Heather Mason Quotes

YOU, Harley Ann, are my beast. My perfect wave, my high, my one, true love. Mason ~ When It's Least Expected

His hot and bothered body of sweat felt refreshing against my flesh, like the water beads on a frosty Mason jar of lemonade the summer of my first blush with self-rule and release, even though it was February.

You know, I have met Alexis before.” For the barest moment, a spark struck inside him. “I tried to kiss her once.” From joy to ferocious glare, the transformation was absolute. “Did you just tell me you tried to kiss my mate?” “Tried, but didn’t succeed.” For a moment, he wanted to smile. It was such an alien sensation, he had to touch his face to see if his mouth moved. “Since you failed, I’ll let you live.” Mason’s good humor returned. “Three days, it’s all I can give you.

She smelled faintly of heather and evergreen boughs. Scent was an extravagance. He wondered where she dabbed the fragrant oil. The thin skin of her wrists? The pulse point at her white throat? Or maybe in the sweet hollow between her breasts? Thinking about all of those soft, forbidden places made him feel rampantly, throbbingly male. He wanted to search out those tender spots, bury his nose in them, and lave them with his tongue.

A little black plastic horse. This time, it was received by a colleague of mine, a guy I worked with years ago. Andy Mason, Assistant Field Director out there. He has no idea where it came from. It wasn’t mailed to him—it was on his doorstep when he went home last night.

Mother had that peculiar God-given gift of imagination so keen that the printed word became to her a vivid, living reality. It was as though, while her body stayed at home and cared for the children, her spirit had climbed far mountain peaks and sailed into strange harbors. Because of Barrie and Kipling and scores of others she had been intimately, sensitively in touch with the places and peoples of the world. She had stood on wind-swept, heather-grown Scottish moors, and broken bread in the little gray homes of the Thrums weavers. She had watched, fascinated, the slow-moving, red-lacquered bullock carts, veiled and curtained, creep over the yellow-brown sands of India. She had walked under brilliant stars down long, long trails in clear, cold, silent places, and she had strolled through groves of feathery flowering loong-yen trees of China. She had sensed to the finger tips the beauty of the witching, seductive moon-filled nights of Hawaii, and with strained eyes and chilling heart she had watched for the return of the fishing fleet on the wild-wind banks of Labrador. Yes, the warp of Mother's life had been restricted to keeping the home for Henry and the children. But the woof of the texture had been fashioned from the wind clouds and star drifts of the heavens. As she had touched her life with all the lives of these peoples of the earth, for the time being sunk her own personality in theirs, she had come to the conviction that, fundamentally, there was nothing in life that could not be found in this little inland town.

show Six! It features the—” “Six wives of Henry VIII?” Mason interrupted, amused. “They compete to have the best story in song. I have the CD—

The shelves were filled with baskets of goodies, and mason jars had been loaded with beautiful honey lollipops, their amber color almost translucent. There were tiered trays full of boxed cake slices and stunning cupcakes topped with playful fondant bees, clear packaging showing all the delight inside. An old tobacco basket on the countertop was brimming with sugar cookie sandwiches filled with various types of frosting.

My family says I’ve got the memory of an elephant,” I say, walking into the bright and airy coffee shop. Mason pulls out a chair for me at the table beside the large bay window. “Then, I am absolutely sorry for everything I did, ahead of time.