Hmmm Thinking Quotes

Do you think everybody misses somebody? Like I miss my mama?” “Mmmm-hmmm,” said Gloria. She closed her eyes. “I believe, sometimes, that the whole world has an aching heart.

-BDB on the board- Knitter's Anonimous May 8, 2006 Rhage (in his bedroom posting in V's room on the board) Hi, my name is V. ("Hi, V") I've been knitting for 125 years now. (*gasping noises*) It's begun to impact my personal relationships: my brothers think I'm a nancy. It's begun to affect my health: I'm getting a callus on my forefinger and I find bits of yarn in all my pockets and I'm starting to smell like wool. I can't concentrate at work: I keep picturing all these lessers in Irish sweaters and thick socks. (*sounds of sympathy*) I've come seeking a community of people who, like me, are trying not to knit. Can you help me? (*We're with you*) Thank you (*takes out hand-knitted hankie in pink*) (*sniffles*) ("We embrace you, V") Vishous (in the pit): Oh hell no...you did not just put that up. And nice spelling in the title. Man...you just have to roll up on me, don't you. I got four words for you, my brother. Rhage: Four words? Okay...lemme see... Rhage, you're so sexy. hmmm.... Rhage, you're SO smart. No wait! Rhage, you're SO right! That's it, isn't it...g'head. You can tell me. Vishous: First one starts with a "P" Use your head for the other three. Bastard. Rhage: P? Hmm... Please pass the yarn Vishous: Payback is a bitch! Rhage: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh I'm so scuuuuuurred. Can you whip me up a blanket to hide under?

Shigure Sohma: So anyway I was wondering if you could stop by the house and take a look at Tohru's cut. That is if it isn't a problem. Hatori Sohma: No problem. I'll stop by the house this evening. Shigure Sohma: Hmmm What's this Hatori I don't think I ever heard you sound so eager to come over. Could it be you have a secret crush on Tohru [long silence from the other end of the phone] Shigure Sohma: [shouts] I knew it You naughty naughty man you Hatori Sohma: No I was simply too amazed by your stupidity to say anything.

Sabina." Vinca said interrupting my maudlin thoughts. "Hmmm..." She rolled her eyes. "I said, don't you think Adam looks nice tonight." I shook myself. "I guess so," I said with a shrug. "Oh, stop," he said. "You're going to make me blush.

My, my," he said, looking the note over. "If only students would write this much in their essays. One of you has considerably worse writing than the other, so forgive me if I get anything wrong here." He cleared his throat."'So, I saw J last night,' begins the person with bad handwriting, to which the response is,'What happened,' followed by no fewer than five question marks. Understandable, since sometimes one—let alone four—just won't get the point across, eh?" The class laughed, and I noticed Mia throwing me a particularly mean smile. "The first speaker responds:'What do you think happened? We hooked up in one of the empty lounges.'“ Mr. Nagy glanced up after hearing some more giggles in the room. His British accent only added to the hilarity. "May I assume by this reaction that the use of 'hook up' pertains to the more recent, shall we say,carnal application of the term than the tamer one I grew up with?” More snickers ensued. Straightening up, I said boldly, "Yes, sir, Mr. Nagy. That would be correct, sir." A number of people in the class laughed outright. "Thank you for that confirmation, Miss Hathaway. Now, where was I? Ah yes, the other speaker then asks,'How was it?' The response is,'Good,' punctuated with a smiley face to confirm said adjective. Well. I suppose kudos are in order for the mysterious J, hmmm?'So, like, how far did you guys go?' Uh, ladies," said Mr. Nagy, "I do hope this doesn't surpass a PG rating.'Not very.We got caught.'And again, we are shown the severity of the situation, this time through the use of a not-smiling face.'What happened?' 'Dimitri showed up. He threw Jesse out and then bitched me out.'“ The class lost it, both from hearing Mr. Nagy say "bitched" and from finally getting some participants named. "Why, Mr.Zeklos, are you the aforementioned J? The one who earned a smiley face from the sloppy writer?

-"Wow,are we becoming friends?" I asked. -"Hmmm...friends." He appeared to think carefully and examined me and my state of blush. "Yes, I think we are." -"Interesting. From cockblocker to friend. Not bad." I giggled.

What?" he asked. "I don't know. Just thinking about flowers. And impressing people. I mean, how strange is it that we bring plant sex organs to people we're attracted to? What's up with that? It's a weird sign of affection." His dark eyes lit up, like he'd just discovered something surprising and delightful. "Is it any weirder than giving chocolate, which is supposed to be an aphrodisiac? Or what about wine? A 'romantic' drink that really just succeeds in lowering the other person's inhibitions." "Hmmm, It's like people are trying to be both subtle and blatant at the same time. Like, they won't actually go up and say, 'Hey, I like you, lets get together.' Instead, they're like, 'Here, have some plant genitalia and aphrodisiacs.

This one's good. 'Don't expect a man with a hard-on to be able to think. He doesn't have enough blood to run both heads.' Hmmm." He shot her a wicked grin over his shoulder. "I do. Want to see?

One of the most interesting parts of writing is that you can think about it all of the time. Writers get their ideas all day and all night long, not just when they sit at their writing tables. No one will see your thoughts, but inside you head you can always wonder and ponder. "Hmmm...that's strange." Or, "I might write about that later." When you write, you notice things that other people do not. Artists and scientists do this too. To create, one must observe

Hmmm...I think I'd like to be a stay-at-home mom with no kids.

I realize that a certain school of thought says that who we are is something we construct for ourselves. We build ourselves out of what we think we remember, what we believe to be true about our life; and the possessions we gather around us are supposedly a part of this, that we are, to some extent what we own.

I’d never been one for prayer, but when things got serious, I put it into overdrive, imagining God on the other end thinking, hmmm . . . Emma doesn’t usually pray. This must be serious.

Doran stood on the dais, fists clenched. "All right," he said. "Let's do it, come on. Charge me up." Skulduggery tapped the controls. "Just give me a moment…" Doran's leg was shaking. "Come on," he said. "Hurry up. Haven't got all day." "Just one more moment…" "Here," said Doran. "You have used this on people before, right?" "Hmmm?" Skulduggery said. "People? No, not on people. Ah, here we go." The dais lit up. "Oh, I don't know about this," said Doran. "I don't think I want to do this…" "You'll be fine." Skulduggery said. "How do you know?" "I don't." The hair stood up on Valkyrie's arms and light filled the room. The Accelerator wined like an animal, the wine getting louder and louder and the dais beginning to tremble. "I want to get off!" Doran shouted. "I want to get off!" "You can't get off!" Skulduggery shouted back over the roar. "If you get off you'll die!" "I'll die?" "I don't know," Skulduggery shouted. "Probably.

Denji: Makima, In the super ultra awesome world you'd make, would there be any crappy movies? Makima: Why is Denji back...? I think... That it would be better without uninteresting movies Denji: Hmmm... Yeah, guess I've gotta kill you then

hmmm. Didn't they say a man's feet echoed the size of his manhood? Of its own accord, her gaze darted up Gregor's leg to where his deliciously tight breeches caressed his- "Knife." She blinked, her gaze jerking up to his face, her skin flushing. Please, God, don't let him know what I was thinking. "Knife." he said again. "Knife?" she repeated dumbly. "Good god, Oglivie. I will need a knife if I'm to cut these vegetables.

Cal: "I'm really sorry, Professor, but how do you explain these ? Swiss Cake Rolls. That doesn't rhyme; it's not cute; it's not childlike. And this is one of our most-respected snack foods, is it not? How is that, Professor? Hmmm?" Eliot: "Well, isn't it obvious? We trust the Swiss for their ability to engineer things, to build with precision." Cal: "We do?" Eliot: "Do I even have to mention Swiss watches? Swiss Army knives? Swiss cheese? If anyone can build a non-threatening, non-lethal snack cake, it's the Swiss. They're neutral, we can trust them not to attack us with trans-fatty acids and sugar. I think you would feel differently if they were German Cake Rolls. North Korean Cake Rolls. I bet you wouldn't eat them." Cal: "I bet I would.

For long minutes, we stood there. Until I said, “Let’s go find somewhere to eat – outside.” “Hmmm.” He showed no sign of letting go. I looked up at last. Found his eyes shining with that familiar, wicked light. “I think I’m hungry for something else,” he purred. My toes curled in my boots, but I lifted my brows and said cooly, “Oh?” Rhys nipped at my earlobe, then whispered in my ear as he winnowed us up to our bedroom, where two plates of food now waited on the desk. “I owe you for last night, mate.” He gave me the courtesy, at least, of letting me pick what he consumed first; me or the food. I picked wisely.

I gaped. "You are not seriously that chauvinistic?" "Hmmm..." He stroked his chin dramatically. "Maybe not in real life." Hillbilly again. "But as your fake husband...yes, I think I am." I eyed him up and down. "I need to call the Guinness Book of Records or Gray's Anatomy or something, because I am standing here looking at the single largest asshole ever known to man.

Her name was Melanie Stryder. She was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She was in Los Angeles when the occupation became known to her, and she hid in the wilderness for a few years before finding... Hmmm. Sorry, I'll try that one again later. The body has seen twenty years. She drove to Chicago from..." I shook my head. "There were several stages, not all of them alone. The vehicle was stolen. She was searching for a cousin named Sharon, whom she had reason to hope was still human. She neither found nor contacted anyone before she was spotted. But..." I struggled, fighting against another blank wall. "I think... I can't be sure... I think she left a note... somewhere.

CIA Interrogator: Have you ever met any jazz musicians you would describe, or who would describe themselves, as anarchists? Bartholomew 'Barley' Scott Blair: Hmmm... ah, there was a trombone player, Wilfred Baker. Bartholomew 'Barley' Scott Blair: He's the only jazz musician I can think of who is completely devoid of anarchist tendencies.

Today you are thirteen weeks old and already controversial. You should know that the mention of the name Pablo is alarming to a very few, highly insignificant people. From this palsied paction there is occasionally the slightest pause, and then, 'Oh, really. Pablo.' Then with a small, self-depreciating chuckle, they might tilt their heads playfully and say something like 'Aren't you afraid people will think he's Mexican?' ... I find it amusing when they balk at Pablo, as though we were naming you Jesus H. Christ and jamming our nails into your hands. They seem to feel your name is up for general discussion, like naming a local bridge or a stray cat. Hmmm. Mr. Whiskers? I don't like Mr. Whiskers. I like the name Blackie.' Aren't you afraid people will think he's black?

Shigure Sohma: So, anyway, I was wondering if you could stop by the house and take a look at Tohru's cut. That is, if it isn't a problem. Hatori Sohma: No problem. I'll stop by the house this evening. Shigure Sohma: Hmmm? What's this, Hatori? I don't think I ever heard you sound so eager to come over. Could it be you have a secret crush on Tohru? [long silence from the other end of the phone] Shigure Sohma: [shouts] I knew it! You naughty, naughty man, you! Hatori Sohma: No, I was simply too amazed by your stupidity to say anything.

Another person, more or less, thinking I'm crazy wasn't going to make me lose sleep. But the look I got from Mr. Shaw wasn't "she's a whack-job," it was more like "hmmm." "What else can you do?" Now it was my turn to stare. "Uh, well, I have a freakshow ability to fall through spirals into other times. Is that what you mean?" "Must be a little disconcerting, that." "A little. The puking's fun though." Mr. Shaw laughed. I'd made the man laugh. Score one for the Clocker.

Rapture I can feel she has got out of bed. That means it is seven a.m. I have been lying with eyes shut, thinking, or possibly dreaming, of how she might look if, at breakfast, I spoke about the hidden place in her which, to me, is like a soprano’s tremolo, and right then, over toast and bramble jelly, if such things are possible, she came. I imagine she would show it while trying to conceal it. I imagine her hair would fall about her face and she would become apparently downcast, as she does at a concert when she is moved. The hypnopompic play passes, and I open my eyes and there she is, next to the bed, bending to a low drawer, picking over various small smooth black, white, and pink items of underwear. She bends so low her back runs parallel to the earth, but there is no sway in it, there is little burden, the day has hardly begun. The two mounds of muscles for walking, leaping, lovemaking, lift toward the east—what can I say? Simile is useless; there is nothing like them on earth. Her breasts fall full; the nipples are deep pink in the glare shining up through the iron bars of the gate under the earth where those who could not love press, wanting to be born again. I reach out and take her wrist and she falls back into bed and at once starts unbuttoning my pajamas. Later, when I open my eyes, there she is again, rummaging in the same low drawer. The clock shows eight. Hmmm. With huge, silent effort of great, mounded muscles the earth has been turning. She takes a piece of silken cloth from the drawer and stands up. Under the falls of hair her face has become quiet and downcast, as if she will be, all day among strangers, looking down inside herself at our rapture.

Istvhan, you ever kill someone with an ice swan?” he whispered. “I clubbed someone unconscious with a frozen goose once. That’s similar?” The Bishop suffered a mysterious coughing fit. “No, you had to use the goose as a bludgeon, didn’t you? For the swan, I figure you’d snap the head off and try to stab with the neck.” “Hmmm…” Istvhan eyed the ice sculpture speculatively. “It’s pretty big. And not well balanced.” “I figure you’d have to go two-handed with it.” “I think I’d grab one of the candelabras instead. Some of those are nice and heavy.” “Far too unwieldy. I could take you apart with the ice swan while you were still trying to get the candelabra off the ground.” “Gentlemen,” said Beartongue, “I forbid you to smash the Archon’s decor and try to duel with it.” “Yes, your holiness.” “I’ll have you both excommunicated.” Stephen coughed. “Technically we’re not in your church, your holiness.” “Then I will have you confirmed so that I can excommunicate you even harder.” “Yes, your holiness.” He and Istvhan traded smug looks. Shane gazed into the distance, perhaps imagining a place where he had suitably serious colleagues.

She slid a slim volume of poetry off the shelf and returned to her chair, swishing her rather unnattractive skirts before she sat down. Benedict frowned. He'd never really noticed before how ugly her dress was. Not as bad as the one Mrs. Cabtree had lent her, but certainly not anything designed to bring out the best in a woman. He ought to buy her a new dress. She would never accept it,of course, but maybe if her current garments were accidentally burned... "Mr. Bridgerton?" But how could he manage to burn her dress? She'd have to not be wearing it, and that posed a certain challenge in and of itself... "Are you even listening to me?" Sophie demanded. "Hmmm?" "You're not listening to me." "Sorry," he admitted. "My apologies. My mind got away from me. Please continue." She began anew, and in his attempt to show how much attention he was paying her, he focused his eyes on her lips, which proved to be a big mistake. Because suddenly those lips were all he could see, and he couldn't stop thinking about kissing her, and he knew- absolutely knew-that if one of them didn't leave the room in the next thirty seconds, he was going to do something for which he'd owe her a thousand apologies. Not that he didn't plan to seduce her. Just that he'd rather do it with a bit more finesse. "Oh, dear," he blurted out. Sophie gave him an odd look. He didn't blame her. He sounded like a complete idiot. He didn't think he'd uttered the phrase, "Oh,dear," in years. If ever. Hell,he sounded like his mother. "Is something wrong?" Sophie asked. "I just remembered something," he said, rather stupidly, in his opinion. She raised her brows in question. "Something that I'd forgotten," Benedict said. "The things one remembers," she said, looking exceedingly amused, "are most often things one had forgotten.

She was allergic to so many other silly things. Tree nuts, grass, pollen, cockroaches. Why did they even test for cockroach allergies? Does anyone really need to know they are allergic to that? I mean, it’s not like anyone actually thinks, Hmmm… I’m not allergic; I’ll keep this one as a pet.

Trust me, the enemy is as interested in tapping into your disappointments as he was with my friend. The enemy doesn’t take vacations, so we shouldn’t take vacations from studying God’s Word either. We wouldn’t want to go even a few hours without water, certainly not days or weeks, and we should view God’s living water for our souls in the same way. Satan isn’t intimidated by how strong we appear. He notices a thirsty soul quite parched. He’s sneaky. He’s crafty. He’s subtle in how he slithers up next to us and flashes just the right thing, at just the right time, in the moments we are unknowingly weak enough to think, Hmmm . . . that looks good. That might really satisfy me.

Got any new ways to torture and kill people?” “Hmmm,” said the voice. “Did you try stabbing them?” “Of course. That’s one oh one stuff.” “Shooting?’ “With extreme prejudice.” “Burning?” “Yes.” “Strangling?” “Naturally, I mean, I strangle people while I’m sleeping, even.” “Crushing?’ “Sure.” “Mangling?” “All the time.” “Hmmmm. Can we think about this?

Hmmm,' she said. 'How long do you think it'll last?' 'How would I know?!

I think that’s what I find so refreshing about this odd woman. Hmmm . . . Maybe not odd. Maybe unusual is better. She is exactly what she appears to be. She says exactly what’s on her mind and is sincere in every way.

That moment, that moment was the pinnacle of my life, these famous and distinguished people on their feet, my camarades de cuisine, all showing me such respect. And I remember thinking: Hmmm. Rather like this. Could get used to it.

We crunched over the gravel in front of my house. It was dark and empty, my dad long gone on his way to Moab and the beckoning Book Cliffs. “Would you like to come in for a minute? You could check the house for bad guys, and I could make us something yummy to eat. I think I have ice cream in the freezer and I could make us some hot fudge topping to put on top?” I waggled my eyebrows at him in the dim interior of the truck, and he smiled a little. “Bad guys?” “Oh you know, I’m here all alone, the house is dark. Just look under the beds and make sure no one is hiding in my closet.” “Are you afraid to be alone at night?” His brows were lowered with concern over his black eyes. “Nope. I just wanted to give you a reason to come inside.” His expression cleared, and his voice lowered even further. “Aren’t you reason enough?” I felt the heat rise in my face. “Hmmm,” was all I said. “Josie.” “Yes?” “I would love to come in.

He stretched his arm above my head, and my heart skipped a beat. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot.” “This?” David toyed with the hair on top of my head. “This.” “K-kissing?” He pressed his body against mine, and I stopped breathing. “Speaking of which.” “I haven’t brushed my teeth,” I blurted, then realized what an extremely stupid thing that was to say. His eyes crinkled. “Hmmm, did you brush them this morning?” “Yes,” I croaked. “Good.” He tilted his head. “Bu—

Because if I’m gonna get to the bottom of whatever is going on here, I’m definitely going to need my vampire sidekick.” Jenna snorted and tossed her hair. “Whatever. You’re obviously the sidekick. With that hair, and all the sarcastic remarks?” “Hmmm,” I said, pretending to think it over. “And you do have a way more angsty backstory.” Jenna waved her hand. “Exactly. Vampire for the win!” We laughed again. Then I glanced out the window. The gray sky was already darkening, and the fog that surrounded the house seemed to slither. Jenna had gotten quiet. “What do you think is going to happen to us?” The first thing that came to mind was “Nothing good,” but instead I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and said, “We’re going to be fine. Think of all the stuff we’ve already been through. You think a little killer fog is gonna get in our way? Ha!” Jenna didn’t look convinced, but she did say, “I’m not sure if you’re confident or delusional, but thanks anyway.

Sadly for you, I think I'm going to live, Simi. You can stop slapping me now. I've already lost enough sense. Can't afford to lose any more brain cells. I really really need my last three before I forget how to spell my name. It's hard enough to pronounce." Nick "well, poo. Not poo that you'll live, 'cause the Simi would probably miss you if you died, but poo that I'll miss all that good old salty boy meat. Though we needs be fatting you up some to make you really good eats. Hmmm." Simi

This is how brainstorming goes with brightly faithful people: “Hmmm. Uh-huh. Nope. Nah. No. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Ooh. Ahh. Wait a second. Holy shit, yes, yes, yes, oh my God, we could…and then we could…and it would be so…and holy yes and…I’ll sell it all if I have to…and what am I going to wear when I accept the award?! Who will we invite to the wedding?! How big do you think we can build it? Excuse me while I make a phone call.” They go off. It’s illogical, grandiose, crazy, and most certainly romantic. It’s faith.

Dex leaned in. “Um, I’m pretty sure it’s your call, since you’re the one in charge—unless you want us to choose for you. How about Lady Sophie the Reluctant?” “Very funny,” Sophie told him as Biana covered her mouth to muffle her giggle. “I kinda like Foster the Great,” Dex went on, oblivious to her annoyance—or perhaps because of it. “But I still feel like we could do better. Hmmm. Wait! I’ve got it!” He paused for a beat, dragging out the suspense before he leaned in and whispered, “The Fos-Boss.” “Ohhhhh, I like it!” Biana breathed. “I vote for that too,” Wylie added as he leaned in. “Then it’s settled,” Dex decided. “Unless you think Lady Fos-Boss is better.” “Yes!” Biana said, fighting to hold back another giggle. “That’s the winner.” Sophie gave them each her deadliest glare. “If you call me either of those things, I swear I’ll—” “And she thought she was going to have a hard time bossing us around,” Dex whispered to Biana and Wylie. “Looks like our fearless Lady Fos-Boss is a natural leader.” This time even Wylie had to muffle his laughter. “You guys are worse than Keefe,” Sophie grumbled, wondering if she could smother them with her frilly gown.

Ford and Arthur talking: "This is very, very serious indeed. The Guide has been taken over. It's been bought out." Arthur leapt up. "Oh, very serious," he shouted. "Please fill me in straight away on some corporate publishing politics! I can't tell you how much it's been on my mind of late!" "You don't understand! There's a whole new Guide!" "Oh!" shouted Arthur again. "Oh! Oh! Oh! I'm incoherent with excitement! I can hardly wait for it to come out to find out which are the most exciting spaceports to get bored hanging about in in some globular cluster I've never heard of. Please, can we rush to a store that's got it right this very instant?" Ford narrowed his eyes. "This is what you call sarcasm, isn't it?" "Do you know," bellowed Arthur, "I think it is? I really think it might just be a crazy little thing called sarcasm seeping in at the edges of my manner of speech! Ford, I have had a fucking bad night! Will you please try and take that into account while you consider what fascinating bits of badger-sputumly inconsequential trivia to assail me with next?" ... "Temporal reverse engineering." Arthur put his head in his hands and shook it gently from side to side. "Is there any humane way," he moaned, "in which I can prevent you from telling me what temporary reverse bloody-whatsiting is?" ... "I leaped out of a high-rise office window." This cheered Arthur up. "Oh!" he said. "Why don't you do it again?" "I did." "Hmmm," said Arthur, disappointed. "Obviously no good came of it." ... "What was the self-sacrifice?" "I jettisoned half of a much-loved and I think irreplaceable pair of shoes." "Why was that self-sacrifice?" "Because they were mine!" said Ford, crossly. "I think we have different value systems." "Well, mine's better.

You may not be beautiful in the traditional sense, but that doesn't mean you aren't lovely all the same. Uniquely lovely, with an inner radiance that far transcends what passes for pretty these days. Take your eyes, for example." "My eyes?" "Hmmm. Have you ever noticed how they change color with your moods?" She shook her head. "Well, they do. When you're happy, they're a pure pristine blue, like twin brushstrokes of sky. And when you're displeased or lost in serious thought, they shift to grey. Silvery, sensual grey, the sort that ripples like dawn mist over a lake. I can think of no other woman with eyes like yours. Magnificent, soul-deep eyes in which a man could drown if he weren't careful.

If You Think You Can Afford It—You Can't Think about the last time you bought a pack of gum. Did you fret over the price? Did you ask, “Hmmm, can I afford this?” Probably not. You bought the gum, and it's done. The purchase had no impact on your lifestyle or future choices. To a rich woman who walks into a dealership and buys a six-figure Bentley without thought, the acts are the same.

How did you know?" She asked. "About cookies?" I frowned, thankful for the subject change. She nodded. I could lie. But it was Christmas and my sister did say to be nice. So, even though, I knew I'd regret it later, I leaned in and whispered in her ear, "Day one, the first day you were here, you snuck cookies into your room. Day two, you did the same thing." I hesitated. "Whose stash do you think you keep stealing, hmmm little thief?" - Dante and Ella, A Very Mafia Christmas

He works fast," Alan commented as he lifted his wine. "David?" Shelby sent him a puzzled look. "Actually his fastest sped is crawl unless he's got a guitar in his hands." "Really?" Alan's eyes met hers as he sipped, but she didn't understand the amusement in them. "You only stood him up tonight, and already he's planning his wedding to someone else." "Stood him-" she began on a laugh, then remembered. "Oh." Torn between annoyance and her own sense of te ridiculous, Shelby toyed with the stem of her glass. "Men are fickle creatures," she decided. "Apparently." Reaching over, he lifted her chin with a fingertip. "You're holding up well." "I don't like to wear my heart on my sleeve" Exasperated, amused, she muffled a laugh. "Dammit, he would have to pick tonight to show up here." "Of all the gin joints in all the towns..." This time the laugh escaped fully. "Well done," Shelby told him. "I should've thought of that line myself; I heard the movie not long ago." "Heard it?" "Mmm-hmmm. Well..." She lifted her glass in a toast. "To broken hearts?" "Or foolish lies?" Alan countered. Shelby wrinkled her nose as she tapped her glass against his. "I usually tell very good ones. Besides, I did date David.Once.Tree years ago." She finished off her wine. "Maybe four.You can stop grinning in that smug, masculine way any time, Senator." "Was I?" Rising, he offered Shelby her damp jacket. "How rude of me." "It would've been more polite not to acknowledge that you'd caught me in a lie," she commented as they worked their way through the crowd and back into the rain. "Which you wouldn't have done if you hadn't made me so mad that I couldn't think of a handier name to give you in the first place." "If I work my way through the morass of that sentence it seems to be my fault." Alan slipped an arm around her shoulders in so casually friendly a manner she didn't protest. "Suppose I apologize for not giving you time to think of a lie that would hold up?" "It seems fair.

So, what's your poison, Jay?" Zara joined the buffet line a few minutes later. "Let me guess. Something dark and spicy that packs a lot of heat. Maybe a rista? Or a naga curry?" She studied him, shaking her head. "Hmmm. Not so exotic. I think you're more of a vindaloo. Rich and complicated with hidden depths. Every bite satiates your taste buds and leaves you craving more." Unsettled by her seemingly casual yet unnervingly accurate assessment, he turned his attention to filling his plate from the lavish spread.

I always thought you were going to kill me," I say. "Me too," he says. "I tried not to think about it." I wind my fingers in his hair. It's thicker than mine, and curlier, and it shines golden in the firelight. There's a mole on his cheek that I've wanted to kiss since I was 12. I do. "For a long time," I say. "Hmmm?" He opens one eye. "I've wanted to do this for a long time. Almost since we met..." Snow closes his eyes again and smiles like he's trying not to. I smile, too, only because he isn't watching. "I thought it was going to kill me.

As she began to peel potatoes, he stood behind her and touched the tendrils of hair that had fallen from their clips and curled at the nape of her neck. Then he reached around her waist and leaned into her. All these years and still he was drawn to the smell of her skin, of sweet soap and fresh air. He whispered against her ear, “Dance with me.” “What?” “I said, let’s dance.” “Dance? Here, in the cabin? I do believe you’re the mad one.” “Please.” “There’s no music.” “We can remember some tune, can’t we?” and he began to hum “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.” “Here,” he said, and swung her around to face him, an arm still at her waist, her slight hand in his. He hummed louder and began to twirl them around the plank floor. “Hmmm, hmm, with a heart that is true, I’ll be waiting for you…” “… in the shade of the old apple tree.” She kissed him on the cheek, and he swept her back on his arm. “Oh, I’ve thought of one,” she said. “Let me think…” and she began to hum tentatively. Jack didn’t know it at first, but then it came to him and he began to sing along. “When my hair has all turned gray,” a swoop and a twirl beside the kitchen table, “will you kiss me then and say, that you love me in December as you do in May?” And then they were beside the woodstove and Mabel kissed him with her mouth open and soft. Jack pulled her closer, pressed their bodies together and kissed the side of her face and down her bare neck and, as she let her head gently lean away, down to her collarbone. Then he scooped an arm beneath her knees and picked her up. “What in heaven’s—you’ll break your back,” Mabel sputtered between a fit of laughter. “We’re too old for this.” “Are we?” he asked. He rubbed his beard against her cheek. She shrieked and laughed, and he carried her into the bedroom, though they had not yet eaten dinner.

His tongue slid down the inner length of her finger, then traced the lines on her palm. “Such lovely hands,” he murmured, nibbling on the fleshy part of her thumb as his fingers entwined with hers. “Strong, and yet so graceful and delicate.” “You’re talking nonsense,” Kate said self-consciously. “My hands—” But he silenced her with a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” he admonished. “Haven’t you learned that you should never ever contradict your husband when he is admiring your form?” Kate shivered with delight. “For example,” he continued, the very devil in his voice, “if I want to spend an hour examining the inside of your wrist”— with lightning-quick movements, his teeth grazed the delicate thin skin on the inside of her wrist—“ it is certainly my prerogative, don’t you think?” Kate had no response, and he chuckled, the sound low and warm in her ears. “And don’t think I won’t,” he warned, using the pad of his finger to trace the blue veins that pulsed under her skin. “I may decide to spend two hours examining your wrist.” Kate watched with fascination as his fingers, touching her so softly that she tingled from the contact, made their way to the inside of her elbow, then stopped to twirl circles on her skin. “I can’t imagine,” he said softly, “that I could spend two hours examining your wrist and not find it lovely.” His hand made the jump to her torso, and he used his palm to lightly graze the tip of her puckered breast. “I should be most aggrieved were you to disagree.” He leaned down and captured her lips in a brief, yet searing kiss. Lifting his head just an inch, he murmured, “It is a wife’s place to agree with her husband in all things, hmmm?” His words were so absurd that Kate finally managed to find her voice. “If,” she said with an amused smile, “his opinions are agreeable, my lord.” One of his brows arched imperiously. “Are you arguing with me, my lady? And on my wedding night, no less.” “It’s my wedding night, too,” she pointed out. He made a clucking noise and shook his head. “I may have to punish you,” he said. “But how? By touching?” His hand skimmed over one breast, then the next. “Or not touching?” He lifted his hands from her skin, but he leaned down, and through pursed lips, blew a soft stream of air over her nipple. “Touching,” Kate gasped, arching off the bed. “Definitely touching.” “You think?” He smiled, slowly like a cat. “I never thought I’d say this, but not touching has its appeal.

The Elixir of Life!” “The what?!” “Exactly.” “What does it do?” “Let’s see…it’s an elixir…and it grants eternal life…” “You’re making fun of me.” “Only a little.” “Tell me more,” I said. “Does it work?” “What do you think?” “Has anyone in the Society ever died?” I asked. “That would be the proof in the pudding, wouldn’t it? Or in the Elixir.” “It would. And the answer is yes. They drop off as easily as anyone.” “Doesn’t that put an end to the argument?” “To me, yes,” Sage said. “To the believers, no. They’d say using the Elixir to save lives is outside the natural order. It should only be used in the tiniest amounts to relieve pain and suffering as someone is on their way out.” “So they have the power to grant eternal life and they never use it? Seems like a waste.” “A waste of time! Each meeting is three hours long! Do you have any idea what I could do with three hours, Olivia?” He had set me up for it that time, and I took the bait. “I can think of a few things you could do,” I said, giving him another wicked smile. This time he returned the grin and leaned in close to kiss me, first on my lips, then my cheek, my neck… “Sage,” I murmured as we slid down to the floor of the boat. “I really can’t swim.” “Hmmm,” he breathed into my ear, “then we’ll just have to be very careful, won’t we?

Raquel? You coming?” “I honestly never thought I would see the light of day again.” “Aww, come on. With me on your side? Of course things worked out.” She tried to smile, but her eyes filled with tears. Thank you, Evie.” I threw my arms around her in a hug. “You don’t have to thank me.” “I really do. You wonderful girl. I’ve missed you so much.” “Well, now that we’re both unemployed fugitives, think of how much time we’ll have to hang out!” She laughed drily, and we walked with our arms around each other to the house. I opened the door and yelled, “Evie alert! Coming into the family room!” “You made it!” Lend shouted back. “Just a sex, I’ll go to the kitchen. Raquel’s with you?” “Yup!” “Good job! Jack and Arianna got back a couple of minutes ago.” I walked into the family room to find Arianna and Jack sitting on the couch, arguing. “But here would have been no point to you being there if it hadn’t been for my computer prowess.” “But your computer prowess wouldn’t have mattered if you couldn’t have gotten into the Center in the first place.” “Being a glorified taxi does not make you the bigger hero.” “Being a nerd who can tap on a keyboard or being able to navigate the dark eternities of the Faerie Paths . . . hmmm . . . which is a rarer and more valuable skill . . .” I put my hands on my hips. “Okay, kids, take it elsewhere. Raquel and I have work to do.” “Evie,” Raquel said. She was staring at Jack in horror. “Oh, that.” I waved a hand dismissively. “It’s all good. Jack’s been helping us.” “Don’t you remember how he tried to kill you?” Jack rolled his eyes. “Boring. We’ve all moved on.” “Really?” “Not really,” I said. “But he’s behaving. And everyone needs a glorified taxi now and then.” “Admit it: you all adore me.” Jack bowed dramatically as he left the room. Arianna smiled tightly at Raquel and left after him. Raquel collapsed onto the couch and closed her eyes. “You’re working with Reth and Jack? Have you lost your mind?” “Oh, that happened ages ago. But I’ve had to do a lot of rescuing lately, and those two come in handy.” “Do you trust them?” “No, we don’t,” Lend called from the kitchen.

I’m talking about women’s matters.” “Women’s--” “And the moon. What I mean is the time each month when--” “I know, I know!” I exclaimed, stopping her before she could say any more. My cheeks burned. “My nurse, Ione, told my sister and me all about that when we were ten years old. Mother repeated all of it right before my sister left Sparta to marry. They both told us that this isn’t something for men to hear.” I nodded at Milo. He looked disappointed. “Men know more about women than you think,” Eunike said. “But since you’re already so knowledgeable, how are you going to manage to hide it when you’re on the road and you--” “I won’t,” I said sharply. “It hasn’t happened to me yet. I don’t know why. My sister, my twin, she’s been a woman for at least two years. I’m still a girl.” I hated recalling how Clytemnestra had lorded it over me when she’d changed and I’d stayed the same. Worse, every month after that she made it a point to ask me whether “it” had happened to me yet, and every month I had to say no. Ione told me not to fret, that every woman walked the same path eventually, that it would come to me before I knew it. I was still waiting. “Hmmm.” The Pythia was silent for a time, then said, “This may be a blessing for you, Helen. It might even be an omen, a sign from the gods to let you know they want you to succeed.” “Do you really think so?” I asked eagerly. About time my monthly humiliation did me some good! I thought.

Well, I was in fact, I was moving backward in time. Hmmm. Well, I think we’ve sorted all that out now. If you’d like to know, I can tell you that in your universe you move freely in three dimensions that you call space. You move in a straight line in a fourth, which you call time, and stay rooted to one place in a fifth, which is the first fundamental of probability. After that it gets a bit complicated, and there’s all sorts of stuff going on in dimensions thirteen to twenty-two that you really wouldn’t want to know about. All you really need to know for the moment is that the universe is a lot more complicated than you might think, even if you start from a position of thinking it’s pretty damn complicated in the first place. I can easily not say words like ‘damn’ if it offends you.

What do you think we'd be bringing you along for, hmmm?" "Well, I would have imagined that this had something to do with it," she said, moving her hands strategically to a more interesting location. "Ah," he said, "and so it does, but you could sort of be honorary captain, too-" "Can I name the boat?" "As if you'd let anyone else do it!" "All right," she whispered. "If that's the plan, that's the plan. We'll do it." "You really mean-" "Hell," she said, "with just the swag we pulled from Salon Corbeau, everyone on this crew can stay drunk for months when we get back to the Ghostwinds. Zamira won't miss me for a while." They kissed. "Half a year." They kissed again. "Year or two, maybe." "Always a way to attack," Jean mused between kisses, "always a way to escape." "Of course," she whispered. "Hold fast, and sooner or later you'll always find what you're after.

[Hmmm…Do you know who I was named after?] I’d say Eva Perón. —Eva’s from Puerto Rico, Vincent, not Argentina. [I was named after a robot.] —That is interesting. —Oh yeah. You have his attention now. [I was born on the day of the parade when the EDC was created. My parents were the biggest geeks ever, huge science-fiction fans. Themis was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. They wanted to name me after her, but they somehow thought everyone would start naming their kid Themis, so they named me after another big robot.] A robot? [Yes. Eva’s a common name in Spanish, but apparently, it’s also the name of a giant robot, from a Japanese anime they really liked. It’s old. I never saw it.] —Eva is for Evangelion? That is so cool! —Of course, Vincent knows all about it. —Yeah! It’s awesome! But ours is bigger. —Eva, I think you have a fan now. —I…We have it on DVD, you know.

Anna practically leapt out of bed and skidded across the floor in her bare feet. She didn't bother looking in the mirror. Her long red hair, which she had unbraided the night before, couldn't be that messy, could it? Hmmm... maybe she'd give it a quick glance before she pulled off her nightdress. She looked in the mirror. Not good. Her hair looked like a bird's nest. Did she have time to fix it? She had to fix it. Where was her brush? It should have been on the desk like it always was, but it wasn't there. Where was it? Think, Anna. She remembered brushing her hair the morning before at the window seat, because it had the best view of Arendelle. Looking at Arendelle made her start dreaming about Arendelle and what she'd do when she someday moved there. She'd have her own bake shop, of course, and her cookies would be so popular that people would be lined up day and night to purchase them. She'd meet new people and make friends, and it all sounded so glorious she had started singing and spinning around the room with the hairbrush... Oh! Now she remembered where she had flung it.

Luke pulls me to him and crushes his mouth to mine. “I said I wasn’t going to do this,” he whispers on a kiss. “’S’okay.” I pull him closer, my hands snaking up his back. “Don’t mind.” His hands move up to cup my face, to tilt my head, to move his lips over mine again. “Bella?” “Hmmm?” I stifle a groan as Luke pulls away. Still holding my face in one hand, he runs his finger down my nose. Over my cheek. I lean into his palm and just try to breathe. “What?” “Do you know what this was?” he asks, his mouth near my ear. “The warm-up?” “A test.” My cozy smile drops. I step away. “You’re lying to yourself if you think you don’t want to be with me.” “I—I”—am so mad—“it was the moonlight. It was the popcorn at nine o’clock.” Luke reaches out and brushes a piece of hair behind my ear. “Face it—you’re totally into your editor.” He sighs dramatically. “I hope whatever is keeping us apart is worth it.” I stand there motionless, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth as Luke climbs into his 4Runner. I should say something. I should yell—or maybe throw a shoe? What would Ruthie do? No. I can’t moon him.

No? How about now? Am I going backwards?' For once the bird was perfectly still and steady. 'No,' said Random. 'Well I was in fact, I was moving backwards in time. Hmmm. Well I think we've sorted all that out now. If you'd like to know, I can tell you that in your universe you move freely in three dimensions that you call space. You move in a straight line in a fourth, which you call time, and stay rooted to one place in a fifth, which is the first fundamental of probability. After that it gets a bit complicated, and there's all sorts of stuff going on in dimensions 13 to 22 that you really wouldn't want to know about. All you really need to know for the moment is that the universe is a lot more complicated than you might think, even if you start from a position of thinking it's pretty damn complicated in the first place. I can easily not say words like «damn» if it offends you.' 'Say what you damn well like.' 'I will.' 'What the hell are you?' demanded Random. 'I am The Guide. In your universe I am your Guide. In fact I inhabit what is technically known as the Whole Sort of General Mish Mash which means . . . well, let me show you.

There once was a woman who woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and noticed she had only three hairs on her head. “Well,” she said, “I think I’ll braid my hair today.” So she did and she had a wonderful day. The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror, and saw that she had only two hairs on her head. “Hmmm,” she said, “I think I’ll part my hair down the middle today.” So she did and she had a grand day. The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror, and noticed that she had only one hair on her head. “Well,” she said, “Today I’m going to wear my hair in a ponytail.” So she did, and she had a fun, fun day. The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror, and noticed that there wasn’t a single hair on her head. “YAY!” she exclaimed. “I don’t have to fix my hair today!” This is a woman who understood the power of a good attitude. Her attitude, her confession, and her choice to rest allowed her to see life differently. They allowed her to enjoy her life regardless of the situation she faced. I don’t know what circumstances you face today, but I want you to know that a new beginning awaits you. And God allows you to play a vital role in that new beginning. Your attitude, your confessions, and your choice to rest will greatly affect your life, today and each day moving forward.

Willow leaned forward and laid her head next to his on the pillow. "Is it too late to say I'm sorry, and that I love you more than anything else in this world?" "Oh God,no,love." With his good arm, he reached for the back of her head and brought her lips to his. They kissed as if they'd never get enough of each other, because they knew they never would. When Rider finally released her mouth, he smiled rakishly and pulled her hand under the covers. Willow smiled when he laid her hand over his throbbing desire. "Hmmm, you are feeling better." "Almost well enough to start Mr. Happy on his baby-making lessons again," he said in a deep sexy baritone. "Ah,Rider?" "Yes,love?" He was pulling her down for another stirring kiss. "About those lessons?" "Hmmm, I'm anxious to start practicing again, too,love. But at the moment Mr. Happy is a lot stronger than the rest of me." "Oh,I know,but...Rider, Mr. Happy must have learned his lessons real fast." Rider stilled. "What do you mean?" "I mean that I think Mr. Happy cooked something up in the kitchen." Forgetting his shoulder, Willow's husband sat straight up in bed. He winced, then asked, "You mean you're...going to have a baby?" "Of course I'm going to have a baby, you beefwit. Did you think I was baking another damn pie?" "Yahoooo!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, and hugged her with his good arm. Six men, Juan included, plus two women came pouring into the room. "What in the hell is going on in here?" Owen grumbled in mock irritation. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Rider announced, "Owen, your daughter is about to make me a father and give you a second grandchild." "Oh,hell, I knew that." Nine people echoed, "You did?" "Hell, yes, all you gotta do is look at 'er face." Rider cocked his head and studied his wife's face. "She does have an extra glow about her, doesn't she?" "She sure does." Owen chuckled. "Her mama got the same glow with all five of her babies." "If I'm glowing, it's because all of you are staring at me like I just grew horns," Willow said, covering her flushed cheeks with her hands. "Dammit, I just thought of something," Owen said. "I s'pose this means I'll have to add another room to the house for when you come visiting." "Owen Vaughn," Miriam reprimanded, "stop that cursing. I swear every other word out of your mouth is a curse! I'm going to break you of that before your grandbabies get old enough to repeat that filth." "Break me of it?" Owen laughed and poked Nick in the ribs with his elbow. "Only one way for a woman to break a stallion, that's to ride 'im hard!" The man all guffawed loudly. Miriam's face turned ten shades of red. "Well,I never!" She turned on her heel and made an indignant exit.

cell phone. Hmmm...it should be about 11:00 in New York. I punch in my sister’s phone number. She answers after two rings. “Chloe! How’s London?” she asks enthusiastically, without even saying hello. “Oh my goodness Abby, you won’t believe what happened to me,” I say. I tell Abby about my embarrassing run in with Blue Mohawk and his friends. She laughs hysterically, clearly thinking the whole incident was as comical as they did. “It’s so not funny,” I groan. “What if they live here? What if I see them again? They probably think I’m an idiot. The girl who gets all mumbley and runs away! Who does that anyway?” “Well don’t worry about it. I’ll be out in a few weeks to visit. We can do some damage control then,” she laughs. “Thanks Abby. I’ll talk to you later,” I say and we both disconnect. Damage control...I’m hoping there won’t be any need for damage control seeing as I honestly don’t plan on running into Ole Blue and his buddies anytime soon. I bet none of them live here anyway so I’m probably worrying over nothing. It suddenly occurs to me just how much time I spent on an airplane and I feel absolutely disgusting. A nice, warm shower sounds like heaven right about now. I reluctantly pull myself up off the couch and I walk towards my bedroom, grabbing my suitcase along the way. I wheel it up next to my bed, open it and grab my bag of toiletries.

When I arrived, I immediately saw the mother of an ex-boyfriend, the kind of ex-boyfriend that would make you want to look as good as possible if you ran into his mother at a shower when you were several months pregnant. She saw me, smiled politely, and made her way across the room to visit with me. We hugged, exchanged pleasantries, and caught up on what we’d both been doing. As we talked, I fantasized about her reporting to her son, my ex, the next day. Oh, you should have seen Ree. She was positively glowing! You should have seen how wonderful she looked! Don’t you wish you had married her? Deep into our small talk, I made mention of how long it had been since she and I had seen each other. “Well…I did see you recently,” she replied. “But I don’t think you saw me.” I couldn’t imagine. “Oh really?” I asked. “Where?” I hardly ever came to my hometown. “Well,” she continued. “I saw you pulling out of McDonald’s on Highway Seventy-five one morning a few weeks ago. I waved to you…but you didn’t see me.” My insides suddenly shriveled, imagining myself violently shoving breakfast burritos into my mouth. “McDonald’s? Really?” I said, trying my best to play dumb. “Yes,” my ex’s mother replied, smiling. “You looked a little…hungry!” “Hmmm,” I said. “I don’t think that was me.” I skulked away to the bathroom, vowing to eat granola for the rest of my pregnancy.

Ok, this farmer is driving down the road in his truck and he comes to a state cop in the middle of the road with the blue flashing and everything, and the farmer asks, What's the problem, Officer? The cop looks worried and nods on ahead where this pig is sitting right in the middle of the road-big damn pig- and the cop says, Got a problem with this pig in the road. So the farmer says, Hmmm. And the cop says, Hey I got an idea, Why don't we load this pig into your truck and then you take him to the zoo? And the farmer says, Well, I reckon we could do that. So they load they pig into the farmer's truck and off the farmer drives and that's that. So the next day the cop is out there on the road again because that is his usual speed trap, and who do you think drives by? The farmer--and sitting right next to him in the cab is the pig. And the pig's wearing a baseball hat! The farmer and the pig just go cruising by. So the cop shakes off the unreality of the whole situation, fires up the blue flashing light and sirens and gets scratch in 3 gears tearing out after the farmer, and caught up pretty soon and pulls the farmer over and walks up to the truck. The farmer looks real casual and says, Yessir. The cop says, Hey, I thought I told you to take that pig to the zoo! And the farmer says, I did! We had a good time, too, so today I thought we'd go to the ball game. HA! HA! HA!

The cotton swab softly moved across my face, leaving a pleasant coolness behind. It swept over my forehead, down my nose, on the sides of my cheeks, and across my chin. It relaxed me and I melted. And slowly, I began to fall asleep. I considered reupping for another hour. But then I felt the burning. “Oooh,” I said, opening my eyes. “Cindy, this doesn’t feel right.” “Oh, good,” Cindy said, sounding unconcerned. “You’re starting to feel it now?” Seconds later, I was in severe pain. “Oh, I’m more feeling it,” I answered, gripping the arms of the chair until my knuckles turned white. “Well, it should stop here in a second…,” she insisted. “It’s just working its magic--” My face was melting off. “Ouch! Ow! Seriously, Cindy! Take this stuff off my face! It’s killing me!” “Oh, dear…okay, okay,” Cindy answered, quickly grabbing a soaked washcloth and quickly wiping the nuclear solution from my skin. Finally, the intense burning began to subside. “Gosh,” I said, trying to be nice. “I don’t think that’s something I want to try again.” I swallowed hard, trying to will the pain receptors to stop firing. “Hmmm,” Cindy said, perplexed. “I’m sorry it stung a little. But you’ll love it tomorrow morning when you wake up! Your skin will look so fresh and dewy.” It better, I thought as I paid Cindy for the torture and left the tiny salon. My face tingled, and not at all in a good way. And as I walked to my car, the floodgates of wedding worry opened once again: What if my dress doesn’t zip? What if the band doesn’t show up? What if the shrimp taste fishy? I don’t know how to two-step. How long is the flight to Australia? Are there tarantulas in the country? What if there are scorpions in the bed? The facial had done little to decompress me.

Eleanor reached over and stroked his foreman. "Was I fair?" Henry whispered. She nodded. "Very. Besides, I think our Ranulf gave you the justification for some of the changes you have been considering.Perhaps a court of law is needed." "He did.And besides it was all highly entertaining.I had to bite my tongue when Craven started all that nonsense about Ranulf trying to kill him with an arrow." "So you knew from the beginning..." Eleanor murmured in partial disbelief and admiration. "That Ranulf was up to something? The man would never let anyone-even me-insult his honor without response. It was hard to wait until the oaf finished everything Ranulf needed him to say...and come to think of it...it was very convenient for Lady Bronwyn to be in disguise. How is it that you did not inform me earlier of what was to happen?" "I did not know," Eleanor rejoined quickly. "I met with his wife, who never owned to her true identity...but I liked her and suspected she would enjoy the night much better as one of my ladies-in-waiting.It is a great honor,you know." "And the idea of coming in masquerade?" "Well,it has been dull lately." "And you never knew who she was.Never thought to tell me you suspected Lady Bronwyn was not whom she professed to be." "I only knew for sure that I liked her and that she was Laon's daughter. And as for the masquerade, I did it for you, my king." "Me?" "Mmm-hmmm," Eleanor purred against his ear. "I know how very much you like to be entertained." "And that it was.Quite diverting. Never thought to see the day where Ranulf would be at ease in a crowd-or so demonstrative," Henry said, pointing at the joined couple. "He's in love,my king.Just like I am. Perhaps someday I'll do something about your men and their rough-mannered ways. Maybe I will convene my own court-the court of love." "I think that babe in your womb has made you soft in the head," Henry teased. "Maybe," Eleanor sighed as she sat back in her chair with a smile that spoke of a mind whirling with ideas.

The successful individual sales producer wins by being as selfish as possible with her time. The more often the salesperson stays away from team members and distractions, puts her phone on Do Not Disturb (DND), closes her door, or chooses to work for a few hours from the local Panera Bread café, the more productive she’ll likely be. In general, top producers in sales tend to exhibit a characteristic I’ve come to describe as being selfishly productive. The seller who best blocks out the rest of the world, who maintains obsessive control of her calendar, who masters focusing solely on her own highest-value revenue-producing activities, who isn’t known for being a “team player,” and who is not interested in playing good corporate citizen or helping everyone around her, is typically a highly effective seller who ends up on top of the sales rankings. Contrary to popular opinion, being selfish is not bad at all. In fact, for an individual contributor salesperson, it is a highly desirable trait and a survival skill, particularly in today’s crazed corporate environment where everyone is looking to put meetings on your calendar and take you away from your primary responsibilities! Now let’s switch gears and look at the sales manager’s role and responsibilities. How well would it work to have a sales manager who kept her office phone on DND and declined almost every incoming call to her mobile phone? Do we want a sales manager who closes her office door, is concerned only about herself, and is for the most part inaccessible? No, of course not. The successful sales manager doesn’t win on her own; she wins through her people by helping them succeed. Think about other key sales management responsibilities: Leading team meetings. Developing talent. Encouraging hearts. Removing obstacles. Coaching others. Challenging data, false assumptions, wrong attitudes, and complacency. Pushing for more. Putting the needs of your team members ahead of your own. Hmmm. Just reading that list again reminds me why it is often so difficult to transition from being a top producer in sales into a sales management role. Aside from the word sales, there is truly almost nothing similar about the positions. And that doesn’t even begin to touch on corporate responsibilities like participating on the executive committee, dealing with human resources compliance issues, expense management, recruiting, and all the other burdens placed on the sales manager. Again,

As she explained to her students, patients often awoke from very bad illnesses or cardiac arrests, talking about how they had been floating over their bodies. “Mm-hmmm,” Norma would reply, sometimes thinking, Yeah, yeah, I know, you were on the ceiling. Such stories were recounted so frequently that they hardly jolted medical personnel. Norma at the time had mostly chalked it up to some kind of drug reaction or brain malfunction, something like that. “No, really,” said a woman who’d recently come out of a coma. “I can prove it.” The woman had been in a car accident and been pronounced dead on arrival when she was brought into the emergency room. Medical students and interns had begun working on her and managed to get her heartbeat going, but then she had coded again. They’d kept on trying, jump-starting her heart again, this time stabilizing it. She’d remained in a coma for months, unresponsive. Then one day she awoke, talking about the brilliant light and how she remembered floating over her body. Norma thought she could have been dreaming about all kinds of things in those months when she was unconscious. But the woman told them she had obsessive-compulsive disorder and had a habit of memorizing numbers. While she was floating above her body, she had read the serial number on top of the respirator machine. And she remembered it. Norma looked at the machine. It was big and clunky, and this one stood about seven feet high. There was no way to see on top of the machine without a stepladder. “Okay, what’s the number?” Another nurse took out a piece of paper to jot it down. The woman rattled off twelve digits. A few days later, the nurses called maintenance to take the ventilator machine out of the room. The woman had recovered so well, she no longer needed it. When the worker arrived, the nurses asked if he wouldn’t mind climbing to the top to see if there was a serial number up there. He gave them a puzzled look and grabbed his ladder. When he made it up there, he told them that indeed there was a serial number. The nurses looked at each other. Could he read it to them? Norma watched him brush off a layer of dust to get a better look. He read the number. It was twelve digits long: the exact number that the woman had recited. The professor would later come to find out that her patient’s story was not unique. One of Norma’s colleagues at the University of Virginia Medical Center at the time, Dr. Raymond Moody, had published a book in 1975 called Life After Life, for which he had conducted the first large-scale study of people who had been declared clinically dead and been revived, interviewing 150 people from across the country. Some had been gone for as long as twenty minutes with no brain waves or pulse. In her lectures, Norma sometimes shared pieces of his research with her own students. Since Moody had begun looking into the near-death experiences, researchers from around the world had collected data on thousands and thousands of people who had gone through them—children, the blind, and people of all belief systems and cultures—publishing the findings in medical and research journals and books. Still, no one has been able to definitively account for the common experience all of Moody’s interviewees described. The inevitable question always followed: Is there life after death? Everyone had to answer that question based on his or her own beliefs, the professor said. For some of her students, that absence of scientific evidence of an afterlife did little to change their feelings about their faith. For others,

How else would you be able to talk, kitten-cat, if you were not thinking, hmmm?' said George to his charge. But it was Francois...who answered: ...'Ah oui...but there are a lot of two-legs [people] who do not think very much at all but who always seem to do most of the talking.'" (p124)

Hmmm, sounds like you’re describing someone I know. I mean, I don’t think he’s that, but sometimes those fishes just need a little bit more time in the water before they get caught. The particular fish I’m talking about seems like the type that when he swims, he swims deep. I think he is just being careful. He doesn’t want to be eaten by a shark, not that you are one. Just remember that, okay?

She dangled in mid-air, her skirt hooked up on the trellis, a pair of stockings and drawers on full display. "Tell me madam, have we met before?" he called up to her. "You look familiar, in an odd way." He pretended to think hard, rubbing his chin. "For pity's sake," she hissed, her voice muffled by the ivy. "Help me down you fool." "Hmmm. Let me consider it. Perhaps, for once, you ought to be polite to me and respectful for once. Or else you can hang there until Easter." "Suit yourself then! I can make my own way down." "Shall you swing from my chandelier as an encore?" he asked politely, greatly enjoying the show.

Cat was no novice, but the term “sexual satisfaction” didn’t even come close to what Wilson McKay had done to her. It was magnificent. It was mind-bending. It was addictive. Wilson was almost blind with exhaustion, but he’d never felt better in his life. Just at the point of falling asleep, he felt Cat’s backside snuggling closer into his lap. “Uh…Wilson?” “Hmmm?” “Could we do that again?” He laughed out loud. It started like a rumble down deep in his belly and came up his throat in husky ripples, until the sound, like a blowout, burst behind Cat’s head. His laughter was infectious. A little embarrassed, she frowned, but when he buried his face against the back of her neck and kept laughing, she rolled out from beneath his grasp and punched him on the shoulder. Wilson had never, in his entire life as an adult, experienced this much passion and fun at the same time. He laughed until his belly hurt, and when he tried to pull her back down to him, she wouldn’t relent. “It wasn’t that funny,” Cat muttered. “On the contrary,” Wilson said. “You just weren’t looking at the request from my point of view. I was just lying there thinking that I’d never felt so used up and satisfied in my life, and then you’re asking about a repeat performance.

Worse, I think she might be a robot.” “Hmmm, good or evil?” Jerry raised his eyebrow playfully. “Evil, what other kind is there?

You’ve always been God’s choice. If that doesn’t blow your circuits, I don’t know what will. God chose us in Christ to be holy and blameless in God’s presence before the creation of the world. (Ephesians 1:4 CEB). You were never an afterthought to God. He did not create the earth and then think, Hmmm … I guess I should put people on this planet to complete the project. No, you were on His mind and in His heart before He created this earth. He didn’t create you for the purpose of simply populating the earth. He created the earth for you to rule over and enjoy with Him.

Kate’s mind was obviously not lodged as firmly in the gutter as his, since she chose to sit in the chair opposite him, even though there was plenty of room in his chair, provided they didn’t mind squeezing next to each other. Even the chair kitty-corner to his would have been better; at least then he could have yanked her up and hauled her onto his lap. If he tried that maneuver where she was seated across the table, he’d have to drag her through the middle of the tea service. Anthony narrowed his eyes as he assessed the situation, trying to guess exactly how much tea would spill on the rug, and then how much it would cost to replace the rug, and then whether he really cared about such a piddling amount of money, anyway . . . “Anthony? Are you listening to me?” He looked up. Kate was resting her arms on her knees as she leaned forward to talk with him. She looked very intent and just a little bit irritated. “Were you?” she persisted. He blinked. “Listening to me?” she ground out. “Oh.” He grinned. “No.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t bother to scold him any further than that. “I was saying that we should have Edwina and her young man over for dinner one night. To see if we think they suit. I have never before seen her so interested in a gentleman, and I do so want her to be happy.” Anthony reached for a biscuit. He was hungry, and he’d pretty much given up on the prospect of getting his wife into his lap. On the other hand, if he managed to clear off the cups and saucers, yanking her across the table might not have such messy consequences . . . He surreptitiously pushed the tray bearing the tea service to the side. “Hmmm?” he grunted, chewing on the biscuit. “Oh, yes, of course. Edwina should be happy.” Kate eyed him suspiciously. “Are you certain you don’t want some tea with that biscuit? I’m not a great aficionado of brandy, but I would imagine that tea would taste better with shortbread.” Actually, Anthony thought, the brandy did quite well with shortbread, but it certainly couldn’t hurt to empty out the teapot a bit, just in case he toppled it over. “Capital idea,” he said, grabbing a teacup and thrusting it toward her. “Tea’s just the thing. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it earlier.” “I can’t imagine, either,” she murmured acerbically— if one could murmur in an acerbic manner, and after hearing Kate’s low sarcasm, Anthony rather thought one could. But he just gave her a jovial smile as he reached out and took his teacup from her outstretched hand.

My body has a mind of its own. Apparently it thinks that “new year” is synonymous with “exercise program,” and has been attempting to coerce me into one. Right. Like shifting from one side of the couch to the other isn’t work. “Hey! What about ME?” it asked. “Hello! Down here! The attachment to your neck that is beginning to resemble a marshmallow? Remember? When are we going to join a gym? A girl your age has a lot more than just a reputation to uphold, you know - your butt springs to mind! So when’s it going to be? Huh? Huh?” “Hmmm,” I answered thoughtfully. “How about never? Is never good for you?” “Yeah, ya big coward. That’s the thanks I get for silently squeezing into those jeans all these months? I knew you were a weenie.” “I have a black belt, I’ll have you know!” I retorted. “You might want to show a little respect! There was a day when the only ripples on my body were the ones defining my abdomen!” “‘Ooh, look at me, I’m a martial artist!’ Well, Jean-Claude Van Flab, let’s invite reality in for some tea, shall we? That day was FOUR YEARS AGO. Those laurels you’re resting on are becoming a little more than figurative. People are gonna start calling you ‘Baggie’!” “My, but you’ve gotten cocky in your old age,” I responded, “considering I’M STILL THE BOSS. I own you. You’re mine.” “Gee, boss, I hate to shatter your delusions of adequacy,” it shot back, “but your employee is revolting - and you can take THAT any way you want.” I looked down and sighed. It had a point.

She covered his heartbeat with her hand and gazed down, her eyes misty with a sudden wistfulness.  "Oh Charles, my love — my Beloved One.  Will we ever be together?" "We are together now, dear Amy." Her gaze flew to his face, for she hadn't realized that he'd woken and was now watching her from beneath half-lowered lashes.  "I thought you were sleeping!" "An impossible pursuit, I think, given the circumstances," he murmured, with a little smile.  He had his far leg drawn up, the near one outstretched in front of him, and now he took her hand and rested it on the hard thigh of the latter, covering it with his own.  Amy caught her breath, but his expression was kind, even a little teasing.  He looked down at himself, and at her hand, imprisoned beneath his and resting so near to his arousal, and raised one brow ever so slightly, as though he wasn't sure whether to be amused or concerned about his very noticeable reaction to her.  "Hmmm.  I recall that we have acted out this scene before," he mused. "I'm sorry," she breathed, trying to pull away. "Are you?  I'm not."  He kept her hand where it was, resting solidly atop his thigh, and stroked the back of her knuckles with his thumb.  "I daresay I was rather enjoying that." "You were talking in your sleep.  Dreaming, I think, about that night you asked me to wipe the soap from your skin." "Ah, yes.  I remember that night well, Amy."  His head still resting against the wall behind him, he turned it ever so slightly and looked at her, his down-tilted, sleepy eyes romantic in the scattered moonlight, in any light.  "Do you?" She smiled, her face suddenly warm.  "Of course." "And do you remember all those nights we used to sit up and talk together, long after everyone went to bed?" "I do." "And the way you coerced me into eating that broth when I wouldn't dine in front of others for fear of making a fool of myself?" "How could I forget?" He smiled and gazed once more at her hand, still caught beneath his, resting oh-so-close to that ever-growing bulge beneath his white leather breeches. "Amy," he said softly. "Charles?" "That talk we had earlier . . . I have been thinking.  Thinking about what you said, as compared to my own standards of perfection, my own belief that if something isn't done correctly, it isn't worth doing at all." "Yes?" "Well, I beg your forgiveness for what I am about to ask, that is, for what I am about to suggest . . . and this, out here in a rather damp winter stable, certainly not the most comfortable of settings, certainly not perfect by anyone's stretch of the imagination, least of all mine —" "Charles, what are you trying to say?" she chided with a little laugh, though everything inside her tensed with expectation, with hope, with desperate, fervent longing — "What I am trying to say, Amy, it that I would like to make love to you.

My wife doesn’t believe in hell. What do you think about that?” “Is it really important what I believe?” “Yes.” June laughed. “Hmmm. Why I wonder?” She looked thoughtful. “She’s right. And for those who believe in hell, they are right too. Remember, beliefs are neither right nor wrong. The world gets caught up in that far too much…being right…labeling wrong.” “But

Look, Victoria. It’s Lady Rosslyn!” “Good heavens, it is! So the rumor is true, then. She’s taken up with him!” Two ladies leaving the opera peered at them insolently above their fans, tittering maliciously. Rafe favored them with a glare, while putting a protective arm around his countess. Cassandra glanced up distractedly and nodded politely as she saw the other women. The pair of bitches lifted their noses and crossed to the opposite side of the street with such pointed haste that their foppish escorts had to dash after them. “Stupid coños,” Rafe growled, pulling Cassandra closer to shield her from such spite. “Hmmm?” she murmured, chewing on the last bit of the pasty. “They are snubbing you because they believe you are a fallen woman.” He spat in their direction. “As if their morality is lily white.” Cassandra blinked at him. “Why should I care what they think? I am no longer obligated to be part of their world, and to be truthful, I am quite relieved by that fact.” Rafe

She must still be very annoyed with me regarding the brawling incident.” “Of course she’s annoyed with you, and not only about the brawling, if I were to hazard a guess.” “She has nothing else to be annoyed about.” “There is Millie,” Fletcher said slowly. “You mean the woman who has been deliberately avoiding me ever since the brawl?” “Your mother thought something was amiss between the two of you.” “Well, she’s right, but as for what that something is, I certainly don’t know.” He slouched down in the chair. “Millie’s odd behavior began when we walked through the Casino after the unfortunate brawling incident to get to my buggy.” A trace of temper shot through him. “All of the members of the Casino were gawking at us as we walked, sending Millie, Lucetta, and me looks of what can only be described as disdain. And . . . the society ladies were tittering behind their gloved hands, some of those titters rather loud, and none of them very kind in regard to Millie or Lucetta.” “Do you think Millie’s upset because you did nothing to stop the tittering?” “I told the crowd to mind their own business, which didn’t go over very well, since they started tittering about me—and nothing pleasant, I must admit. But, instead of appeasing Millie, my attempt at protecting her and Lucetta from the harsh words seemed to aggravate her.” “Hmmm. . . . Well, good for you for making a stand, but as for why that would aggravate Millie, I must confess myself a bit perplexed.” “She’s a complicated woman.” “All women are complicated, son. You should simply accept that for fact and be prepared to be confused for the rest of your life.” “I’m certainly confused at the moment.” “I don’t blame you.

Hmmm.. We are like children in a bus with faulty brakes on a hill, eventually we will meet our collusion point. Well blindly some of us may think of sacking out all the good out of the bus before it meets it's end, but what is really there to sack out. Some places are hard to to get out of.

She continued, "You know, we never use that word. Aspies. We don't want them thinking it's some sort of club." More negative implications from someone who was presumably paid to assist and encourage. "Like homosexuality?" I asked. "Touche," said Julie.

When they finished, Fred picked up the cooking pot. “I’m going to go give this a quick rinse.”   Kyra was warm all over. She pulled her bedroll out and snuggled down into it.   A few minutes later, a chuckle came from behind her. “Kitty, don’t be alarmed, but this part of the forest seems to be populated by a bush I’ve never seen before.”   “Hmmm…?”   “It seems to be sprouting women’s underthings.”   Kyra sat bolt upright. “Leave those underthings alone.”   Fred sat beside her. “I wouldn’t dream of touching such an unusual plant. It’s probably poisonous.”   “Ha-ha.”   “Well, it isn’t as though I haven’t seen them before. Though I must say, I think I’m more fond of that lacy see-through model I saw you in earlier.”   “Good night, Fred.” Kyra lay back down on her bedroll.   “’Night, Kitty.

On the question of genetics and behavior, the egalitarians and the liberal media have tightly controlled public discourse, so for decades, only their side has been presented to the public. Is it any wonder the public accepts what they say uncritically? It’s certainly not anyone’s fault for believing it. If I didn’t happen to study and do research on IQ, I’d probably believe it, too. But then maybe someday, I might think to myself, “Why not just see what the other side has to say?” Many, many people are incapable of doing this, because they’re terrified the other side might be right, and to discover that they’ve been completely wrong would be such a jolt to their psyches they might never recover. Anyway, just imagine I summoned up the courage to venture into forbidden territory – I might read one really good book, such as The Bell Curve, by Herrnstein and Murray. I’d think to myself, “Gee, what a totally different world this is! It’s not a pretentious piece of propaganda like Gould’s The Mismeasure of Man– it’s down-to-earth, clearly stated, interesting, even engrossing. Hmmm . . . kind of exciting!

However, instead of getting pulled into a struggle, you could pause for an empowering moment of self-awareness and simply say, “I don’t know,” or “I can’t really answer that right now.” If EIPs try to prompt an argument, you can enjoy a nice breath, then sidestep them with, “I guess I don’t have anything to say about that right now.” Another slippery response to anything that seems false or crazy is to make noncommittal sounds, like “Uh-huh,” “Hmmm,” or just, “Huh.” Slipperiness is effective because no friction is created, and your minimal feedback makes you a less desirable opponent. Think of this skill as flowing around an obstacle instead of making yourself a target. Because EIPs aren’t mature enough to fight fair, confrontations with them are full of dirty tricks and red herrings. They will wear you down and distract you from the outcome you want. If you accept a battle of wills, they might win because their self-centered arguments will exhaust your brain just trying to make sense of their illogical responses.

So are you saying you'd turn him away if he knocked on your door tonight?" "He's not going to knock on my door." But at the thought of it, my entire body warmed. "But if he did," she pushed. "What would you do?" "Hmmm. Is he wearing clothes?" "Let's say he's shirtless." "Damn. Is his hair doing that thing in the front?" "Definitely. And he smells good. Like, really good." "Ugh, that's so annoying." I sighed. "Ideally, I like to think I'd be strong enough to be the first female in his life to resist him." Turning around, I faced her. "Realistically, though, I'd probably think about it for two seconds, then jump his bones." She cackled with glee. "I knew it.

Conservatives have consistently voted to cut taxes on the rich. Current proposals for a “flat tax” would mean cutting taxes on the rich. The arguments are often versions of the Moral Hierarchy principle, that the rich are just better people than the poor: they have earned their money through hard work; the poor just haven’t worked hard enough and so deserve to be poor. Hmmm . . . Corporate CEOs tend to make about two hundred times as much as their average employees—they can’t be working two hundred times as hard. And many of the rich have inherited their money not earned it through work. Another

After dinner Marlboro Man and I sat on the sofa in our dimly lit house and marveled at the new little life before us. Her sweet little grunts…her impossibly tiny ears…how peacefully she slept, wrinkled and warm, in front of us. We unwrapped her from her tight swaddle, then wrapped her again. Then we unwrapped her and changed her diaper, then wrapped her again. Then we put her in the crib for the night, patted her sweet belly, and went to bed ourselves, where we fell dead asleep in each other’s arms, blissful that the hard part was behind us. A full night’s sleep was all I needed, I reckoned, before I felt like myself again. The sun would come out tomorrow…I was sure of it. We were sleeping soundly when I heard the baby crying twenty minutes later. I shot out of bed and went to her room. She must be hungry, I thought, and fed her in the glider rocking chair before putting her in her crib and going back to bed myself. Forty-five minutes after my head hit the pillow, I was awakened again to the sound of crying. Looking at the clock, I was sure I was having a bad dream. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled to her room again and repeated the feeding ritual. Hmmm, I thought as I tried to keep from nodding off in the chair. This is strange. She must have some sort of problem, I imagined--maybe that cowlick or colic I’d heard about in a movie somewhere? Goiter or gouter or gout? Strange diagnoses pummeled my sleep-deprived brain. Before the sun came up, I’d gotten up six more times, each time thinking it had to be the last, and if it wasn’t, it might actually kill me. I woke up the next morning, the blinding sun shining in my eyes. Marlboro Man was walking in our room, holding our baby girl, who was crying hysterically in his arms. “I tried to let you sleep,” he said. “But she’s not having it.” He looked helpless, like a man completely out of options. My eyes would hardly open. “Here.” I reached out, motioning Marlboro Man to place the little suckling in the warm spot on the bed beside me. Eyes still closed, I went into autopilot mode, unbuttoning my pajama top and moving my breast toward her face, not caring one bit that Marlboro Man was standing there watching me. The baby found what she wanted and went to town. Marlboro Man sat on the bed and played with my hair. “You didn’t get much sleep,” he said. “Yeah,” I said, completely unaware that what had happened the night before had been completely normal…and was going to happen again every night for the next month at least. “She must not have been feeling great.

Okay, I’ll just go on to the next card.” He picks one up, pretending to read. “It says here, ‘Darling, is there life on Mars? Yes or no.’ ” Mack has gone back to thinking about the paintings. “I say no,” he says absently. “Hmmm,” says Quilty, putting the card down. “I think the answer is yes. Look at it this way: they’re sure there are ice crystals. And where there is ice, there is water. And where there is water, there is waterfront property. And where there is waterfront property, there are Jews!” He claps his hands and sinks back onto the acrylic quilting of the bedspread. “Where are you?” he asks finally, waving his arms out in the air. “I’m here,” says Mack. “I’m right here.” But he doesn’t move. “You’re here? Well, good. At least you’re not at my cousin Esther’s Martian lake house with her appalling husband, Howard. Though sometimes I wonder how they’re doing. How are they? They never come to visit. I frighten them so much.” He pauses. “Can I ask you a question?” “Okay.” “What do I look like?

Miss A-la-na here seems to think that my pork medallion with caramelized-onion pan sauce is a little heavy-handed, that the onions need a lighter touch, a less intense flavor. Do you think the recipe needs altering? Hmmm? In your INFINITE wisdom and experience?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, smug and smooth and utterly contemptuous. And I was not in the mood. "In my HUMBLE opinion," I began, equally quiet and calm, and no less scathing, "the recipe indeed needs some lightening. And since you ostensibly hired me to help make you look good and ensure that the recipes you put out in the world can actually be successfully produced by the general population, you should trust that I am going to take your recipes and make them better, and leave it at that. I do things the way they should be done, and you cook your dishes like a good little boy and STAY OUT OF MY ASS.

She stepped toward the gap; one slipper slid on crumbling masonry. Stifling a gasp, Patience leapt forward onto the corridor flags. And collided with a man. She opened her mouth to scream- a hard hand clamped over her lips. An arm like steel locked about her waist, trapping her against a long, hard frame. Patience relaxed; her panic flowed out of her. There was only one body within ten miles like the one she was pressed against. Reaching up, she pulled Vane's hand from her lips. She drew breath to speak, opened her lips- He kissed her. When he eventually consented to stop, he only lifted his lips a bare fraction from hers. And breathed: "Quiet- sound travels very well in the fog." Patience gathered her wits. And breathed back: "I saw the Spectre- there was a light bobbing about." "I think it's a lantern, but it's gone or shielded now." His lips touched hers again, then settled, not cool but warm against hers. The rest of him was warm, too, an oasis of heat in the chilly night. Her hands trapped against his chest, Patience fought an urge to snuggle closer. When he next lifted his head, she forced herself to ask, her words still no more than a whispered breath: "Do you think he'll come back?" "Who knows? I thought I'd wait for a while." He followed up the tantalizing brush of his breath against her lips with a much more satisfying caress. Patience's head spun. "Maybe I'll wait, too." "Hmmm.

couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’d wake up at night with that taste on my tongue—wake up thinking about your foul, beautiful mouth.” He traced his thumb over her lips. “You don’t want to know the depraved things I’ve thought about this mouth.” “Hmmm, likewise, but you didn’t answer my question,” Aelin said, even as her toes curled in the wet sand and warm water. “Yes,” Rowan said thickly. “Some males enjoy doing it. To mark territory, for pleasure…” “Do females bite males?” He began to harden again inside her as the question lingered. Oh, gods—Fae lovers. Everyone should be so damn lucky to have one. Rowan rasped, “Do you want to bite me?” Aelin eyed his throat, his glorious body, and the face she had once so fiercely hated. And she wondered if it were possible to love someone

As we are going through life, and people who know one version of us see us grow, we might hear them say, “You’ve changed.” Sometimes, it will hurt our feelings to hear, because that’s the intention behind the statement. They’re saying that we are no longer the old us and that they don’t recognize who we are. But what they’re really saying is THEY haven’t changed. They might be thinking we aren’t on the same level as them anymore and are projecting that onto us. And yeah, it’s really easy to be offended by it. We might be tempted to make somebody else feel better and say, “No, I haven’t changed. I’m still the same person.” We are wrong. We did change. We tried something new. We got new results. We changed our worlds. Maybe we’re not on the same level anymore, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean I’m better than you. It only means I’m different. Not changing is a detriment. What if we are supposed to spur positive change in everyone else? What if we are supposed to push everyone else out of their box? Instead of taking affront to the notion that we’ve changed, we should simply say, “Thank you for noticing. I’ve been working hard at being better.” Because to change is to adapt to challenges we’ve faced. It means we are adjusting to what life has thrown us and doing things differently. If the change they see is us being more cruel, hateful, and thoughtless, then maybe we can say, “Hmmm . . . I should adjust.” Otherwise, NAH.

Later in the day, Holly frowned at her reflection in the mirror. “This can’t be right!” Holly muttered to herself. She looked like a cross between a panda bear and a raccoon. She had tried to apply a more advanced version of makeup than she was used to, and it was not going well. “Smokey eye, my foot! I look like I have two black eyes.” She had not done the proper shading with her eye shadow, and now her large green eyes were encased with a deep black color that spanned her entire eyelid. “Maybe I should try a different one,” Holly mused aloud. She sat in William’s bedroom at his dresser. She already had on her pretty crushed velvet black dress and a small heart-shaped diamond pendant. It had been William’s birthday gift to her last year. “Let me re-read this article again to see if I can make sense of these instructions.” Holly read her magazine article out loud. “Which Greek Goddess are you? Athena, Venus, or Aphrodite? Check out our makeup tips below to turn heads at your next event!” “Hmmmm, that sounds soooooo good, if only I was better at applying makeup.” She had decided to try their Aphrodite look and had been trying to apply the eyeliner to give her a smoky eye effect. Holly had to wash her face four times already and start over because each time was worse than the last. “Concentrate, Holly, or you’ll be late for the gala. This is your last chance; it’s do or die time!” she warned her reflection in the mirror. “So, it says to put the light grey eyeshadow on the inner one-third of my eyelids. Hmmm, maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know where the inner third is.” She got an idea and went to William’s desk. Looking around, she found a ruler. “Ah-ha! Eureka, I got it!” She went back to her position at his dresser and closed her eyes for a quick, small prayer, then held the ruler up to measure her eye. “Ah-ha! Twenty-one millimeters. So, that means the inner one-third of my eye must be from my nose out seven millimeters . . . right about HERE!” Holly expertly applied the light grey eye shadow to the inner third of her eyelids. “What a big improvement already! Wow! I’m not a panda bear anymore! Ok, one-third down, two-thirds to go . . . I can do this!” Reading further, she said, “Ok, now apply the dark grey eye shadow to the next third of your eye, finishing with the dark brown eye shadow on the outer third of your eyelid.” Holly expertly followed the instructions and sat back in her chair, stunned. She looked beautiful! She had achieved the desired effect, and now her green eyes were enhanced to perfection. “Wow, wow, wow!” Holly felt encouraged to keep going. She read the next instructions. “‘Now, apply blush to your face with an emphasis on contouring your cheekbones.’” “‘Contouring my cheekbones? Who do they think I am, Rembrandt?” Holly said with a groan. Holly gingerly picked up her blush container as if it were about to bite her. She decided another quick prayer wouldn’t go amiss. With a deep breath she muttered, “Ok, I’m going in!” She glanced nervously at the picture in the magazine and tried her hardest to follow it along her cheekbones. “That turned out pretty good!” Holly turned her face this way and that, examining it. It may not have been exactly as in the picture, but the blush now accentuated her beautiful high cheekbones. “Whew! Only the lip left, thank goodness! You got this, Holly!” She encouraged her reflection in the mirror.

Taking my chin in his hand, he turned my face back to his and leaned in. I began to hyperventilate. This hadn’t been part of my plan, this had nothing to do with anything, this was just… Hmmm…this wasn’t so bad. Cautiously, once my body had told my brain to stuff it, I leaned forward and kissed Sebastian back. Everything slipped from my mind: the La Lunes, the cockroaches, my sore shoulder – even my mum. All I was aware of was the feel of his lips, his smell, his hands on my waist and back. Every caress, every nuance in his movements shot through me till I was dizzy, until all that mattered was him. His hands slowly moved up my back to my neck. If he hadn’t been holding me, I think I’d have fallen into the river. And then my phone rang. And rang. And rang. WHY NOW? And who was it?

Dad went back to the front, taking Jovie with him, and Kye cornered me. Backing me up until my ass bumped into one of the workshop tables. “You have no sense of personal space, do you?” Not that I minded. Especially when he trapped me there, planting soft kisses against my throat and shoulder. “We could try for a workshop-table-baby.” His laughter rumbled in his chest, making my toes curl. “How about it?” It took an extreme amount of willpower to not let his kisses distract me. “First, we’re not trying for any kind of baby while Dad’s here.” He grunted, twisting the ends of my hair around his fingers. “We could come back after hours.” My brows hiked into my hairline. “Why would we come all the way back into town when we have a perfectly comfortable bed. And kitchen. And living room. And the armchair that we still have yet to christen.” We shared a wicked smirk before I gave him a quick, chaste kiss and whispered, “I don’t want a chisel poking my ass while you fuck me. Not sexy.” “Armchair baby it is,” he sighed, like he was accepting the next best option. “Should I at least buy you a drink first? Soften you up a bit?” “Hmmm,” I hummed, reaching up to tap his chin with my index finger. “Well, if you insist. How about hot cocoa?” He shook his head, laughter dancing in his eyes, and I had to keep myself from getting swept away by his gaze. “I know just the place.” Kye donned his coat and slid his hand into mine. We made our way to The Bowl, ordered our drinks, and met at the windows where, almost exactly one year ago, I’d dabbed whipped cream off his nose. I reached up now to do the same after he took his first sip, because he still didn’t have the skills to drink The Bowl’s monstrosity properly. “I’m starting to think you do it on purpose,” I accused, balling up the napkin. I’d never openly admit it was one of my favorite things. “Holly?” “Yes?” “Shut up and forking kiss me.” And I did. I forking kissed the big, Krampus-looking, kindhearted, funny, foul-mouthed, available all-months-of-the-year alien. It just happened to be another one of my favorite things.

Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Now, now, ma’am, please calm down and tell me what is wrong.” And there was silence and periodically he would offer a sound of listening and taking it in: “Mmm-hmmm. Mmm-hmmm. Yes, ma’am.” After about ten minutes of listening, he said: “Well, you know, ma’am, I really think this is a police matter. If you like, I can connect you to the precinct.” He was comforting in his tone. Soon after, he hung up. I asked what the call was about and he said that it was an old woman who sometimes called. She was mostly lonely and wanted someone to talk to. This time the call was about a plate of cream cheese that had gone missing from her refrigerator. I looked at him and he offered a small smile. But it was compassionate. He was not making fun of her. He was just offering her a willing ear when she needed one.

You think I'm some busybody gossip? My life is miserable enough as it is- why would I want to spread that misery to those around me as well?' 'Is it miserable? Your life, I mean.' A careful question. 'I don't know. Everything is happening so quickly that I don't know what to feel.' It was more honest than I'd been in a while. 'Hmmm. Perhaps once we return home, I should give you the day off.' 'How considerate of you, my lord.' He snorted, unbuttoning his jacket. I realised I stood in all my finery- with nothing to wear to sleep. A snap of Rhys's fingers, and my nightclothes- and some flimsy underthings- appeared on my bed. 'I couldn't decide which scrap of lace I wanted you to wear, so I brought you a few to choose from.' 'Pig,' I barked, snatching the clothes and heading to the adjoining bathing room.

I was finding it hard to keep a straight face while watching.” When Amon calmed himself down, he sighed a happy one before speaking again, “if only I had some popcorn.” “I think I prefer Abigor stabbing me rather than your pleasantries,” I muttered in a low dull tone as I stare at him feeling uneased. What I say is true. At least with Abigor, he is straight forward with his intentions. It is as clear as day, but everything about Amon is so… warped. “Hmmm,” he hummed delightfully but curious, “are you sure about that?” In the background, Abigor sneered surveying his perimeter while grumbling to himself. From my firm glare, he lightly scoffed and continued to speak. “Now, now… I’m a fair guy. I would share the popcorn, I’m not that heartless,” Amon again cheerfully grinned.

conference room or something of that sort, the big table in the middle, uhh, and I went in there and actually sat in a couple of chairs because I figured that was my only chance I’d ever have to. NOTE: Everybody wanted to sit in the chairs ... me: Mmm hmmm. Instant Replay: And uh, there was talk of yeah, they were talking about the different things that there’s ... there’s this ornate stuff that there’s like plates and things. And it was a real quick thing of “do not touch anything. Do not break anything. That’s not what we’re here for. That’s what we’re about.” So uh, I don’t think anybody took anything and I don’t think ... I know nothing was broken.

Look, the old lady’s going to allow you in her house, hmmm? You think she’ll remember if a few groceries she bought are missing the next day? Hell, she probably won’t even remember buying them by the time she returns home.

Adara watched her husband through the trees while she struggled to lace her gown. He tended his horse with a gentle touch and a high regard even while Lutian was annoying him with questions and comments. “I don’t think your horse likes you to stroke him there,” Lutian said while Christian rubbed it down. He bent over and picked up two clumps of grass similar to the ones Christian was using, then studied them closely. Christian continued without pause. “I’ve owned this horse a long time and I know what he likes.” “Aye, but how do you know he likes that? Has he ever told you so?” “He’s not kicking me. I take that as a good sign.” “I’m not kicking you, either, but that doesn’t mean I like you or that I’d be grateful for your rubbing clumps of dirt over my body.” Lutian held one of the grass clumps to his cheek and rubbed it against his skin. “Hmmm…although, it could be pleasurable, perhaps…” Lutian turned around and poked his rear toward Christian. “Here, rub some on my flank and let me judge.” Christian looked horrified by the mere thought. “I’d most certainly rather not.” -Lutian, & Christian

Time’s up, Mr. Andersen, I’m afraid.” Alyssa noticed his hesitation. “You should know an important clause in our agreement . . . you attorneys call it what, full disclosure? You give me $25,000 before I leave this office, or, well, I'll just have to ring up Heather again and let her in on a secret, a secret about something that happened in Chinatown not even three weeks ago. Hmmm…I wonder what she would think.