swing. Then you go down the slide. Too often, the result is competition, with kids arguing over who gets to do what, followed by frustration and tears. Conversely, in natural play areas, the child is boss. Imaginations are fired up as kids invent games with the available loose parts. Studies show that interactions tend to be more cooperative as well. Bullying is greatly decreased, and both vandalism and aggressive behavior also go down if there is a tree canopy. And with greater engagement comes longer play intervals, about three times longer compared with old-style play equipment.

I no longer think, as I once naively did, that we have much to learn directly from the Romans – or, for that matter, from the ancient Greeks, or from any other ancient civilisation. We do not need to read of the difficulties of the Roman legions in Mesopotamia or against the Parthians to understand why modern military interventions in western Asia might be ill advised. I am not even certain that those generals who claim to follow the tactics of Julius Caesar really do so in more than their own imaginations. … But I am more and more convinced that we have an enormous amount to learn – as much about ourselves as about the past – by engaging with the history of the Romans, their poetry and prose, their controversies and arguments. Western culture has a very varied inheritance. Happily, we are not the heirs of the classical past alone. Nevertheless, since the Renaissance at least, many of our most fundamental assumptions about power, citizenship, responsibility, political violence, empire, luxury and beauty have been formed, and tested, in dialogue with the Romans and their writing. …. We do the Romans a disservice if we heroise them, as much as if we demonise them. But we do ourselves a disservice if we fail to take them seriously – and if we close our long conversation with them.

As if reading his mind, she smiled happily up at him. “Gary really came through for us, didn’t he?” “Absolutely, ma petite. And Beau LaRue was not so bad either. Come, we cannot leave the poor man pacing the swamp. He will think we are engaging in something other than conversation.” Wickedly Savannah moved her body against his, her hands sliding provocatively, enticingly, over the rigid thickness straining his trousers. “Aren’t we?” she asked with that infuriating sexy smile he could never resist. “We have a lot of clean-up to do here, Savannah,” he said severely. “And we need to get word to our people, spread the society’s list through our ranks, warn those in danger.” Her fingers were working at the buttons of his shirt so that she could push the material aside to examine his chest and shoulder, where two of the worst wounds had been. She had to see his body for herself, touch him to assure herself he was completely healed. “I suggest, for now, that your biggest job is to create something for Gary to do so we can have a little privacy.” With a smooth movement, she pulled the shirt from over her head so that her full breasts gleamed temptingly at him. Gregori made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. His hands came up to cup the weight of her in his palms, the feel of her soft, satin skin soothing after the burning torture of the tainted blood. His thumbs caressed the rosy tips into hard peaks. He bent his head slowly to the erotic temptation because he was helpless to do anything else. He needed the merging of their bodies after such a close call as much as she did. He could feel the surge of excitement, the rush of liquid heat through her body at the feel of his mouth pulling strongly at her breast. Gregori dragged her even closer, his hands wandering over her with a sense of urgency. Her need was feeding his. “Gary,” she whispered. “Don’t forget about Gary.” Gregori cursed softly, his hand pinning her hips so that he could strip away the offending clothes on her body. He spared the human a few seconds of his attention, directing him away from the cave. Savannah’s soft laughter was taunting, teasing. “I told you, lifemate, you’re always taking off my clothes.” “Then stop wearing the damn things,” he responded gruffly, his hands at her tiny waist, his mouth finding her flat stomach. “Someday my child will be growing right here,” he said softly, kissing her belly. His hands pinned her thighs so that he could explore easily without interruption. “A beautiful little girl with your looks and my disposition.” Savannah laughed softly, her arms cradling his head lovingly. “That should be quite a combination. What’s wrong with my disposition?” She was writhing under the onslaught of his hands and mouth, arcing her body more fully into his ministrations. “You are a wicked woman,” he whispered. “I would have to kill any man who treated my daughter the way I am treating you.” She cried out, her body rippling with pleasure. “I happen to love the way you treat me, lifemate,” she answered softly and cried out again when he merged their bodies, their minds, their hearts and souls.

Several of her students were engrossed in their work, but when she asked one of them, a PhD student named David Merrill, to give me a quick demo of his project, he readily agreed. Merrill walked us over to a three-foot-wide mockup of a supermarket shelf stocked with cartons of butter, Egg Beaters, and cereal, and he happily slipped on a Bluetooth-enabled ring he had been tinkering with when we interrupted him. He pointed directly at a box of cereal, and a light on the shelf directly below it glowed red. This meant, he told us, that the food didn’t fit the nutritional profile that he had programmed into the device. Perhaps it contained nuts or not enough fiber. He told me that there were a lot of “really cool technologies” making this happen—an infrared transmitter/receiver mounted on the ring, a transponder on the shelf with which it communicated, and a Bluetooth connection to a smart phone that could access the wearer’s profile in real time, to name a few. It was easy to see how this “augmented reality interface,” as Merrill called it, could change the experience of in-store shopping in truly a profound way. But what really impressed me during this visit was the close working relationship he clearly enjoyed with Maes. He called her “Pattie,” and my impression was that they engaged in give-and-take like true collaborators and colleagues.

Poppy Somerville believes in happily-ever-after. It’s the reason her romance novels have won devoted readers all over the world – and why she’s broken off her engagement just weeks before the wedding instead of settling for less than true love. Escaping to her aunt’s beach

Thus the great and hazardous enterprise we have been engaged in is, God be praised, happily completed. . . . A few years of peace, well improved, will restore and increase our strength; but our future safety will depend on our union and our virtue. . . . Let us, therefore, beware of being lulled into a dangerous security; and of being both enervated and impoverished by luxury; of being weakened by internal contentions and divisions.” Right?

Tristan sighed and uncrossed his arms. Looking over his shoulder at Tristan, Gabriel said, “Do you want to try and explain this to her?” Tristan slanted his eyes at Gabriel. “Now, why would I want to do that when you’re doing such a fantastic job all on your own?” “Shut up.” Gabriel turned back to Scarlet. “Anyway…we were engaged—” “And then you died,” Tristan interjected, in a matter-of-fact way. Scarlet’s eyes shot to Tristan. Gabriel looked at his twin. “I thought you didn’t want to tell her.” “I changed my mind.” Tristan shrugged, then looked at Scarlet. “You and Gabriel were on your way to happily-ever-after and then his crazy ex-girlfriend shot you with an arrow—” “Your ex-girlfriend killed me?” Scarlet looked at Gabriel. Gabriel turned back around. “It’s a long story—“ “No, it isn’t. I’ll sum up.” Tristan took a step forward and crossed his arms in front of his chest again. “Gabriel was courting a girl from a nearby village named Raven—” “I was not courting her,” Gabriel snapped. “Whatever.” Tristan rolled his eyes. “So, Raven assumed Gabriel would marry her. But then he met you.” He shrugged again. “Suddenly, Gabriel no longer cared about Raven. So, what did Raven do?” Scarlet’s mouth parted. “She…killed me?” Tristan nodded. “And she also cursed the arrow that killed you.” Scarlet whipped her attention back to Gabriel. “What?” There were curses involved now? Immortality…the fountain of youth…curses…. What next, dragons? “I’m cursed?” Scarlet looked at Gabriel. “Not exactly.” Gabriel made a face. The curse wasn’t directed at you, but you still suffer a ... side effect of the curse. Because of the arrow.” “You see,” Tristan took a step forward, “Raven, being the little witch she was—“ “She wasn’t a witch.” Gabriel sighed. Tristan raised his eyebrows. “She cast a curse, Gabe. That’s something witches do. They ride on brooms, play with cats, and curse people.

My friend Scott Friedman (ScottFriedman.net) is a motivational humorist who specializes in employee engagement, celebration, and customer service. He teaches organizations that when their organizations are happy, they enjoy increased productivity, higher performance, better engagement, and elevated levels of health and well-being among their people. In his book, Happily Ever Laughter, Scott shares, “Personal stories are excellent (and entertaining) catalysts both for communicating big ideas and for presenting your most original humor. Better yet, stories let you provide more substance in less time. Jokes, on the other hand, have less reach substance-wise. Why? Because a joke is meant to entertain. A story, on the other hand, has inherent meaning. Stories allow the audience to get to know you, your imperfections, your flaws, and your foolishness. You can be vulnerable right there with audience watching. You can entertain, enlighten and teach all in the same effort.

As terrible as it was to admit it, the shock of seeing them so happily occupied without me hurt more than the break of my engagement to one of the best men I'd ever known.

The trick to remaining satisfied and happily in love is to never forget that you and your beloved are always evolving, and so you always have to be engaged in the process of “getting to know” your partner, even if you have been together for a half century or more.

I want to shield her from the hurt, from the heartbreak that brought tears to her eyes earlier. I want to be the one to make her smile, to make her laugh until she’s breathless.

Hey, Sleeping Beauty, time to wake up.” “Mmm, do I at least get a prince out of it?” “Sorry, princess, you’re stuck with the court jester for now.

Careful, Liam. Keep talking like that, and people might start to get the wrong idea.” “Or the right one,” I counter, my voice dropping an octave.

It’s like she packed for a monthlong expedition instead of a weeklong family celebration.

Because for just a little while, I want to believe in the fairy tale, in the happily ever after that’s always seemed just out of reach. I want to believe that love can conquer all, that it can ease the pain of loss and give us something to hold onto in the darkest of times. Even if it’s a beautiful lie.

I’ve no idea what Audrey will think about this. Will she tell me I’m crazy and push me into the brook outside the backyard? Not that much can happen to me in shallow water, but it’s obviously the thought that will count—the thought of drowning me.

Just be careful. I would hate to have to break every bone in your body.” “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine.

Whoever decided that a phone should buzz like an angry bee at the crack of dawn must’ve hated humanity.

He’s Liam and I’m me and I shouldn’t want him. At all. Not even when he kisses like, like… a god?

Your ex doesn’t deserve the air you breathe.

She swallows, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, and I have to clench my fists to keep from pulling her into my arms and kissing her senseless. Thank fuck, before I can do something reckless, the line starts moving, and the spell is broken.

Stop looking at my sister like a lost puppy, you asshole.

Everything was so perfect and a part of me longed to offer her probably my heart or my soul, maybe forever. Yet I had to let the moment go because we Cohens suck at love. What’s the point of thinking that I could be the exception?

Our eyes met and… Well, it was like the whole word fell away. Have you ever experienced a connection so intense, so cosmic, that it defies explanation? That’s what happened between us.

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.

By the end of that first meal, I knew I was a goner. Hopelessly addicted to this woman’s company… among other things.

When you finally landed in San Diego, I was a bundle of nerves waiting for you at the airport. But the moment I saw you, it was like the world around us dissolved. All I could see was your beautiful face.

I’m no doormat, but seriously sometimes it takes a lot to try to make these people happy.

My current thoughts are, how the fuck do we get out of here? And… how do I convince her to take the PDA to another level?

Kissing was great. No, it was fucking amazing. But I bet that fucking will be out of this world. There you go, you fucking bastard. Thinking with your dick. Stop it. She’s off-limits—unless she wants me to touch her that is.

I would tell him I’m not a kid if I wasn’t feeling so defeated I’m almost thirty, for fuck’s sake.

I’m shocked and displeased that someone would waste her time like that. Audrey’s always been a bit of a romantic and any guy worth their salt should know not to mess with her. I guess that’s the problem with some guys out there. They’ve got no spines or morals to lean on.

Liam Cohen, you’re a dead man.

After I left London, every minute felt like an eternity until I could see you again.

This man is so freaking swoony.

Either one of our mothers will commit first degree murder for lying to them or hitch us against our wishes.

What are you doing here? Did you already burn down a house and need an alibi?

Where’s the fire?” I slow my pace, falling into step beside her. “Sorry,” I mutter. “This is my normal walk. Maybe you should try to walk a little faster.” “Well, your normal walk is like jogging for me and I don’t jog,” she says. “Actually, I only run if someone is chasing me or there’s a zombie apocalypse.” I can’t help but laugh. “You’re something else, Little McCallister.

No shit, as of right now she’s unaware that we’re engaged and madly in love. Fuck, what if she doesn’t agree to do this for me?

Me getting married? Pfft. Not in this lifetime. I can’t imagine settling down with one person forever. The thought alone makes me feel suffocated, like I’m trapped in a cage with no way out. I’ve seen too many marriages fall apart, too many people end up miserable and resentful. I refuse to let that happen to me. But as I glance over at Audrey, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to wake up next to her every morning, to have her by my side through all of life’s ups and downs. The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating, and I quickly push it away.

Maybe we’ll need your nonsense to get this right.” But something tells me it won’t be that easy and he might just play with us while pretending to help. Love the guy, but he can be such a fucking asshole.

It’s not like we’re seriously tying the knot.

She tastes like sin and temptation and everything I’m not supposed to want. But I’m powerless to resist the smoldering fire between us, the magnetic pull that draws me to her like a moth to a flame.

When she glances up at me with those soulful hazel eyes, it’s as if the air between us ignites, and it takes everything in me not to be consumed by the flames.

Fun. Right. Pretending to be deliriously in love with your brother’s best friend while battling inconvenient emotions that kiss and the nearness to him are creating. I’m having a total blast. This is a lot better than any theme park in the entire world.

I know she’s not a kid anymore, but if I don’t tease her a little like I used to, I’ll start flirting with her and I don’t think that’ll go over very well.

Don’t let him ruin your nice trip to see your parents get married.

She narrows her eyes at me, her lips pursing in a way that makes me want to kiss the pout right off her face. “I do not snore.” “You were breathing so heavily the captain asked me to control you?” I joke. She glares at me. “I. Do. Not. Snore.” “Whatever you say, princess.” I wink, feeling the atmosphere between us shift from sleepy to comfortable to something more charged, more electric.

This guy needs to give me the chance to talk and stop trying to murder me through the phone, not that it’s possible. If only he knew how attracted I am to his sister, he would definitely kill me. I can picture the rage in his eyes, the way his fists would clench at his sides as he prepared to pummel me into the ground. But can he blame me? Audrey is strikingly hot, with her dark hair and those piercing hazel eyes that seem to see right through me.

I shouldn’t be looking at his friend like he’s a lollipop I want to lick all over.

Love is not a permanent feeling. It’s like astatine, the most volatile element on the periodic table. Always changing and never settling. There’s no such thing as soulmates, and anyone who believes in that fairy tale is setting themselves up for disappointment. Love is a fleeting emotion, a temporary high that inevitably fades away, leaving nothing but the bitter aftertaste of broken promises and shattered dreams.

She’s the girl you take home to your parents—hence why I said we’re engaged. She’s the kind of woman you build a life with, the kind you grow old with. And that’s just not who I am. I’m the guy who goes out with women who want to be fucked senseless for a night. No names, no phone numbers, no expectations. But with Audrey… it’s different. She’s different. She’d be the kind of woman who’d make me want to be a better man—a better version of myself just for her. I wouldn’t want to be just a one-night stand or a weekend fling. Nope. And that in itself scares the shit out of me.

They watched in silence as the sliver turned into a semicircle, and the semicircle became a glowing pink globe, balanced on the horizon. She was in awe of the beauty. Of the very idea that this happened every morning behind the scenes while she slept. Beau shifted, his hand leaving her stomach, and she missed it. But it returned a moment later, holding something small and square. He opened the box, and her eyes widened. She sucked in a breath. A solitaire diamond winked back, reflecting the pink rays of dawn. She turned and met his eyes, those beautiful brown eyes, focused solely on her. “I love you, Eden Martelli,” he said in that low, smoky voice. “I love your beautiful smile and the way your laugh brightens the whole room. I love your warm heart and your quiet strength. I love how tender you are with Micah.” She placed her palm over her aching heart, catching her breath as he continued. “I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to cherish you every day. I want to laugh together and celebrate every new beginning together. I want to be Micah’s daddy—and maybe give him a brother or sister or two . . .” His lips kicked up at the corners. They went flat again as a somber look washed over his eyes. “You’re the love of my life, Eden. Will you marry me?” “Oh, Beau . . .” He took her breath away. He made her believe in new beginnings and happily-ever-afters. “I don’t want to rush you. We can be engaged for as long as you want, but you’re it for me. You’re the one. There’ll never be another.” “Yes,” she breathed. “I want all of that, and I want it with you.

I don’t know what instructions Nimiar gave her seamstress in private. I had expected a modest trunk of nice fabric, enough for a gown or two in the current fashions. What returned, though, just over a week later, was a hired wagon bearing enough stuff to outfit the entire village, plus three determined young journey-seamstresses who came highly recommended and who were ready to make their fortunes. “Good,” Nee said, when we had finished interviewing them. She walked about inspecting the fabulous silks, velvets, linens, and a glorious array of embroidery twists, nodding happily. “Just what I wanted. Melise is a treasure.” “Isn’t this too much?” I asked, astounded. She grinned. “Not when you count up what you’ll need to make the right impression. Remember, you are acquiring overnight what ought to have been put together over years. Morning gowns, afternoon gowns, riding tunics and trousers, party dresses, and perhaps one ball gown, though that kind of thing you can order when we get to town, for those take an unconscionable amount of time to make if you don’t have a team doing it.” “A team? Doing nothing but sewing? What a horrible life!” I exclaimed. “Those who choose it would say the same about yours, I think,” Nee said with a chuckle. “Meaning your life as a revolutionary. There are many, not just women, though it’s mostly females, who like very much to sit in a warm house and sew and gossip all day. In the good houses the sewers have music, or have books read to them, and the products are the better for their minds being engaged in something interesting. This is their art, just as surely as yon scribe regards her map and her fellows regard their books.” She pointed toward the library. “And how those at Court view the way they conduct their public lives.” “So much to learn,” I said with a groan. “How will I manage?” She just laughed; and the next day a new arrival brought my most formidable interview yet: with my new maid.

So what’s the lowdown on the new hire?” he wanted to know. Ah. All became instantly clear. Hardy had moved on to new prey. And while that was a yay for Kerry, it was a boo for poor Maddy. She’d have to warn her. “You mean Madison? Sorry, Hardy, she’s taken. Happily engaged to Sal’s nephew, Micah.” “Engaged isn’t taken; it only means she’s been reserved,” he said, a cocky grin spreading on his face as he glanced over the heads of the crowd to where Maddy was tending bar. “Reservations can get canceled.” “Hardy--” But he wasn’t listening to her. He’d been called back to his table by his buddies to take his turn. “Oh, boy,” she muttered and wound her way back to the bar. She ducked under the bar and worked her way back down until she was beside Maddy again. “Warning,” she said, keeping her voice as low as she could. “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Cocky at the back pool table? You might want to keep an eye there. I told him you were engaged--” “Don’t worry. We’ve already had a chat.” “Well, you may be having another one, as he doesn’t seem all that put off.” “I’ll be fine, but thanks for running interference.” “He seems well meaning enough,” Kerry told her, “but he’s not the sharpest tool when it comes to the word no. You’ll have to say it repeatedly for it to sink in.” Maddy nodded while setting bowls on the bar, then filling them with pretzels and nuts. “Have I mentioned that I grew up working in my much older brother’s dojo?

And when the mood took her to fall for the handsome young lawyer Will Bankhead, she happily threw over the man to whom she was already engaged.

Reaching his destination in a relatively short period of time, Everett was forced to stop in his tracks when Davis suddenly stepped in front him. His footman was not looking his normal affable self but was glaring at Everett, and . . . the man’s fists were clenched. “Is something the matter?” he asked slowly. “I would say so, sir, but since you are my employer, it wouldn’t be proper of me to tell you what that something is, or tell you where I think you should go at the moment.” “I was intending to go to Mrs. Hart’s house.” “You’re not done misleading Miss Millie?” Everett stepped closer to Davis, stopping when the man actually raised one of his clenched fists. “Were you, by chance, present when Miss Dixon spoke to Millie?” “I was, and good thing too, sir, since I was able to fetch Miss Millie a buggy straightaway so she could get away from . . . you.” “Miss Dixon lied, Davis. She admitted to me she told Millie we were still going through with our engagement plans this evening, but I had no intention of asking Caroline to marry me tonight. And as odd as this may sound, Caroline is now happily engaged to Mr. Codman.” “I beg your pardon?” “I wish I could explain more sufficiently, but now is not the time. I need to find Millie.” “Miss Dixon told Miss Millie you only see her as an amusement.” Temper began to boil directly underneath Everett’s skin. “I swear to you, I’ve never looked at Millie as a source of amusement. Granted, I do find her amusing almost all the time, but that’s completely different.” “What are your intentions toward her, sir, if I may be so bold to ask?” “I think it would probably be better for me to discuss those intentions with Millie first, although I can assure you, they are completely honorable.” Davis regarded him for a long moment before he nodded. “Well, that’s all right, then, but I do think you need to find Miss Millie straightaway. She was close to tears when I summoned a buggy for her, and I don’t believe Miss Millie is a lady who is normally prone to tears.” “You’re

I beg you to tell me that your esteemed wife has not shared her insights with anyone else.” “Of course not, but we’re both mystified that you’re holding back. Miss Easton is clearly still available. Not only has she been out for several Seasons, she’s cried off from two engagements with two exceedingly eligible suitors. The field would thus appear to be wide open. And, Nigel, it’s long past time you got married,” Silverton added with the annoying complacency of a happily married man. “You’re thirty-four already.” “Not until next month. And may I remind you that you were the same advanced age when you married Meredith.” “I was simply waiting for the right woman.” “Well, so am I,” Nigel retorted. “Don’t hold out too long, old man.” As the orchestra struck up a waltz, Silverton’s aristocratic features grew thoughtful. “Besides, I think you have found the right girl. Miss Easton’s temperament would suit yours quite well, I believe.” Nigel

Don’t you just look perfect with a baby.” My head turned to look at Kash’s grandma who had just sat down on my left. She was a short woman that, from my limited interaction with her, looked like she lived to feed her family and give hugs. She was absolutely adorable. My eyes automatically dropped to the sleeping baby, and I gave her a small smile as I laughed awkwardly. “Um . . .” How do you respond to that? “That was a compliment, dear. You look very comfortable like that, like you were made to hold a baby.” “Oh, well thank you.” That so didn’t sound like a compliment. It felt like it should be followed up with Kash telling me I should be barefoot in the kitchen. “So beautiful,” she murmured as she touched my engagement ring and looked happily back up at me. “Do you plan to give me more great-grandchildren soon? I’ll be here for only so long . . .” she trailed off and laughed heartily. “I don’t know about that, we haven’t really talked about it. We’re still young,” I cut off quickly when I realized Ava was barely older than me and already had two kids. But for shit’s sake I had barely turned twenty-two a couple months ago. I was still getting used to taking care of Trip, I didn’t even want to think about having a baby. “Of course you are, darling girl! You have all the time in the world. This is just an old woman greedy for more babies to spoil rotten. Though I’m sure with you and Logan being the only children in your families, both of your parents will be spoiling your children senseless.” My stomach dropped and I kept the smile plastered to my face. “Yeah, probably,” I murmured. A

But here is a confession, which I also happily shared with him at our last meeting, which happened as I was completing this book: I had never thought this deeply about my own craft and what makes a column work until our chance encounter prompted me to do so. Had I not paused to engage him, I never would have taken apart, examined, and then reassembled my own framework for making sense of the world in a period of rapid change. Not

That a mother should wish to see her daughters happily married, is natural and proper; that a young lady should be pleased with polite attentions is likewise natural and innocent; but this undue anxiety, this foolish excitement about showing off the attentions of somebody, no matter whom, is attended with consequences seriously injurious. It promotes envy and rivalship; it leads our young girls to spend their time between the public streets, the ball room, and the toilet; and, worst of all, it leads them to contract engagements, without any knowledge of their own hearts, merely for the sake of being married as soon as their companions. When married, they find themselves ignorant of the important duties of domestic life; and its quiet pleasures soon grow tiresome to minds worn out by frivolous excitements. If they remain unmarried, their disappointment and discontent are, of course, in proportion to their exaggerated idea of the eclat attendant upon having a lover. The evil increases in a startling ratio; for these girls, so injudiciously educated, will, nine times out of ten, make injudicious mothers, aunts, and friends;

You must make time and enjoy the process of introspection. You must take the time to think, reflect, contemplate, and indulge in personal introspection. A Zen expression says that if you’re not willing to go within, you’ll have to go without! Breakthroughs and new ideas normally don’t present themselves when you’re watching television or engaged in diversionary activities such as video games. You need to find a tranquil and peaceful setting where you can allow your thoughts and emotions to soar. Isn’t it interesting that one of the major abilities that characterizes human beings is the ability to think? Yet most people go to bed with the same thoughts they awoke with. How can you create anything new tomorrow with the same thoughts you had yesterday? You must take time out of every day to think, to engage in self-reflection. It takes only one new thought to manifest a life-changing breakthrough, one idea to go from broke to fortune, and one idea to go from unemployed to happily employed. But that one new thought won’t happen by chance; it will happen as a result of investing time to journey within.

If we want to be happily engaged in our work and performing at our fullest potential, we’ve got to look inside ourselves, to understand what truly motivates us. We can’t rely on what others think we should be doing, or be enslaved by preordained notions of chasing money or prestige or power. All of us host a unique blend of motivators, core drivers that should guide us in sculpting the work life that’s right for us. Far too many people are casting about in confusion for what would make them more successful and happier at work. Far too many able, intelligent people know they’re not as productive or motivated as they could be from day to day, while some are actually demotivated—with aspects of their work that are in direct opposition to what drives them. That’s not good for individuals, and it’s certainly not good for their managers or organizations either.

How Advocacy Boosts Retention One of the most critical challenges facing fitness clubs is retention. About 30 percent of club members do not renew their memberships, according to IHRSA. In some clubs, turnover rates are even higher. In larger fitness chains, like the fitness club, improving retention rates by even one percent can mean millions in revenues. So how can Brand Advocates help fitness clubs keep more members? Here are three ways: 1. Members are more likely not to renew if their usage levels are low. Brand Advocates can help educate other members about services they may not currently be using, like Group X classes, personal training, swimming lessons, spa services, and more. As the club's most enthusiastic and engaged members, Advocates are glad to tell others about these services. 2. Brand Advocates will happily create content about why they're loyal customers. Ask your Advocates why they stay with your club. Advocates will create compelling answers, which you can then share with other members and even prospects. 3. Sponsor fun events where Advocates encourage new members to participate in club events and take advantage of club services. 4. Lastly, engaging your Advocates increases the likelihood that these enthusiastic members themselves will continue renewing their memberships month after month, year after year. By building and nurturing relationships with your Advocates you deepen their commitment to your club.

True Love… it’s the most wonderful human emotion and one of the most elusive. We search for it, trying to find that one person in the whole world worthy enough to spend our lives with. When you look at the trail of broken hearts, the rivers of tears and the broken dreams, it’s quite obvious that it’s not an easy dream to achieve. Don’t we rightly call it the Quest for Love? That’s why when we think we’ve found the right person, we are giddy with happiness and relief. Finally! The answer to our prayers has come after such a long wait. We are safe. We are loved. A lot of women view marriage this way and I blame that on all the Walt Disney cartoons we watched as little girls. There’s this beautiful helpless princess locked away in a castle and here comes this handsome prince to save her from her miserable life. Classic. Then, after the grand wedding ball, the movie ends with: “And They Lived Happily Ever After.” That’s it? What happened afterwards? Nothing’s mentioned about that. We are made to think that it all ends there, that the couple’s happiness is secured and a given. They love each other, right? They went through all that trouble just to be together. So they’ll be happy. End of story.

What about you?” he asks. His gaze is intense. My heart is so light that I can barely follow what we were talking about. “What about me?” I ask. “You asked me if I was faithful to you,” he reminds me. “I wasn’t really asking. I was just telling you that I could understand it if you weren’t. You didn’t even know if I was coming back.” “I knew. But I would have done the same thing even if I hadn’t known.” His eyes narrow. “Are you avoiding my question?” “What question?” “Dammit, Emily.” He slaps his hand on the table again. “Did you or did you not fuck someone else?” People in the nearby booths look in our direction, and I place a finger over my lips. “Turn your voice down,” I say. He says it more quietly. “Did you?” I lay a hand on my chest. “Oh, God, no,” I breathe. How could he even think that? “I’ve seen your picture in the tabloids with the old boyfriend. A lot.” His gaze is intense again. “My father’s publicity people set that up. They want the world to think we’re still happily engaged.” I wasn’t even aware it was happening when I attended the first event and Trip approached me. The photogs went mad taking shots of us. “I’m sorry you had to see that and wonder about it.” “You’re not engaged to him, are you?” Worry furrows his brow, and I feel bad for all I’ve put him through. “No. Not since before I left California the first time.” “And he’s well aware of this?” Logan asks. “Very well aware.” He knows. I’m not sure he cares, but he knows. “He knows I’m in love with you.” Logan smiles innocently. “He knows about me?” “He knows all about you.” I take his hand. “I love you, Logan.” “Good. Because I plan to put a ring on this as soon as you’ll let me.” He draws my ring finger to his lips and kisses it gently. My heart thuds. “A ring?” He nods. “A ring.” “Can you tattoo one on me?” I ask impulsively. “Because I don’t plan to ever take it off.” He smiles. “I’ll think about it.

To be happily married, as I've been fortunate enough to be, is to be a partner in a conversation that can last a full adult life. To have a true friend is to be able to test your hypotheses against someone who's receptive, but who won't give ground forever, and then let your friend try his wares out on you. At its best, friendly conversation is about giving up all claims to property and priority and engaging in collaboration--so that, at least for the two of you, something like an improvised musical composition in two parts is taking place. You do some rhythm to his lead; he lays down a bass line when you want to run the thing out into space. You both wind up saying things and thinking things that, alone, you never could have. This kind of hybrid mixing, this collaborative creation, is greatly to be treasured: it's one of the best parts of life.

Prepare yourself for uncomfortable questions about why you don't have an engagement ring on your finger. Nadia is convinced that we are engaged and waiting to announce it here." Ashanti nearly swallowed her tongue. "Thad, please tell me you're not planning some big, cheesy public proposal today?" "Is that what you're expecting?" "No!" she said. "Especially not today. We're going slow, remember?" He tipped his head to the side. "Exactly how fast is slow?" She smiled up at him. "Maybe by Christmas or New Year's." She grinned. "That's what you were planning, isn't it?" "Von is the only person who can read my mind," he answered. "Tell me!" He winked. "Nah. I'm going to keep you guessing.