Hmm Quick Quotes

So I figured I might as well see if I could find something Gaspard didnt already know about. Like an herb or potion or something." "Hmm," said Georgia, looking off into some invisible dreamworld. "Or maybe bathing naked in the Seine under the light of a full moon"- she glanced up quickly- "in which case, definitely tell me when and where your voodoo's going down!

How does Parker’s body compare with yours ” Great. A pop quiz I thought recognizing his transition into lecture mode. “How does Parker’s body compare with mine Hmm.” I gave Parker a quick theatrical once-over and he smiled clearly catching on to my line of thought. “Nice legs and killer biceps. But I have better boobs. No question.

The past is every second of your life up until now. Up until NOW. See how quickly the present is gobbled up by the past? The present is... Sorry, it's already gone. Hmm, it was just there a minute ago.

Hmm…’ Ciri bit her lower lip, then leaned over and put her eye closer to the hole. ‘Madam Yennefer is standing by a willow… She’s plucking leaves and playing with her star. She isn’t saying anything and isn’t even looking at Geralt… And Geralt’s standing beside her. He’s looking down and he’s saying something. No, he isn’t. Oh, he’s pulling a face… What a strange expression…’ ‘Childishly simple,’ said Dandelion, finding an apple in the grass, wiping it on his trousers and examining it critically. ‘He’s asking her to forgive him for his various foolish words and deeds. He’s apologising to her for his impatience, for his lack of faith and hope, for his obstinacy, doggedness. For his sulking and posing; which are unworthy of a man. He’s apologising to her for things he didn’t understand and for things he hadn’t wanted to understand—’ ‘That’s the falsest lie!’ said Ciri, straightening up and tossing the fringe away from her forehead with a sudden movement. ‘You’re making it all up!’ ‘He’s apologising for things he’s only now understood,’ said Dandelion, staring at the sky, and he began to speak with the rhythm of a balladeer. ‘For what he’d like to understand, but is afraid he won’t have time for… And for what he will never understand. He’s apologising and asking for forgiveness… Hmm, hmm… Meaning, conscience, destiny? Everything’s so bloody banal…’ ‘That’s not true!’ Ciri stamped. ‘Geralt isn’t saying anything like that! He’s not even speaking. I saw for myself. He’s standing with her and saying nothing…’ ‘That’s the role of poetry, Ciri. To say what others cannot utter.’ ‘It’s a stupid role. And you’re making everything up!’ ‘That is also the role of poetry. Hey, I hear some raised voices coming from the pond. Have a quick look, and see what’s happening there.’ ‘Geralt,’ said Ciri, putting her eye once more to the hole in the wall, ‘is standing with his head bowed. And Yennefer’s yelling at him. She’s screaming and waving her arms. Oh dear… What can it mean?’ ‘It’s childishly simple.’ Dandelion stared at the clouds scudding across the sky. ‘Now she’s saying sorry to him.

So …’ Percy said. ‘We're going to call you Kym. And you'd be a, hmm, Nereid, then? Minor goddess?’ ‘Minor?’ ‘By which,’ Jason said quickly, ‘he means under the drinking age! Because obviously you're so young and beautiful.’ Percy flashed him a look: Nice save.

You promised to be on your best behavior,” I reminded him, breathless. “You kissed me,” he growled. His voice had gone very deep. “Well, but you started it by kissing my neck.” “True. I hadn't planned that.” His sultry voice, paired with those blazing eyes, told me I needed to get away from him. I hurried to the end of the bed, where I jumped off and began to pace back and forth, yanking out my loose hairband and pulling my hair back into a tight ponytail. I tried hard not to think about the taste of his lips. I'd had my first kiss, and I'd never be the same. “Why did you stop?” he asked. “Because you were moving on to other things.” He scratched his chin and cheek. “Hmm, moved too quickly. Rookie mistake.” I crossed my arms again, watching him speculate internally like a coach outlining a play that had gone wrong. Incredible. Then he sized me up in his sights again. “But I can see you still want me.” I gave him my meanest stare, but it was hard to look at him. Gosh, he was hot! And a total player. The kiss meant nothing to him. “Oh,” he said with mock sadness, “there it goes. Mad instead? Well, sort of. You can't seem to muster a really good anger—” “Stop it!” “Sorry, was I saying that out loud?” “I can read people, too, you know. Well, not you, but at least I have the decency to try not to notice, to give them some sort of emotional privacy!” “Yes, how very decent of you.” He hadn't moved from his languid position on my bed. I leaned forward, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him. “Pillow fight?” He raised an eyebrow. “Get off my bed. Please. I'm ready to go to sleep.

My eyes had been closed for a few minutes when he said it: "I love you," he muttered, so quiet, like a prayer whispered into my neck. "Hmm?" I was nearly asleep myself, edges blurring; I was one hundred percent sure I'd misheard. "I love you." He said it again, clearer this time, right into my ear, breath tickling. I felt like a hydrogen bomb. I tried to be very still, but I knew he could feel my entire body tensing, a runner ready to begin a race -- Get set-- Go. I opened my mouth, shut it again. Oh God. I did love him, is the awfulness of it. I'd loved Sawyer since the seventh grade, when Allie and I began keeping a list of the places we spotted him. I loved his quick, blistered musician hands and the honest soul he kept hidden safe under all his bravado, and I loved how I was still, every day, learning him. I loved his silly, secret goofy side and the way he had of making me feel like I was a tall tree, just from the way he looked at my face. I loved Sawyer LeGrande so much that sometimes I couldn't sit still for the fullness of it, but when I opened up my mouth to tell him so, nothing came out. I could do anything for him, I realized suddenly. I could give him anything. But not that. If I said that to him, I knew I could never get it back. "Go to sleep," I whispered, and he didn't say it again.

Jase had seen me, restless, walking, organizing supplies that were already ordered. Everyone else was asleep on their bedrolls. He came up behind me, his hands circling my waist. "I can't sleep either," he said. His lips grazed my neck, and he whispered, "Tell me a riddle, Kazi." We laid out a blanket on a bed of grass, the stars of Hetisha's Chariot, Eagle's Nest, and Thieves' Gold lighting our way, far from everyone else. I settled in next to him, laying my head in the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapping around me, pulling me close. "Listen carefully now, Jase Ballenger. I won't repeat myself." "I'm a good listener." I know you are. I've known that since our first night together. That's what makes you dangerous. You make me want to share everything with you. I cleared my throat, signaling I was ready to begin. "If I were a color, I'd be red as a rose, I make your blood rush, and tingle your toes, I taste of honey and spring, and a good bit of trouble, But I make the birds sing, and all the stars double. I can be quick, a mere peck, or slow and divine, And that is probably, the very best kind." "Hmm..." he said, as if stumped. "Let me think for a minute..." He rolled up on one elbow, looking down at me, the stars dusting his cheekbones. "Honey?" He kissed my forehead. "Spring?" He kissed my chin. "You are a good bit of trouble, Kazi of Brightmist." "I try my best." "I may have to take this one slowly..." His hand traveled leisurely from my waist, across my ribs, to my neck, until he was cupping my cheek. My blood rushed; the stars blurred. "Very slowly...to figure it all out." And then his lips pressed, warm and demanding onto mine, and I hoped it would take him an eternity to solve the riddle.

Hey, Megan?" She peeked one lid open. "Hmm?" "Can we have ice cream for breakfast?" Her mouth curved into a grin. She couldn't think of anyone, save maybe Kate, who could draw a smile from her so quickly. But he was just unexpectedly adorable. "Maybe. If you're a good boy." She cringed. Why the hell did she say that? Was she...flirting with him? Restraining a grimace, she chanced a look at him. His dark gaze shifted from playful to scorching. "And what would that entail?" Heat shot through her body, and unfamiliar desire pooled in her belly. Flustered, she kicked off the top cover. "Not asking questions like that, to start. Now go back to sleep. It's too damn early to be awake." She heaved a deep breath to calm her racing heart . "if you say so." Even with his eyes closed, a smile continued to play around his lips.

Geez, Vi, you didn’t need to break your own leg to get out of going to the dance with Grady Spencer. A simple ‘no’ would have been just fine, I’m sure.” Apparently no one had noticed that Jay had barely let go of her hand for a second. His thumb was now tracing lazy circles around her palm, and he answered her uncle’s teasing comment without looking away from Violet for even a split second. “She’s not going to the dance with Grady,” he announced, smiling at her mischievously, and for a moment Violet forgot how to breathe. She hoped she never got used to how a simple look from him could turn her into a blithering idiot. “Really?” her aunt Kat asked, her eyes narrowing as she glanced from Violet to Jay, and then down at their intertwined hands. Clearly she wasn’t going to let the comment pass unnoticed. “Why is that?” she asked in a voice filled with unspoken meaning. Stephen Ambrose looked at his wife curiously, a little slow to catch on, which was sad, really, considering it was his job to seek out clues and solve mysteries. Jay answered Kat without missing a beat. “Because she’s going with me.” He winked at violet, whose cheeks had flushed to a brilliant shade of scarlet. She wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for this. Violet saw her mom and Aunt Kat exchange meaningful glances. They knew, she realized. And now her uncle did too. Uncle Stephen gave Jay his best I’m-keeping-my-eye-on-you look, but a quick “Hmm” was the only sound he made. How much embarrassment could one person possible survive? There was a moment of awkward silence, made even more uncomfortable by Jay’s refusal to look anywhere but at her. He reached out and brushed his finger along her cheek. Violet almost forgot to care that everyone in the room was looking at them.

I watched the light flicker on the limestone walls until Archer said, "I wish we could go to the movies." I stared at him. "We're in a creepy dungeon. There's a chance I might die in the next few hours. You are going to die in the next few hours. And if you had one wish, it would be to catch a movie?" He shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I wish we weren't like this. You know, demon, demon-hunter. I wish I'd met you in a normal high school, and taken you on normal dates, and like, carried your books or something." Glancing over at me, he squinted and asked, "Is that a thing humans actually do?" "Not outside of 1950s TV shows," I told him, reaching up to touch his hair. He wrapped an arm around me and leaned against the wall, pulling me to his chest. I drew my legs up under me and rested my cheek on his collarbone. "So instead of stomping around forests hunting ghouls, you want to go to the movies and school dances." "Well,maybe we could go on the occasional ghoul hunt," he allowed before pressing a kiss to my temple. "Keep things interesting." I closed my eyes. "What else would we do if we were regular teenagers?" "Hmm...let's see.Well,first of all, I'd need to get some kind of job so I could afford to take you on these completely normal dates. Maybe I could stock groceries somewhere." The image of Archer in a blue apron, putting boxes of Nilla Wafers on a shelf at Walmart was too bizarre to even contemplate, but I went along with it. "We could argue in front of our lockers all dramatically," I said. "That's something I saw a lot at human high schools." He squeezed me in a quick hug. "Yes! Now that sounds like a good time. And then I could come to your house in the middle of the night and play music really loudly under your window until you took me back." I chuckled. "You watch too many movies. Ooh, we could be lab partners!" "Isn't that kind of what we were in Defense?" "Yeah,but in a normal high school, there would be more science, less kicking each other in the face." "Nice." We spent the next few minutes spinning out scenarios like this, including all the sports in which Archer's L'Occhio di Dio skills would come in handy, and starring in school plays.By the time we were done, I was laughing, and I realized that, for just a little while, I'd managed to forget what a huge freaking mess we were in. Which had probably been the point. Once our laughter died away, the dread started seeping back in. Still, I tried to joke when I said, "You know, if I do live through this, I'm gonna be covered in funky tattoos like the Vandy. You sure you want to date the Illustrated Woman, even if it's just for a little while?" He caught my chin and raised my eyes to his. "Trust me," he said softly, "you could have a giant tiger tattooed on your face, and I'd still want to be with you." "Okay,seriously,enough with the swoony talk," I told him, leaning in closer. "I like snarky, mean Archer." He grinned. "In that case, shut up, Mercer.

I swear,” said Scarlet during the last lesson of the day, “if he says hmm like that one more time, I’m going to strangle him with that bloomin’ tape measure!” I watched as Mr Hardwick went over to the fireplace at the side of the room, one of the remnants of the old house, paused, and then said, “Hmmmmm …” Scarlet jumped up out of her seat, but thankfully the bell rang right at that moment. I quickly dragged her out before she could do any damage.

Lazily...possessively he ran a hand down her back. "Mmm, again," Shelby murmured. With a quiet laugh, Alan stroked up and down until she was ready to purr. "Shelby..." She gave another sigh as an answer and snuggled closer. "Shelby,there's something warm and fluffy under my feet." "Mmm-hmm." "If it's your cat, he's not breathing." "MacGregor." He kissed the top of her head. "What?" She gave a muffled laugh against his shoulder. "MacGregor," she repeated. "My pig." There was silence for a moment while he tried to digest this. "I beg your pardon?" The dry serious tone had more laughter bubbling up. Would she ever be able to face a day without hearing it? "Oh, say that again.I love it." Because she had to see his face, Shelby found the energy to lean across him and grope for the matches on the nightstand. Skin rubbed distractedly against skin while she struck one and lit a candle. "MacGregor," she said, giving Alan a quick kiss before she gestured to the foot of the bed. Alan studied the smiling porcine face. "You named a stuffed purple pig after me?" "Alan, is that any way to talk about our child?" His eyes shifted to hers in an expression so masculine and ironic, she collapsed on his chest in a fit of giggles. "I put him there because he was supposed to be the only MacGregor who charmed his way into my bed." "Really." Alan tugged on her hair until she lifted her face, full of amusement and fun,to his. "Is that what I dd?" "You knew damn well I wouldn't be able to resist balloons and rainbows foever.

He was beautiful. Whatever else he was, Sage was by far the most magnetic man I had ever seen. I had felt it in my dreams, and it was even more true in real life. I welcomed the chance to study him without his knowledge. He glanced up, and I quickly closed my eyes, feigning sleep. Had he seen me? The scratching stopped. He was looking at me, I knew it. I held my breath and willed my eyes not to pop open and see if he was staring. Finally the scratching started up again. I forced myself to slowly count to ten before I opened my eyelids the tiniest bit and peeked through my lashes. Good-he wasn’t looking at me. I opened my eyes a little wider. What was he doing? Moving only my eyes, I glanced down at the dirt floor in front of him… …and saw a picture of me, fast asleep. It was incredible. I could see his tools laid out beside the picture: rocks in several sizes and shapes, a couple of twigs…the most rudimentary materials, and yet what he was etching into the floor wouldn’t look out of place on an art gallery wall. It was beautiful…far more beautiful than I thought I actually looked in my sleep. Is that how he saw me? Sage lifted his head again, and I shut my eyes. I imagined him studying me, taking careful note of my features and filtering them through his own senses. My heartbeat quickened, and it took all my willpower to remain still. “You can keep pretending to be asleep if you’d like, but I don’t see a career for you as an actress,” he teased. My eyes sprang open. Sage’s head was again bent over his etching, but a grin played on his face as he worked. “You knew?” I asked, mortified. Sage put a finger to his lips, glancing toward Ben. “About two minutes before you woke up, I knew,” he whispered. “Your breathing hanged.” He bent back over the drawing, then impishly asked, “Pleasant dreams?” My heart stopped, and I felt myself blush bright crimson as I remembered our encounter in the bottom of the rowboat. I sent a quick prayer to whoever or whatever might be listening that I hadn’t re-enacted any of it in my sleep, then said as nonchalantly as possible, “I don’t know, I can’t remember what I dreamed about. Why?” He swapped out the rock in his hand for one with a thinner edge and worked for another moment. “No reason…just heard my name.” I hoped the dim moonlight shadowed the worst of my blush. “Your name,” I reiterated. “That’s…interesting. They say dreams sort out things that happen when we’re awake.” “Hmm. Did you sort anything out?” he asked. “Like I said, I can’t remember.” I knew he didn’t believe me. Time to change the subject. I nodded to the etching. “Can I come look?

He ruffled her hair as he came in, all uncle and no cop about him now. She far preferred her uncle to the chief; he had inherited the sense of humor in the family, while her father got the receding hairline and mad skills with numbers. "Geez, Vi, you didn't need to break your own leg to get out of going to the dance with Grady Spencer. A simple 'no' would have been just fine, I'm sure." Apparently no one had noticed that Jay had barely let go of her hand for a second. His thumb was now tracing lazy circles around her palm, and he answered her uncle's teasing comment without looking away from Violet for even a split second. "She's not going to the dance with Grady," he announced, smiling at her mischievously, and for a moment Violet forgot how to breathe. She hoped she never got used to how a simple look from him could turn her into a blithering idiot. "Really?" her aunt Kat asked, her eyes narrowing as she glanced from Violet to Jay, and then down at their intertwined hands. Clearly she wasn't going to let the comment pass unnoticed. "Why is that?" she asked in a voice filled with unspoken meaning. Stephen Ambrose looked at his wife curiously, a little slow to catch on, which was sad, really, considering it was his job to seek out clues and solve mysteries. Jay answered Kat without missing a beat. "Because she's going with me." He winked at Violet, whose cheeks had flushed to a brilliant shade of scarlet. She wasn't entirely sure she was ready for this. Violet saw her mom and Aunt Kat exchange meaningful glances. They knew, she realized. And now her uncle did too. Uncle Stephen gave Jay his best I'm-keeping-my-eye-on-you look, but a quick "Hmm" was the only sound he made. How much embarrassment could one person possibly survive? There was a moment of awkward silence, made even more uncomfortable by Jay's refusal to look anywhere but at her. He reached out and brushed his finger along her cheek. Violet almost forgot to care that everyone in the room was looking at them. Her uncle Stephen cleared his throat, and Violet jumped a little.

Violet felt so free. She could hear Jay laughing from behind her as he held on tight. She spun the craft first sharply to the right and then quickly to the left. He knew she was trying to buck him free, testing him to see how long he could hold on to her before being tossed into the frigid water of the lake as she maneuvered the miniature speedboat back and forth. But he was stronger now than ever before, and his reflexes were sharper. He seemed to know which way she was going to go even before she did. After a while, Violet slowed down near a floating dock in the lake and parked the Wave Runner. “Do you want to jump in?” she asked as she pulled the key from the ignition without waiting for an answer, making it more of a statement than a question. Jay stood up and hopped from the Wave Runner onto the dock. Violet joined him and instead of diving into the water, she sat down and dangled her feet in. “It’s quiet here,” he commented absently. He sat down beside her. “Mm-hmm,” she sighed, kicking her feet and splashing up water. “How are your knees?” He reached out and brushed his fingers across the damp bandages. Violet shrugged. “They’re fine . . .” and then she added with mock adoration, “. . . thanks to you, of course.” And to show her gratitude, she kicked water in his direction. He nudged her with his shoulder but didn’t say anything. They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the silence of being alone and enjoying each other’s presence. It was easy . . . and comfortable.

Pretty quickly, a pattern emerged surrounding what we started calling bids for connection. One person would make a bid, initiating a moment of connection—it could be physical or verbal, overt or subtle—and the researcher controlling the camera would zoom in close on their partner’s faces. Partners responded to bids for connection in one of three ways: 1. By turning toward: They gave a positive or affirmative response, acknowledging the other person and engaging with their attempt to connect. (Even a “hmm?” can count as turning toward.) 2. By turning away: They gave no response, either actively ignoring or just not noticing their partner’s attempt to connect. 3. By turning against: They responded irritably or angrily to actively shut down their partner’s attempt to connect.

Solving would sound like, “Just let Jessie use it first, she’s two years old, geez!” or “Micah, you get it now and then, Jessie, you get it after.” But slowing down would sound like, “Let me take that fire truck for a second—okay, I have it. Now, I know I need a deep breath.” Take a few deep breaths to allow your children to “borrow” your regulation. “Hmm, two kids, one truck! That is so tricky. I wonder what we can do? I wonder if I have any problem-solvers here . . .” Then pause. Remind yourself, your job is to slow down the situation so your kids can regulate their bodies and have access to their own problem-solving skills; your job isn’t to solve this as quickly as possible. Here, you’re helping your children learn the process that leads to problem-solving; when we fix things for our kids, we just lock them into needing us to problem-solve, and this becomes frustrating to everyone.

Tell me about yourself," Midori said. "What about me?" "Hmm, I don't know, what do you hate?" "Chicken and VD and barbers who talk too much." "What else?" "Lonely April nights and lacy telephone covers." "What else?" I shook my head. "I can't think of anything else." "My boyfriend - which is to say, my ex-boyfriend - had all kinds of things he hated. Like when I wore too-short skirts, or when I smoked, or how I got drunk too quickly, or said disgusting things, or criticized his friends. So if there's anything about me you don't like, just tell me, and I'll fix it if I can." "I can't think of anything," I said after giving it some thought. "There's nothing." "Really?" "I like everything you wear, and I like what you do and say and how you walk and how you get drunk. Everything." "You mean I'm really OK just the way I am?" "I don't know how you could change, so you must be fine the way you are." "How much do you love me?" Midori asked. "Enough to melt all the tigers in the world to butter," I said. "Far out," she said with a hint of satisfaction.

Hang on,” Keefe interrupted, sliding off his bed and tiptoeing across his room. He paused near the door, pressing his finger to his lips in the universal shhhhh sign before he grabbed the handle and shoved his shoulder against the wood as hard as he could. A startled yelp echoed from the hallway, followed by a thud that could only be the sound of a body hitting the floor. “You have ten seconds before I let Ro unleash some of her new little bacteria buddies on you,” Keefe warned as he slammed the door hard enough to rattle the wall. “I hear they leave a gnarly rash!” He waited until the sound of footsteps had retreated down the hall before he turned back to Sophie and lowered his voice. “That won’t keep him away for long, so better spill it quick, Foster. Tell me why you have that cute little crease between your eyebrows. And why I’m feeling”—he waved his hands through the air—“hmm. Feels like the usual mix of worry, anger, and panic—though there’s something underneath that’s a little… I can’t figure out how to describe it. Fluttery?” “Oooh, let’s focus on that one!” Ro jumped in. “It’ll be much more interesting than all the blah-blah-blah-the-Neverseen-are-trying-to-kill-everybody-blah-blah.

For one moment, she stood stock-still, drinking in the simple beauty of the marble fountain, the base of its pedestal wreathed in delicate fronds, that stood, glowing lambently in the soft white light, in the center of a small, secluded, fern-shrouded clearing. Water poured steadily from the pitcher of the partially clad maiden frozen forever in her task of filling the wide, scroll-lipped basin. The area had clearly been designed to provide the lady of the house with a private, refreshing, calming retreat in which to embroider, or simply rest and gather thoughts. In the moonlit night, surrounded by mysterious shadow and steeped in a silence rendered only more intense by the distant sighing of music and the silvery tinkle of the water, it was a hauntingly magical place. For three heartbeats, the magic held Patience immobile. Then, through the fine silk of her gown, she felt the heat of Vane's body. He did not touch her, but that heat, and the flaring awareness that raced through her, had her quickly stepping forward. Hauling in a desperate breath, she gestured to the fountain. "It's lovely." "Hmm," came from close behind. Too close behind. Patience found herself heading for a stone bench, shaded by a canopy of palms. Stifling a gasp, she veered away, toward the fountain.

A Mediterranean flatbread, the pita is baked at a high temperature so that puffy pockets form in the middle, which can then be stuffed with meat or beans. He did the same thing that Secretary Girl did with her turtle burger bun... ... picking something that would keep the meat juices from dripping out the bottom! Hmm. You used a handmade Tzatziki sauce to ameliorate the smelliness of the kebab meat and to create a mild base to make the spices stand out. And the burger patty... ... is kofta! A Middle Eastern meatloaf of ground beef and lamb mixed with onions and plentiful spices, its highly fragrant aroma hits the nose hard! Its scent and umami flavor are powerful enough to bring tears to the eyes!" W-what is going on here?! How could they eat all that greasy, heavy meat so quickly and easily?! "Here. Let me give you a lesson. Four things are required for a good burger. A bun, a patty, some kind of sauce and... ...pickles. The sharp smell and tart flavor of pickles is what highlights the meaty umami of the patty. Pickles are a hidden but key component of the best burgers! From what I could tell, you used ginger sticks as your pickle analogue... ... but that was a weak choice." "What?! Then what did you choose that's so much better?!" "The pickle type that I picked for my burger... ...is achaar." "Achaar?" "What kind of pickle is that?" ACHAAR South Asian in origin, achaar consists of fruits or vegetables pickled in mustard oil or brine, and then mixed with a variety of spices. Sometimes called Indian pickles, achaar is strongly tart and spicy. This is achaar I made with onions. The spicy scent of the mustard oil makes the meaty umami of the kofta patty really stands out. For the tartness, I used amchoor- also known as mango powder- a citrusy powder made from dried unripe mangoes. But that's just the base. I added lemon juice to bolster the citrusy flavor of the amchoor... ... and then some garlic, ginger and chili peppers to give it an aroma that tickles the nose. Cloves. Cumin seeds. Black pepper. Paprika. I even added a dab of honey to give it a hint of sweetness.

Ryder! What’s taking you so long?” “I’m on my way!” he yells back. It feels like forever before he pushes open the door and ducks inside. Then I see why it took him so long. He’s somehow got the three cats tucked under one arm and the cake plate clutched in the other hand. No spare for a flashlight or lantern--so he accomplished this all in the dark. “Here,” he says, handing off the cake to me before releasing Kirk, Spock, and Sulu into the crate and latching the door. “Seriously, Ryder? You brought the cake?” He shrugs. “I was hungry.” Hmm, I guess all that kissing worked up his appetite. For cake. I’m not sure if I should be offended or not. On the plus side, he doesn’t look like he’s about to puke. So we’re making progress as far as his fear of storms goes. I guess that’s something. “Did you happen to bring a fork?” I ask, setting the plate on the makeshift tabletop. He produces two from his pocket, holding them up triumphantly. So we eat cake while the sirens blare. Actually, it doesn’t sound that bad out there. Still, the fact that we’re so calm--that Ryder’s so calm--should tell you how routine this is getting. As long as we don’t hear that awful freight-train sound, we’re good. “What happened to the cake?” he asks between bites. “It looks like someone mutilated it while I was gone.” “Sorry,” I mutter. “Guess I did some stress bingeing. You realize you’re not wearing a shirt, right?” He glances down and shrugs, his cheeks flushing ever so slightly. “Sorry ’bout that.” It might seem silly that he’s apologizing, but at Magnolia Landing, you don’t come to the table unless you’re fully dressed. It’s one of Laura Grace’s most unbendable rules--you dress for meals, even breakfast. Not that this counts as a meal, and I’m not sure you could call this plywood-on-top-of-a-crate thing a “table.” But still… By the time the sirens shut off, we’ve completely cleaned the plate, even scraping off the hardened frosting with our fingers. “That was quick,” I say, setting aside the now-empty plate. Ryder nods. “I guess we should give it a minute or two. You know, make sure it’s not coming back on.” So we wait. Silently. Ryder can’t even meet my eyes, and all I want to do is stare at his lips. This is crazy. I mean, what do we do now--now that the sirens are off and the cake is gone? Apparently, the answer is pretend like nothing happened.

Lesson one: Pack light unless you want to hump the eight around the mountains all day and night. By the time we reached Snowdonia National Park on Friday night it was dark, and with one young teacher as our escort, we all headed up into the mist. And in true Welsh fashion, it soon started to rain. When we reached where we were going to camp, by the edge of a small lake halfway up, it was past midnight and raining hard. We were all tired (from dragging the ridiculously overweight packs), and we put up the tents as quickly as we could. They were the old-style A-frame pegged tents, not known for their robustness in a Welsh winter gale, and sure enough by 3:00 A.M. the inevitable happened. Pop. One of the A-frame pegs supporting the apex of my tent broke, and half the tent sagged down onto us. Hmm, I thought. But both Watty and I were just too tired to get out and repair the first break, and instead we blindly hoped it would somehow just sort itself out. Lesson two: Tents don’t repair themselves, however tired you are, however much you wish they just would. Inevitably, the next peg broke, and before we knew it we were lying in a wet puddle of canvas, drenched to the skin, shivering, and truly miserable. The final key lesson learned that night was that when it comes to camping, a stitch in time saves nine; and time spent preparing a good camp is never wasted. The next day, we reached the top of Snowdon, wet, cold but exhilarated. My best memory was of lighting a pipe that I had borrowed off my grandfather, and smoking it with Watty, in a gale, behind the summit cairn, with the teacher joining in as well. It is part of what I learned from a young age to love about the mountains: They are great levelers. For me to be able to smoke a pipe with a teacher was priceless in my book, and was a firm indicator that mountains, and the bonds you create with people in the wild, are great things to seek in life. (Even better was the fact that the tobacco was homemade by Watty, and soaked in apple juice for aroma. This same apple juice was later brewed into cider by us, and it subsequently sent Chipper, one of the guys in our house, blind for twenty-four hours. Oops.) If people ask me today what I love about climbing mountains, the real answer isn’t adrenaline or personal achievement. Mountains are all about experiencing a shared bond that is hard to find in normal life. I love the fact that mountains make everyone’s clothes and hair go messy; I love the fact that they demand that you give of yourself, that they make you fight and struggle. They also induce people to loosen up, to belly laugh at silly things, and to be able to sit and be content staring at a sunset or a log fire. That sort of camaraderie creates wonderful bonds between people, and where there are bonds I have found that there is almost always strength.

8:00am The sun is shining, the cows are mooing, and I am ready for the mines. I hope I find something awesome today. Steve has told me about some pretty crazy things I had no idea existed. According to him, I must find empty tombs in the desert. That’s where the real treasures are. For today, I will stick to regular mining. Who knows, maybe I will come across an abandoned mine shaft; could be my lucky day.   12:30pm I was forced to come home for lunch today because I had too much stuff to carry. I was getting low on my iron ore, gold, and lapis lazuli stocks before this mine trip. It’s amazing how quick lapis goes when you are busy enchanting everything but the kitchen sink. I’d enchant that too if I had one. I wonder what an enchanted kitchen sink would do. Would it do my dishes for me? That would be so cool.   I have plenty of both now. I can make some new armor and enchant it! I love mining.   Steve decided to join me for lunch and we ate a couple of pork chops and some cake. I love cake! We ate until no more food could fill us up. Then, Steve had the guts to brag about how, when he mines, he takes a horse with extra storage so he can stay down there all day long. Well fancy you, Steve.   He also went on to tell me about how well the crops are doing these days. He thinks it’s because he is looking after them half of the time. What he doesn’t know is I throw bone marrow on them when I am working. Makes my job faster and gives me more free time so whatever you need to tell yourself, Steve.   Life may be easier switching every day between mines and farming, but it still doesn’t make me his biggest fan. I just don’t think he needs to fall in a hole, either. At least… Not right now. I would consider us to be frienemies; Friendly enemies. Yes. At times we pretend to get along, but most of the time, we are happiest doing our own thing.   6:00pm Mining this afternoon was super fun… Not! I got attacked by a partially hidden skeleton guy. I couldn’t see him enough to strike back until half of my life hearts were gone. I must not have made the space bright enough. Those guys are nasty. They are hard to kill too. If you don’t have a bow and arrow you might as well surrender. Plus, they kind of smell like death. Yuck.   Note to self: Bring more torches on the next mining day.   On the other hand, I came back with an overshare of Redstone, too much iron for my own good, and oddly, quite a few diamonds. I won’t be sharing the diamonds with anyone. They are far too precious. They will go to some new diamond pickaxes, and maybe some armor. Hmm, I could enchant those too! The iron and Redstone though, I am thinking a trip to the village may be in order. See what those up-tight weirdos are willing to trade me.   For now, it’s bedtime.   6:10pm You can only sleep at night. You can only sleep at night. You can only sleep at night.   6:11pm That stupid rule gets me every time. Why can’t I decide when it’s bed time?   First, I will go eat a cookie, then I will go to sleep. Day Thirty-Three   3:00am I just dreamt that our world was made of cookies.

The burglar took two quick, long strides to Edith’s side of the bed and reached for a collar. “What’s he doing?!” a wide-eyed Edith asked Stick Cat in an angry whisper. She breathed fast, her shoulders were hunched a bit, and the fur on her back was up. “He’s stealing, Edith.” “My collars?! My daily collars?! My beautiful, colorful collars?!” “Yes.” “He’s stealing from me?!” “Yes.” “A cat?!” “That’s right.” “But I’m a good kitty.” “I know you are.” “I’m a great kitty!” “I know.” “I’m a fabulous, beautiful, and totally modest kitty!” “Mm-hmm.” “And Tuna Todd is stealing from me?” “I’m afraid so.” It took several seconds for Edith to consider and digest this information. As she did, the man began to pick her collars off the pegs one by one. He reached for the first one—Monday’s collar—with his greedy, grabby left hand. “Stick Cat,” Edith said, and looked him right in the eyes. “Yes?” “I don’t like Tuna Todd anymore.” Stick Cat used all his effort to suppress a smile. He knew this was a scary situation, but at this exact moment he was amused that it took something being stolen from Edith herself for her to finally understand the situation. “I’m sorry about your collars,” Stick Cat said. “And I’m sorry Tuna Todd didn’t turn out to be as nice as you thought.” “We should have figured it out earlier,” hissed Edith. “Umm,” Stick Cat said, and stopped. It seemed like he was contemplating the right words to use. “You’re right. If only I had been clever enough to figure out what he was doing.” “Don’t blame yourself, Stick Cat,” Edith said. “Thankfully, you have me here to help.

Do I look like I’ve been crying?” The question seems almost funny to me. Her tears vanished almost as quickly as they came, and now her face is fair again, her eyes dry, her hair smooth. Like nothing ever happened--like she didn’t just spend three minutes overwhelmed by terror. She’s stronger than I was. “Hmm.” I lean in closer, making a joke of examining her, but then it’s not a joke, and I’m just close, and we’re sharing a breath. “No, Tris,” I say. “You look…” I try a Dauntless expression. “Tough as nails.” She smiles a little. So do I.

It is illegal to portal anyone while they are under duress,I could lose my license if I were to do so." "You're going to lose a lot more than that if you don't tell me where my twin went," I said in a low, mean voice. "Mayling, please. I must insist that you allow me to be the bad cop," Gabriel said as I slid the dagger at my ankle out of its sheath. "I have never subscribed to the sexist belief that women have to be good cop," I said, twirling the dagger around one finger. "Nonetheless, you are far more suited to the good cop role," Gabriel insisted. "I'm going to have to go against popular opinion and side with Mei Ling on this," Savian said, watching us with a delighted twinkle in his eye. "She looks like she knows how to use that blade. What is that, a stiletto?" "Sicilian castrating knife," I said with a smile at the portal man. "She wins," Savian told Gabriel. "Er..." Jarilith said, his expression starting to slide into worry. "I am a wyvern! I can do far more to this man than merely remove his genitalia," Gabriel answered in an outraged tone, a little tendril of smoke emerging from between his lips as he spoke. "Eh..." Jarilith said, taking a step backward. "Hmm. He's a weaver," Savian said thoughtfully as he examined the portalist. "Those are immortal, aren't they? So he could survive a castration, but the question is would a dragon barbeque be enough to finish him off?" "Absolutely," Gabriel said. He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Threatening a weaver is strictly prohibited by law," Jarilith said indignantly, but the fight had gone out of him. His gaze was flickering back and forth from Gabriel to Savian to the dagger I held casually. "I could have the watch on you for what you're saying!" "Oh, please," I said with a dramatic roll of my eyes. "Just about every thief taker in this hemisphere is after me. I've already been sentenced to banishment to the Akasha. You think one little murder is going to make that any worse? Not likely." Jarilith's eyes widened. "It's true," Savian said. "The price on her head has already gone over six figures." The color washed out of the portalist's face. "Erm..." "Mate," Gabriel said sternly. "I must insist that you refrain from slicing and dicing this man." Jarilith nodded quickly. "Listen to the dragon." "It is my place to destroy those who stand in your way," Gabriel continued, the pupils in his eyes narrowing as he turned to the now hastily backing away Jarilith. "Let's not lose our heads, here," the latter said in a rush. "I don't think it's your head the lady has in mind," Savian said as he looked pointedly at the portalist's crotch. Jarilith's hands hovered protectively over his fly. "Such an atrocity would constitute torture. You wouldn't do that to an innocent man, would you?" "What makes you think I'd stop at the castration?" I twirled the knife around my fingers again. "This little jobby fillets, as well." "She went to Paris," Jarilith said quickly as he dashed for a door to a back room. "Your portal is ready in room number three. Have a pleasant journey..." His voice trailed off as he bolted. I turned a frown on Gabriel. "You really wouldn't have let me be bad cop? I'm very good at it, as you can see." "I'm sorry," he said, his dimples belying the grave look he was trying to maintain.."Wyverns have some standards to maintain with their mates, and one of them is always being the bad cop.Although I do admit that you have a particularly effective manner. Would you really have castrated him to get the information about your twin?" "Would you really have burnt him to acrisp for not answering?" "Such a bloodthirsty little bird," he said fondly, giving my butt a little pinch. Savian stood still for a moment, giving us an odddisbelieving look before shaking his head and following. "You two are the strangest couple I've ever met. And I have to tell you-I've met some real weirdos

What’s your specialty? Hmm, don’t have one? You might be becoming a commodity. If that’s the case, you’re in trouble. You’ll have to lower prices, because people won’t see any reason to pay more for you. You’ll have to spend more on marketing, because nobody will be buzzing about you or advocating for you. You’ll become watered down to mush, the lowest common denominator, struggling to get noticed in a world that quickly forgets me-too brands.

Let’s try the cards,” said Cutwell hurriedly, fanning them out. “Pick a card. Any card.” “It’s Death,” said Keli. “Ah. Well. Of course, the Death card doesn’t actually mean death in all circumstances,” Cutwell said quickly. “You mean, it doesn’t mean death in those circumstances where the subject is getting over-excited and you’re too embarrassed to tell the truth, hmm?” “Look, take another card.” “This one’s Death as well,” said Keli.

The problem with love and God, the two of them, is how to say anything about them that doesn't annihilate them instantly with the wrong words, with untruth. In this sense, love and God are equivalents. We feel both, but because we cannot speak clearly about them, we end up - wordless, inarticulate - by denying their existence altogether, and pfffffft, they die. (They can, however, come back. Because God is a god, when He is dead, He doesn't have to stay dead. He can come back if He chooses to. Nietzsche somehow failed to mention this.) Both God and love are best described and addressed by means of poetry. Poetry, however, is also stone dead at the present time, like its first cousin, God. Love will very quickly follow, no? Hmm? Don't you agree? I asked. After God dies, must love, a smaller god, not follow?

Step 4: Engage your child to problem-solve with you. Offer “leading” ideas, but allow your child to experience the aha moment of brainstorming a coping mechanism. Resist the urge to explain the fear away or solve the problem on your own. Phrases like “I wonder” and “I’m thinking about” help engage your child in problem-solving. It might sound like this: “Hmm . . . I’m wondering if we can go to the basement and start going down the stairs one at a time . . . let me know when the scary feeling starts and when it feels like it’s getting bigger.” As you inquire about the fear in this way, you infuse your parental presence into the moment, and as your child feels less alone in her fear, it won’t hold such a strong grip. Next, maybe say, “I wonder what you could say to yourself as you go down one of the stairs . . .” Or maybe you suggest a solution like, “I’m thinking about practicing going down one stair now, then in a few days maybe another stair, and the next day a few more . . . hmm . . .” Step 5: Create a mantra. For kids who struggle with anxiety, mantras can be very helpful in the moment. Whether spoken out loud or recited internally, a mantra focuses their attention on the calming words rather than the source of distress. Examples of mantras include, “It’s okay to be nervous. I can get through this,” “I can feel scared and brave at the same time,” and “I’m safe, my parents are near.” Work with your child to develop a mantra that feels good to them and encourage them to repeat it during scary moments. Step 6: Share a “slowly coping with a fear” story. Yours might sound like: “This reminds me of when I was about your age, and I was scared of dogs. I still remember how bad those moments felt in my body.” Do not offer a quick fix like, “But then I realized that I was safe and it was okay.” Instead offer a story of slow coping, something like: “I remember talking to my dad about it, and realizing it was okay to feel scared. I remember that my dad and I would read a lot about dogs, then I’d start to walk closer to dogs with him. And then one day, my dad helped me touch a dog. Little by little, dogs felt less scary. It was such hard work to be brave when I was feeling scared!

They say you are as blind as a bat, and too vain to wear spectacles,” the voice beside her announced. Clarissa blinked in surprise. But if she was taken aback by his bluntness, she suspected she was no more so than the speaker himself. She heard a small gasp of breath as he finished, as if he’d just realized what he’d said. A quick glance to the side showed that he’d raised his hand as if to cover his mouth. “I am sorry; I have obviously been too long out of society. I should never have—” “Oh, bother.” Clarissa waved his apology away and sank back in her seat with a dejected sigh. “’Tis all right. I do know what people are saying. They seem to think that I am deaf as well as clumsy, for they do not worry about saying things in front of me—or at least behind their fans—loudly enough for me to hear.” Making a face, she mimicked, “‘Oh look, there she is, poor thing—Clumsy Clarissa.’” “I am sorry,” her companion said quietly. Clarissa waved his words away again, only this time noting the way he dodged as if to avoid a blow to the head. Frowning, she clasped her hands and settled them in her lap, repeating, “There is no need to apologize. At least you said it to my face.” “Yes, well…” The man seemed to relax in his seat now that her hands weren’t waving wildly. “Actually, it was more a question. I was wondering if you truly are?” Clarissa smiled wryly. “Ah, well, I am not quite as blind as a bat. I can see with spectacles. But my stepmother has taken them away.” She threw a dry smile in the general direction of his blurry shape and then shrugged. “Lydia seems to think that I will have more luck setting a fire in some suitable man’s heart without them. The only thing as yet that I have set fire to is Lord Prudhomme’s wig.” “Excuse me?” the stranger asked with amazement. “Prudhomme’s wig?” “Hmm.” Clarissa leaned back in her chair and actually managed to chuckle at the memory. “Yes. Though if you ask me, ’twas not wholly my fault. The man knew that I could not see without my spectacles. Why the deuce he asked me to move the candle closer is beyond me.” Clarissa paused to squint in her companion’s general direction. “He is bald as a cue ball without his wig, is he not?” She thought the man nodded, though it was hard to say. He was emitting small choked sounds it took her a moment to identify. He was fighting desperately not to laugh! “Go ahead,” Clarissa said with a small smile. “Laugh. I did. Though not right away.” -Adrian & Clarissa

She shoved me out of the bed! The realization hit him as hard as the floor. His feline grace failed him. Far from hanging its head in shame, his inner lion rolled in mirth, tufted tail practically wagging. Not funny. Except it was. He had a feeling this more assertive side of Arabella was his fault. Since the moment they’d met, he’d encouraged her to not take any shit, and apparently she’d decided to start with him. Dammit. When he’d told her to not let the world stomp all over her, he should have specified his exemption. I’m her mate. Isn’t there a rule that says she can’t kick me out of bed? Except she’d yet to realize what he had. Was it only a day ago since his life changed? Not even. At this rate, he’d be picking out fucking China patterns by noon. Completely emasculated and by a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. Flipping to his knees, he sat up and rested his chin on the mattress. Arabella faced him, eyes wary, breathing shallow as she waited for his reaction. More like she waited to see if he’d explode. She’d learn. Hayder would never harm her, but he would use his infamous kitty-cat eyes against her. He stared. You know you want me. You know you need me. Come on, baby. Melt. Melt for your lion. She stared right back. Hmm, this wasn’t working as planned. He let the left side of his lip curl into a grin, tugging his cheek and popping his infamous dimple. “I know what you’re doing.” “What?” “Trying to manipulate me into letting you back into bed.” “Is it working?” For a moment her expression shifted, a quick flip of emotions as she struggled to answer. “Yes it’s working. But I wish it wasn’t.” “Why? Why fight it?” “Because I think I need time.” It turned out there was something more powerful than his dimple. Her honesty. He groaned. “I think you were sent to kill me. Fine. If you insist, I’ll respect you even if I’d rather debauch you.” Her eyes widened. “Respect doesn’t mean I’m going to lie, baby. I want you. Bad. But I’ll listen to what you want. For now.” And, yes, he said it ominously. Let her think about it. Think about him. Soon even she wouldn’t be able to deny they were meant for each other. He stood, all six foot plus naked feet of him. And, yes, that did put a certain part of his anatomy in perfect view of a certain shocked gaze. A sucked-in breath, cheeks that darkened, a certain awareness sizzling between them. She couldn’t hope to hide her pleasure or interest in what she saw. “Sweet dreams, baby.” He winked and then turned, resisting an urge to catch her staring at his ass. He knew she was. He could feel the crazy heat as she traced his path out of the room. Go back. Want to snuggle. His lion couldn’t understand why they were back in the living room with its cramped couch that wouldn’t allow him to stretch out. Why couldn’t they snuggle in the nice warm bed and, even better, cuddle with a nice warm mate? Respect, my furry friend. A lion had no use for respect though. His worldview was much simpler. Ours. Bed. Hungry. Not hungry for a steak but, rather, a sweet, creamy pie. Hayder groaned. No need to keep reminding him of what he was missing. He knew. He hated it, but her wants had to take precedence over his. Argh.

To you I would only say go as far as you can with what you love. And start quick, hmm? Youth is brief.

cigarette. They floated in the middle of the tropical green ocean with the islands in view. The water was doing something to Tatiana. It was dismantling her. With every flutter of the water she saw the Neva, the River Neva under the northern sun on the sub-Arctic white night city they once called home, the water rippled and in it was Leningrad, and in Leningrad was everything she wanted to remember and everything she wanted to forget. He was gazing at her. His eyes occasionally softened under the sticky Coconut Grove sun. “You’ve got new freckles, above your eyebrows.” He kissed her eyelids. “Golden, soft hair, ocean eyes.” He stroked her face, her cheeks. “Your scar is almost gone. Just a thin white line now. Can barely see it.” The scar she got escaping from the Soviet Union. “Hmm.” “Unlike mine?” “You have more to heal, husband.” Reaching out, she placed her hand on Alexander’s face and then closed her eyes quickly so he couldn’t pry inside her. “Tatiasha,” he called in a whisper, and then bent to her and kissed her long and true. It had been a year since she had found him shackled in Sachsenhausen’s isolation chamber. A year since she dredged him up from the bottomdwellers of Soviet-occupied Germany, from the grasping hands of Stalin’s henchmen. How could it have been a year? How long did it seem? An eternity in purgatory, a hemidemisemiquaver in heaven.

Yes, I’m Delia Maddox,” she said, taking his hand in a quick, firm shake. “Grace’s sister-in-law and--” “--the ravishing goddess responsible for creating Delia’s delectable. The most amazing food in the Americas.” Her pretty eyes twinkled at his nickname for her food, but she folded her arms and said, “Only in the Americas? Hmm, I must be slipping.

You gonna wake up?” She lazily opened her eyes and jolted awake, scooting up on her elbows. “What? What?” “Easy. It’s okay. Sort of.” She blinked a few times and then her eyes were wide. “Where am I?” “I brought you inside. I had to. You were on your way to freezing to death. You must not have a brain in your head.” She squinted at him, pursing her lips. “Oh—I have a brain. I’m just not real experienced in mountain life.” She struggled to sit up. “Gee, if I’d known you got your eyebrow back and grew your beard in red, I might’ve found you sooner. I’ll get out of your hair, which I notice, you have plenty of.” “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, putting a big hand against her sternum, holding her down. “You’re stuck—and so am I.” “No problem,” she said. “I sleep in the car every night. I have a good sleeping bag…” “Did you hear me? You were passed out on your way back from the john, covered with snow and damn near frozen to death. You wanted to see me, you’re going to get your wish.” Her eyes widened suddenly. “I’m…ah…naked under here?” “You’re not naked. You have underwear. I had to get your wet clothes off you. That or just let you die. It wasn’t an easy decision,” he lied. “You undressed me and wrapped me in this quilt?” she asked. “Pretty much,” he said. And felt your small, soft body against mine for an hour, the first female body that’s been against mine in five years. Until tonight, he hadn’t thought he missed that feeling. “What happened out there? How’d you end up in the doorway of the john like that?” “I don’t have the first idea. I was so glad there was an outhouse for once and I wouldn’t have to squat behind a bush. I was going to make it quick, but I was so tired I could hardly move, and that’s the last thing I remember till I woke up.” She coughed. “I didn’t think I was so tired I’d fall asleep on the way.” “You didn’t fall asleep,” he said. “You lost consciousness. Hypothermia. Like I said—half frozen.” “Hmm.

You’re right about the food,” he said with a hum and a napkin to his lips and beard. “Hmm,” she agreed, letting her eyes fall closed as she enjoyed mashed potatoes so creamy and wonderful, they were like ambrosia. Ian finished quickly, sitting back and giving his belly a satisfied rub. Marcie just gave up, pushing her plate toward Ian. “I’m done. Go ahead. Help yourself.” His eyes widened. “You sure?” “Wait,” she said suddenly. She dipped her fork into the mashed potatoes and lifted it to his lips. “Try this.” He lifted his brows, then let her put the fork into his mouth. He savored it. Then he said, “I think you got better potatoes.” And he smiled. “Help yourself, Ian. I’m going to explode if I eat any more,” she said. “Maybe a bite,” he said, dipping his fork a couple of times before he, too, had to admit defeat.

So she’s the lucky winner tonight?” he asked after a few minutes of silent driving. “Excuse me?” “Kinda surprised you’re not more upset about it.” “Well, I kinda want to know what I’m supposed to be upset about.” I crossed my arms under my chest and turned so my back was resting against the door so I could look at him more easily. What is his problem? I made the douche bag pancakes two days ago! And I told him all about Blake this morning. That was hard for me; now he’s going to treat me like this? “I got the job, by the way, in case you were wondering.” He shook his head and rested his forearms on the steering wheel while he waited for the light to turn green. “Knew you would, and Rod called me this afternoon so I already knew that you did. You start tomorrow night?” “Mmm-hmm. Are you going to tell me why I’m supposed to be upset?” “Because that guy is taking Candice home tonight instead of you.” My head jerked back and I could only imagine the disgust dripping from my expression. “Ew! What?!” Kash looked quickly between the road and me a couple of times. “That guy. I saw you launch yourself at him earlier. He kept kissing your cheek, and now he’s taking Candice back to his place.” I slammed my fist over my mouth and swallowed. “Oh God, I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.” “Shit, do you need me to pull over?” “No, no. Oh, just ew, Kash! You and Mase kiss my head all the time. Mason picks me up almost every time I see him.” “So?” “So? So! So, Eli is Candice’s older brother that I grew up with and I actually view like my own brother. Besides Candice he was the best friend I had. He helped me through—” I cut myself off quickly and blew out a deep breath. “He helped me through a lot when I was younger. But I have never once viewed him as anything other than family and a friend. He even calls me sis, for crying out loud. Candice isn’t going home with him, they’re going to meet up with their cousin for drinks and I didn’t want to go.” Kash’s face relaxed, and though I expected him to look embarrassed, he just turned and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like him?” “Seriously, this conversation is grossing me out.” He

Take care, Lillia. And have fun.” “Thanks, Mom. Have fun with your new fighter plane. And also—” “Yes?” “Whatever base you’re staying at, please try to get up on your own. Otherwise you’ll give a really hard time to the poor soul who has to wake you up.” “Ohh… All right, I’ll try. Have a good trip, Lillia.” Allison smiled, and planted a kiss on Lillia’s cheek. Lillia kissed her mother back. As Treize watched he suddenly found himself meeting Allison’s gaze. “Would you like one too, Treize?” Allison asked, reaching toward him. Lillia slapped down her hand. “Don’t bother, Mom.” “Hey, that’s not nice.” Treize grumbled. “Ask your own mom for a kiss.” Lillia snapped back. Then, she added in a softer tone, “As I wish, right?” Treize nodded, slightly. “Yeah.” “Hmm… Lillia, you should be the one giving Treize a kiss after all.” Lillia reacted instantly. “Denied!” “It’s going to be a long trip, you know. Plenty of time for at least one.” “Denied.” “There’s no need to be stingy.” “I said, denied.” “You keep saying so, but I bet you’re thinking to yourself that once might be all right? A mother knows what her children are thinking.” “Nope.” “Just do it when no one’s looking.” “That’s not the problem here.” “Just a quick one on the forehead.” “It’s not about where.” “It’s not like it’ll hurt.” “That’s not the problem, either.” “Or maybe you’re too shy when you’re sober?” “Mom, I’m a minor.” “…” Standing idly by the mother and daughter, Treize waited for their conversation to end.

Hup! . . . and here we are, waking up. Quick scan around, nothing immediately threatening, it would seem . . . Hmm. Floating in space. Odd. Nobody else around. That’s funny. View’s a bit degraded. Oh-oh, that’s a bad sign. Don’t feel quite right, either. Stuff missing here . . . Clock running way slow, like it’s down amongst the electronics crap . . . Run full system check. ... Oh, good grief!

Landon reappeared, wearing a shirt, and pointed to the trash bag. “All done with that? I’m taking them to the garage.” Colby did a quick scan of the kitchen. “Yeah, looks like we got it all.” “Cool.” He knotted the top together then lifted the bag. Glass bottles rattled inside. “This shit stinks. Our friends are pigs.” Matt pretended to clear his throat. “Says the beer pong champ.” He lifted his hands, his face masked in innocence. “Didn’t say a thing.” “Ha-ha, okay, okay. Yeah, so maybe I contributed.” Landon shouldered the weighted bag. “A lot. But I also kicked your ass.” “We,” I chimed in. “Considering how drunk you were, we should probably respect the solid seventy/thirty split of the win.” Landon opened the garage door and paused. “Hold that thought.” “Uh-oh, you got him all fired up now.” Matt laughed and plopped down on the couch in the now clean living room. “You got anything for a headache?” Colby nodded, reached into the kitchen cabinet where he stored the ibuprofen, then tossed him the bottle. The garage door reopened and Landon stepped through already talking. “Okay, so if I’m not mistaken, you’re saying you did seventy percent of the winning?” “Seems about right.” I grinned, just to egg him on. “What I’m thinking is we should just call it fifty/fifty because my drunkenness just took my superior beer pong skills down to average-guy range.” “Oh? So that’s what we want to call it? Hmm…Okay, if this helps keep your ego nice and inflated, I guess I can get on board with that.” “Hey now…” He forced back a smile. “Kidding. We all know I suck at beer pong. If it hadn’t been for my champion of a partner and Matt’s extreme inebriation, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. It was a team effort and we…how did you say it? Mopped the floors with the blood of our enemies?” “Damn girl, you’re feisty. This isn’t no red wedding. I just said we kicked some ass.” “Oh, you didn’t say something like that? Wow, now I see how the inflated ego comes about. That kind of win just really goes straight to the head. I’m like crazy with power.” “I’d say.” He laughed. “And remind me to never play against you.

Hmm, we must resume your education, I think, of such finer things. Flowery is the opposite of … woody. Not bitter memory of sap, in other words, but something sweet, as of narcissus or skullcrown—’ ‘Those flowers are poisonous,’ Quick Ben noted in faint alarm. ‘But pretty and sweet in appearance, yes? I doubt any of us are in the habit of eating flowers, thus in analogy I sought visual cues for dear Emancipor.’ ‘Ah, I see.’ ‘Before you pour from that bottle, then, Emancipor. Was the aftertaste bitter or sweet?’ ‘Uh, it was kind of thick, master. Like iron.’ Bauchelain rose and grasped the bottle. He held it close, then sniffed the mouth. ‘You idiot, this is blood from Korbal Broach’s collection. Not that row, the one opposite. Take this back to the cellar.’ Emancipor’s lined face had gone parchment-white. ‘Blood? Whose?’ ‘Does it matter?’ As Emancipor gaped, Quick Ben cleared his throat and said, ‘To your servant, I think the answer would be “yes, it does”.’ The crow cackled from the mantelpiece, head bobbing. The servant sagged on watery knees, the goblets on the tray clinking together. Frowning, Bauchelain collected the bottle again and sniffed once more. ‘Well,’ he said, returning it to the tray, ‘I’m not the one to ask, of course, but I think it’s virgin’s blood.’ Quick Ben had no choice but to enquire, ‘How can you tell?’ Bauchelain regarded him with raised brows. ‘Why, it’s woody.

Can you acknowledge it, without talking? Can you take it in -- really look at it -- and give it back? Or, if you must talk, can you make an observation, without judgment or priase?"Hmm, yes, you used a lot of red." Or can you ask a simple question?...They are in the midst of a creative process, their attention is fully engaged, and what they need from you is usually just a quick connection, rather than a critique or complement.

I led Daniel to the master bedroom and closed the door behind us. “What’s up?” I whispered. “Hmm?” “You’ve barely said a word since Rafe showed up. You don’t trust him.” “What? No. Of course I trust him. The guy fell out of a helicopter so we wouldn’t.” “But something’s bugging you. Is it his story?” “No. It’s a miracle he survived, but like you said, he’s part cat. They always land on their feet.” He smiled, but it was strained. “Then you don’t buy the part about how he got back here.” “I do. He said he left the motorcycle behind the Blender. Easy enough to check. If he was lying, he’d say he ditched it in the woods somewhere.” “Uh-huh. You’ve thought this through, I see. Which means it’s bugging you.” Daniel put his hands on my upper arms and leaned down to look me in the eye. “Nothing’s bugging me, Maya. Well, except the fact that our town is empty, and we have no idea where anyone is or how to find them.” I dropped my gaze. “Right. Sorry. You’re quiet because you have other things on your mind. I’m worried, too. I know it doesn’t seem like it, because Rafe’s back and obviously I’m happy about that, so maybe I’m not as focused as I should be. I’ll snap out of it.” He gave me a quick hug. “Don’t. Something in this whole mess has gone right for you. You’re allowed to be happy.” He met my gaze. “Okay?” I nodded. “Go have a shower and try to relax,” he said. “You’re going to need your energy, and I’m going to need my co-captain.

Probably smart to get the teal one over with next,” Elwin suggested. Fitz held up the vial in question, squinting at the ocean-colored liquid as it sloshed around the tiny bottle. “Hmm. Hopefully this doesn’t ruin your favorite color for you.” “It won’t.” She ordered herself not to meet his eyes. The last thing she needed was him guessing why the color was her favorite. But she couldn’t help a quick glance, and . . . Breathing became impossible again—which turned out to be a good thing when he poured the medicine into her mouth and the taste of old broccoli and boiled cabbage hit her hard. “Here,” he said, placing another candy on her tongue. “Better?” “Kinda.” The second bite did the trick—until Keefe’s voice called from the doorway, “Dude, are you guys feeding each other?

Do you feel well, Addison?” “I’m fine.” For some reason I couldn’t meet his eyes. “Are you certain?” He cupped my cheek and wiped something away with his thumb—a tear. “Then why are you crying?” “I’m not.” I swiped at my eyes and tried to smile. “I was just… shocked when I thought you were… were gone.” “Shocked, hmm?” He looked at me more closely. “Perhaps you were upset? Could it be that you realized that you could return my love after all?” “Nothing like that,” I said, pulling away from him. “More like… I didn’t like the idea of the world without you in it.” I looked at him at last. “Satisfied?” Corbin sighed and for one quick instant a look of infinite sadness crossed his face. Then he smiled. “Not nearly satisfied, darling. But it’s nice at least to know that you will miss me when—” He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. “I mean, that you would miss me if I were gone.

As you are pitching your idea, the croc brain of the person sitting across from you isn't 'listening' and thinking, 'Hmm, is this a good deal or not?' Its reaction to your pitch basically goes like this: 'Since this is not an emergency, how can I ignore this or spend the least amount of time possible on it?' This filtering system of the crocodile brain has a very short-sighted view of the world. Anything that is not a crisis it tries to mark as 'spam.' If you got a chance to look at the croc brain's filtering instructions, it would look something like this: 1. If it's not dangerous, ignore it 2. If it's not new and exciting, ignore it. 3. If it is new, summarize it as quickly as possible - and forget about the details. And finally there is this specific instruction: 4. Do not send anything up to the neocortex for problem solving unless you have a situation that is really unexpected and out of the ordinary. These are the basic operating policies and procedures of our brains. No wonder pitching is so difficult.

But I was in a hurry, so I let him drive. I wasn’t thinking about formalities then. I knew I ought to get back home quickly. Anyhow, he was so respectful I knew he was all right.” “Hmm! There are respectful crooks sometimes! But never mind; go on.

Since I had two brand new Ender Pearls, all I needed was Blaze powder. I fished around inside my magic expandable pocket and pulled out the yellow Blaze rod I had picked up when I visited the nasty Nether a few worlds back. I plunked it down on the crafting table, and two little piles of yellow powder appeared! That was the easy part. Then came the hard part—putting everything together! Making stuff in Minecraft usually means arranging every single ingredient on a crafting table in EXACTLY the right way. And if just one little thing is out of place, you get NOTHING! Let me tell you, I was NOT looking forward to hours and hours of trial and error and error and error and... But I psyched myself up by remembering that Eyes of Ender were my only way back home! I took a deep breath, and got ready for a long and boring day of flailing around at a crafting table. So of course, after getting myself all worked up, the second I put the ingredients on the crafting table an Eye of Ender instantly appeared! I guess you could say it was “Eye-ronic!” (Heh. Get it? Eye-ronic = ironic!) Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining! I’m just glad that the Minecraft irony worked in MY favor for once! Then quick as a flash, I had two brand new Eyes of Ender! Unfortunately, that didn’t mean my problems were over just yet. The torn page made it sound like I’d need a bunch of Eyes, and I was fresh out of Blaze powder! I couldn’t go back to the Nether (no Nether Portal… and no DEATH WISH either!), so there wasn’t any way for me to get more! Hmm. Or was there? Hanging all over the walls inside the tower, were all kinds of framed pictures. One of them was a Blaze rod, and another one was Blaze powder. They looked totally life-like. Then a crazy idea popped into my head. I reached out, and tapped a picture. The Blaze rod went POP! out of the frame, and onto the floor! It WAS real! I tapped the “picture” of the Blaze powder, and it popped out too! WOW! Man, if I had known the items in the frames were REAL, I’d have pulled out stuff in the other hacker kid houses, and saved myself TONS of time and trouble and, more importantly… PAIN!

Hola,” my daughter offered meekly. “¿Cuál es su nombre?” the woman asked. What is her name? “Stella.” “Hmm?” “Stella.” The woman still looked puzzled. Drew jumped in. “Estella.” She broke into a smile. “Ah, Estella.” “Sí.” I smiled, too. “Y tu hijo?” she asked, running her hand over our son’s blond head. He shook his head impatiently. “Cole,” I replied. “Col?” she asked, again looking puzzled. “Sí.” Everyone wanted to call Stella “Estella,” and sometimes she’d get mistaken for chela, the Mexican slang for beer. Cole, on the other hand, is a Spanish word, at least how it’s pronounced. It’s Catalan as well, which is the second language in Barcelona (or first, depending on who you ask). Cole is pronounced like the Spanish word col and means “cabbage.” We accidentally named our son after the slightly smelly vegetable they put in cocidos and ensaladas. Meet our children: Beer and Cabbage. Apparently it didn’t matter, as the abuelita quickly launched into a story about her three children and eight grandchildren (who all lived outside the city, sadly) and her hand injury that had only recently healed. I nodded and Drew offered, “Sí, sí, vale, vale,” the usual Spanish murmurs of agreement. The bus stopped and we said our good-byes as she departed. After the bus had started rolling again, I leaned over to Drew and whispered, “If we have another baby, we are naming her Alejandra—or Javier if it’s a boy—something so Spanish no one ever asks us twice.” He grinned. “Agreed.