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!

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.

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.

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...

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.

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!

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.

…American men actually engage most in hunting and fishing. The desire of men in wealthy societies to re-create the food-gathering conditions of very primitive people appears to be an appropriate comment on the power of the hunting drives discussed earlier. Not only is hunting expensive in many places – think of the European on safari in Africa – but it is also time-consuming, potentially dangerous, and frequently involves considerable personal discomfort. Men do it because it is ‘fun’. So they say, and so one must conclude from their persistent rendition of the old pattern. What is relevant from our point of view is that hunting, and frequently fishing, are group activities. A man will choose his co-hunters very carefully. Not only does the relative intimacy of the hunt demand some congeniality, but there is also danger in hunting with inept or irresponsible persons. It is a serious matter, and even class barriers which normally operate quite rigidly may be happily breached for the period of the hunt. Some research on hunters in British Columbia suggests the near-piety which accompanies the hunt; hunting is a singular and important activity. One particular group of males takes along bottles of costly Crown Royal whisky for the hunt; they drink only superior whisky on this poignant re-creation of an ancient manly skill. But when their wives join them for New Year's celebrations, they drink an ordinary whisky: the purely formal and social occasion does not, it seems, merit the symbolic tribute of outstanding whisky. Gambling is another behaviour which, like hunting and sport, provides an opportunity in countless cultures for the weaving of and participation in the web of male affiliation. Not the gambling of the London casino, where glamorous women serve drinks, or the complex hope, greed, fate-tempting ritual, and action of the shiny American palaces in Nevada, and not the hidden gambling run by racketeers. Rather, the card games in homes or small clubs, where men gather to play for manageable stakes on a friendly basis; perhaps – like Jiggs and his Maggie – to avoid their women, perhaps to seek some money, perhaps to buy the pleasant passage of time. But also to be with their friends and talk, and define, by the game, the confines of their intimate male society. Obviously females play too, both on their own and in mixed company. But there are differences which warrant investigation, in the same way that the drinking of men in groups appears to differ from heterosexual or all-female drinking; the separation of all-male bars and mixed ones is still maintained in many places despite the powerful cultural pressures against such flagrant sexual apartheid. Even in the Bowery, where disaffiliated outcast males live in ways only now becoming understood, it has been noted that, ‘There are strong indications that the heavy drinkers are more integrated and more sociable than the light. The analytical problem lies in determining whether socialization causes drinking or drinking results in sociability when there is no disapproval.’ In the gentleman's club in London, the informally segregated working man's pub in Yorkshire, the all-male taverns of Montreal, the palm-wine huts of west Africa, perhaps can be observed the enactment of a way of establishing maleness and maintaining bonds which is given an excuse and possibly facilitated by alcohol. Certainly, for what they are worth in revealing the nature of popular conception of the social role of drinking, advertisements stress the manly appeal of alcohol – particularly whisky – though it is also clear that there are ongoing changes in the socio-sexual implications of drinking. But perhaps it is hasty to regard the process of change as a process of female emancipation which will culminate in similarity of behaviour, status, and ideals of males and females. The changes are still too recent to warrant this. Also, they have been achieved under sufficiently self-conscious pressure...

ease. He walked under a bright summer sky, over sunlit fields and through little groves that danced and whispered in the wind. The houses of men were scattered here and there, the houses which practically took care of themselves; over beyond the horizon was one of the giant, almost automatic food factories; a few self-piloting carplanes went quietly overhead. Humans were in sight, sun-browned men and their women and children going about their various errands with loose bright garments floating in the breeze. A few seemed to be at work, there was a colorist experimenting with a new chromatic harmony, a composer sitting on his verandah striking notes out of an omniplayer, a group of engineers in a transparent-walled laboratory testing some mechanisms. But with the standard work period what it was these days, most were engaged in recreation. A picnic, a dance under trees, a concert, a pair of lovers, a group of children in one of the immemorially ancient games of their age-group, an old man happily en-hammocked with a book and a bottle of beer— the human race was taking it easy.

Of course, it didn’t burst. It kept right on beating. It beat away happily as a new engagement was announced to the kingdom. The news was greeted almost universally with pleasure. Lady Marissa never quite recovered from the shock, but she was in the minority. It beat on as my family arrived from the forest to grace our wedding with their presence. And it beat particularly fast as I walked down the white carpet one last time, my eyes fixed on two spots of blue shining above a tall, white and gold figure. It beat with joy as I snuggled inside my husband’s arms as we honeymooned in his hunting lodge, deep in the woods. And it beat on as news trickled in from all over the kingdom about the spectacular early harvest. Queen Eleanor was gracious enough to credit us with the change in the kingdom’s fortunes, but I suspected her own, newly-restored, true love had a little something to do with it as well.

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.

it is not a fun state that we struggle to achieve and then relax, as though we were working at an uncongenial job in order to retire and forget about the work we did to get there. Rather happiness, living happily, is always an ongoing activity. It is an ongoing project, and so very different to accounts in terns of feeling good or getting what you want or being satisfied. This is an account of happiness which emphasizes activity and engagement rather than passive experiences.

He is arrested, confined in a Tower with limited visitation rights. And when he appears to his tormentors too happily engaged in writing about the passion of Christ, they take his writing utensils away. Improvising, he then writes with coal. Alone, abandoned, imprisoned, approaching execution, in a letter to his kindred spirit daughter Meg, More sums up his philosophy of life: “Therefore, my own good daughter, never trouble your mind over anything that ever shall happen to me in this world. Nothing can come but what God wills. And I make myself very sure that whatsoever that be, even if it seems ever so bad at sight, it shall indeed be the best…. Serve God and be merry and rejoice in him.”93

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.

It’s just too fucking hard to remember that this is just an act, a game of pretend that we’re playing for the sake of our families.

I wonder what would happen if we decide to cross that line. If the next time we touch is with intention—and without any clothes.

Never in my life have I been kissed like that. My lips are still tingling and if possible I would want a lot more of those. For him to touch me the way no one has ever done it. Make me feel the way his words had done from the moment he began this delicious lie.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry as I struggle to find the right words that don’t include, please fuck me right here and now.

Do I make you nervous?

Because you make me feel things I’m not used to feeling. I’m usually more smooth than this, but with you… There’s just something about you, Audrey.

My name on his lips is pure sin.

Reason wars with reckless desire inside me, a battle that threatens to tear me apart. This man is danger embodied.

He could upend my life with just a smirk, and part of me yearns for that chaos, craves the thrill of the unknown.

There’s something about Audrey that pulls me in, much like the moon’s pull on the tide.

How can I face her bright smile and warm embrace now without betraying the ugly truth? That I want her. That I crave her touch, her taste, her everything.

If you’ll allow me, I can show you how beautiful you are.

How much you turn me on, pretty girl.” I feather kisses along her jaw. “Such a fucking pretty girl.

Are you seriously eye-fucking my sister, asshole?

Love often strikes when you least expect it.

Because losing Audrey, losing the chance to be a part of her life in whatever way she’ll allow… That’s not a risk I’m willing to take. Even if it means denying myself the one thing I want most in this world.

Babe, you’re an eleven.” “I’m not worthy of you.

God, she’s stunning. So fucking beautiful and she’s here with me, in my arms letting me hold her. How did I get so fucking lucky?

His smirk suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Bastard.

Seriously, you need to quit smothering me. I’m not a kid anymore.” “Could’ve fooled me with those tantrums you keep throwing.

So…” Liam drawls, taking a deliberate step toward me, his voice low and husky. “You want me to keep my hands off you? Is that what you want, Audrey?” His voice is a low rumble, filled with promise and temptation. “For me to keep my hands. My mouth. My body away from you.

You don’t want me to keep my hands off you at all, do you, baby?

This, Liam and I having sex was inevitable. We just have to be careful with the consequences.

We’re adults, and we can handle those, right?

How did I get so lucky? Audrey isn’t just gorgeous on the outside—she’s smart, compassionate and loyal. I want her so fucking bad in so many ways.

If I could, I would tattoo her into my soul—brand her on my skin.

But I want this, Liam. I want you. Raw and rough.

She looks so peaceful, so beautiful, that it makes my heart ache with longing.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Your ex doesn’t deserve the air you breathe.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

Liam Cohen, you’re a dead man.

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

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

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?

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.