Prop Maker Quotes

People want things to be real. If you give them an excuse, they'll believe you.

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Let me get it,” he says, standing much too close for my comfort. It’s downright suffocating. “Not a chance, darlin’,” I drawl, giving him a dose of his own medicine. I hand the youngish sales lady my tags and bury my gaze inside my purse in search of my wallet. When I look up, I find a loopy smile on her face and it’s directed at him. The happy bastard smiles right back. “Are you two done? Can I pay for these, or would you like to go on a date before you ring me up?” They both turn to stare. She’s cherry red and pushing all the wrong buttons on the register while Dane’s busy scowling at me. I hand her my credit card without taking my eyes off of him. “Did I do something to you, Stella?” The thing is, I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at myself. I cannot believe that I allowed myself to fall under his spell. I don’t blame the sales girl either. She never stood a chance under the magnetic force that is Dane Wylder. I fell for it and I’ve been vaccinated against this particular virulent disease. I have Paul Donovan to thank for that. Turning back to the sales person, I take the receipt she hands me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Hormones––they’re wreaking havoc.” “Oh, I get the same way when I get my period,” she replies in the sweetest drawl. “Thanks for your help,” I tell her in an apologetic tone. With that I walk away from the counter, and the two of them. A second later a big hand grabs a hold of my upper arm. I stop and turn, my expression not a happy one. “You didn’t answer me?” “No, Dane. You did nothing. Like I said, it’s the hormones.” He looks pensive, his sexy lips pursed as he’s mulling this over. “We should get you some ice cream.” I don’t know whether to laugh, or cry. He genuinely thinks ice cream is the solution to our problem? Then again he doesn’t have a problem. I’m the one with the urge. I’m the one with the craving. Unless ice cream comes in a flavor called Sweaty Sex With Dane, I don’t want it…and about as smart as jumping out of a plane with no parachute. The ride will be fast and thrilling and most certainly prove painful when I hit bottom. “What does ice cream have to do with it?” “Maybe it’ll make you nicer. You know, take the edge off.” My eyes automatically narrow. “Maybe we need to give each other space.” “No,” he huffs, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, his shirt straining against the swell of his pecs, expression locked in the determined position. “No?” “No. No space. I see what you’re doing here. This is some kinda female mental jujitsu. You say you want space, but you don’t really want it.” I’m seconds from punching him in the nut sac, which is almost directly in my line of sight. There is something to be said about being short. Or for him being grotesquely tall. “I…I’m going to…I can’t.” I flee to the cosmetics department in search of the Holy Grail, a flat iron, before I do or say something I’ll regret. And find one. Thank the Lord. This goes a small way to propping up my mood. I’m almost tempted to purchase two.

You’re carrying my child. That makes us family…whether you like it or not, Shorty.” His voice is gentle, but the force behind it brooks no argument. “We don’t know if I’m pregnant.” “Let’s think positive. And you need to lie down. Doctor’s orders.” “There’s no real data supporting––” “The doctor said you should lie down,” he says, talking over me. “You wanna do somethin’ to jeopardize this baby?” Sigh. I’m not going to argue over semantics. One of the things I’ve learned to appreciate about him is the transparency of his thoughts. I seldom have to guess what Dane is thinking or feeling because his face tells me. And right now I can tell by the look on his face he’s ready to argue to his last breath over this. “Fine…but I don’t like to eat in bed.” He replies with a smug grin. No surprise. Leading Dane to my bedroom feels weird, weirdly intimate. I pause at the threshold. He takes one look at the bed I speak of and gasps, eyebrows high up his forehead. “A California king?” Everybody’s got a fetish. Mine is oversized luxury mattresses. No doubt this stems from the lumpy twin I grew up sleeping in. A shrink would have a field day with this, among other things, which is why I’ve never seen one. “I like big beds,” I mutter, as I lie down, propped up by a stuffed headboard and a mountain of pillows piled up behind me. “Marry me?” “No.” “Glad we got that out of the way. Hand me the remote.” Placing his dish down on the side table, he gets into bed, legs spread apart to accommodate the size of his ego. Once he’s made himself comfortable, he grabs his dish and starts eating. “You have two choices,” I tell him. “Housewives of Atlanta, or the Food Network?” He stops chewing his pasta to give me a dirty look. “Housewives it is.

In my years at Bell Labs, we worked in two-person offices. They were spacious, quiet, and the phones could be diverted. I shared my office with Wendl Thomis, who went on to build a small empire as an electronic toy maker. In those days, he was working on the Electronic Switching System fault dictionary. The dictionary scheme relied upon the notion of n-space proximity, a concept that was hairy enough to challenge even Wendl’s powers of concentration. One afternoon, I was bent over a program listing while Wendl was staring into space, his feet propped up on the desk. Our boss came in and asked, “Wendl! What are you doing?” Wendl said, “I’m thinking.” And the boss said, “Can’t you do that at home?