Rom Com Book Quotes

Being loud and obnoxious was the second best thing Landrys did. Loving was the first.

The Landry family had as much romance in their blood as red blood cells. They were genetically programmed and then nurtured from the crib to believe in love and fate and soulmates and romance. Some of them just went with it. Some of them fought it. But none of them were immune.

You ever been fucked by a bayou boy after drinkin’ moonshine at a crawfish boil while skinny dippin’ when you’re supposed to be fishin’?” His drawl had just gotten very deep and pronounced and Caroline felt her clit actually tingle in response. “I…” She cleared her throat. “…have not.” “Then you’re a virgin in all the most fun ways.

Adam." She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. "There will be only one bed." He frowned. "No, as I said it's a double-" "It's not. It won't be. There will be only one bed, for sure."He gave her a puzzled look. "I got the booking confirmation the other day. I can forward it to you if you want; it says that-" "It doesn't matter what it says. It's always one bed." He stared at her, perplexed, and she sighed and leaned helplessly against the back of her chair. He'd clearly never seen a rom-com or read a romance novel in his life.

I don’t know if you can genetically acquire a love for books, but if so, I was doubly impacted.

She was gorgeous, for sure—like gorgeous. As in, I’ll-fight-dragons-for-her gorgeous. Which had to be the single most ridiculous thing that had ever crossed Zander’s mind. But yeah, she walked in and looked around with an air that said she expected dragon slayers to be rushing forward, brandishing their swords, and jostling to be the one she chose. Jesus, dude, you need to lay off the fantasy romance.

I realized at that moment that I wanted it. I wanted Wes. Michael had been my endgame, but I couldn't bring myself to care about that anymore. I wouldn't run through a train station for Michael. But I would do it for Wes. Holy shit.

Basically, you’re saying purchasing one book for you is the gateway into turning you into a book-hoarding dragon?” “Correct.” “Good to know. Do you prefer paper or hardback?

. . . for to mistreat a book is most certainly a punishable crime.

She was cute. Everything she’d done was cute.

I loved those nights. They taught me that heartbreak, like most things, was a solvable puzzle. A checklist could guide a person through mourning. There was an actionable plan for moving on.

You’re mine.” His hand slid up the plane of my torso while he lowered himself over me, his hips nestling against mine. Yes, I thought. I had been his since Colombia, and he had been mine from the start. I gasped a little at the touch, as his body fit across mine. My breathing was ragged and savage as he leaned down to kiss me, waiting for me to respond. “I love you. I’m yours,” I said.

In that instant, I even forgot my own name, until I heard it being whispered from his lips. “Cassie,” he said, pulling away. I wanted this—dreamed of it, but now that it was happen- ing, I didn’t know how I’d ever want anything else. I wanted more. I wanted him. As he held my gaze, I realized that I had never felt more alive. And I knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning of our journey together.

Whether in mysteries or memoirs, travelogues or true-crime tales, romances or rom-coms, horror or history, bookstores can be more than just passive backdrops. Bookstores can be actors. Bookstores, even the little ones, can shape the world around them. They already have.

So what do you do at all the diplomatic functions and balls that you have to go to?" Emilia asked, her voice light. Alexander didn't even hesitate. "Pray for death." Emilia laughed, caught off guard by the sheer dryness of his tone. "Charming." He gave her a sly smile. "It comes with the title.

Sebastian raised his cup in a casual toast. "Text me when you miss me, Harper." "If you're lucky, my next text will be to identify your body," she called back over her shoulder. Sebastian turned to Alexander, grinning. "She's obsessed with me." Alexander didn't even glance up from his phone. "She's literally plotting your murder." Sebastian shrugged, taking another sip of coffee. "Hey—I live rent-free in her mind either way.

Emilia turned to him, narrowing her eyes. "Why do you own a monstrous Cheshire Cat statue?" "Why does anyone own anything?" Sebastian shrugged. "It spoke to me." She scoffed. "What did it say? 'Buy me, I'm hideous'?" He grinned. "I'll have you know, it was an auction find. One-of-a-kind. Just like me." Emilia gave him a long, skeptical look. "You have entirely too much money." Sebastian grinned. "Yes, and somehow I still remain devastatingly charming.

God is the lover of your soul, Evangeline. He woos you every single day of your life, wanting you to fall in love with Him over and over again the way He loves you. He calls you beautiful, beloved, and lavishes you with more tenderness and affection than a groom does a bride on their wedding day. And nothing can change that. Not an autoimmune disorder or physical changes in appearance. Certainly not hair loss. He loved you from the beginning, and He’ll love you for all time.

Everyone expected me to fall apart after our breakup. Instead I just felt empty. I honestly couldn’t stand their pity. So I came here to get away—and heal.” “I bet you’re really angry with him. You guys were together for a long time.” “I was. But the more I think about it and analyze it, it seems like something bigger—like a phantom dark energy was repelling us, like bug spray. I don’t think we were ever meant to be together, and the acceleration of the Big Rip just in- creased over time. I think it was bound to happen eventually, I just wish it didn’t end the way it did.” “That sounds an awful lot like Fate.” “No,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s just science.

The ion and dust tails seemed to be pointing away from the crackling fire of the sun. Looking more closely, one tail was gray mixed with yellow and white and the second was blue fading into teal. The color change was softer than melting wax. A bright green coma glowed around the center. I felt as though I was seeing magic for the first time as the warmth from our great star heated up the comet, causing it to spew dust and gasses into a giant glowing head larger than most planets. The comet’s magnificence and grandeur stirred me, much like a transcendent piece of music that envelops one’s soul. “I’ve never seen a comet before,” I confessed, my voice filled with a mix of wonder and emotion. I could feel a tear form in my eye. I blinked it away. Bello, pulchram, bela, hermoso, yafah, ómorfi, Meilì. I could express the concept of beauty in numerous languages, but none of them truly captured the essence of my feelings as I gazed at the comet. It was a sight of indescribable beauty, as if musical notes had been sketched across the canvas of the night sky. I would never forget the comet—similar to Xuan, exciting, rare, and stunning. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Xuan whispered. I looked at Xuan, but instead of looking at the sky, Xuan was staring at me. He stood, his hands jammed into his pockets, as he quickly turned his gaze to wander over the peaceful metropolis.

I am left with the scars. In time, they will fade and maybe one day they will heal, but for now they remain. -Franny Harris (Life Fail) I bet, Penny is on the sand walking along the shore wearing her old green flips – the ones I call her granny-flops. I wish I was there to make fun of those stupid shoes. -Franny Harris (Life Fail)

To the skeptics, perhaps the events that are to follow were just a coincidence and nothing more than a series of random accidents that led me to where I am today. But to the lovers and poets and dreamers, perhaps you might agree that the story about to unfold is something more. You might even agree that there are times when coincidences are so powerful that they don’t really seem like coincidences anymore. Times when you come across events that seem too strange, or too strong, to be anything other than Fate—a grand design that incorporates everything from the career paths we take, the friends we meet along the way, and the partners we choose to spend our lives with. Times like these make you question that maybe nothing in this world happens by accident. Maybe everything really does happen for a reason, as some prewritten destiny slowly takes shape and shoves you down a path—or in my case, a mountain side.

A few years later, Raylan and I went our separate ways. He joined the military and I started the science program at the university. It was after our breakup that the thread of my life, woven from Fate’s loom, finally started to take shape. And it was because of science that I met him. The one.

After the imposed visions of my parents, I spent my last moments thinking about science—an equation, to be precise: F = mv2/2d. I know it’s not possible to cheat death, but I hoped for a last-minute ingenious MacGyver moment where I could somehow improvise or find my way out of this mess. But it didn’t matter how many scientific equations—or terms like force of impact, kinetic energy, and all three of Newton’s laws of motions—swam through my useless brain at that moment. The chance of me surviving was highly unlikely—less than 5%. And none of the years I spent studying or memorizing scientific facts or mathematical equations would save me now.

Ethanol plus carbon dioxide was like a demon spawn pounding against the frontal lobes of my head from the previous night at the bar. Somewhere in the city there was a church bell ringing, and—oh, not a bell. That was my phone. My head pounded and I felt dizzy, like I was spinning in circles on a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Slowly, I opened an eye to try and find my cell phone. I groaned as I reached for the blue- and-silver-plated device on my nightstand. The spins from alcohol sucked.

Lys, as usual, was perfectly at ease, still confident that this would go off without a hitch. I, on the other hand, was already on my third shirt of the day, having sweat straight through the first two.

I sip my iced chai and turn up my nose. “I d-don’t want them.” Velspar’s elation hardens. “Colette, what did I say about lying to me?” “Why would I care about a-nything you’ve ever said?” His eyes roll toward the ceiling, and he takes a long drag of his coffee before setting the cup down and standing. “I’m going to get you more books. You should sit here and think about how naughty you’re being.

The story skips along… propelled by rom-com momentum and charm.” —The New York Times Book Review on Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating

Sometimes you have to trust the fall to really be secure!

I genuinely felt the same way for a lot of my life, until I realized that I can’t hold on that tight and make it the whole way. I had to learn to loosen my grip. Relax a little, take things in stride. Pivot when my plan didn’t execute as I imagined.

It turns out that even when you think you really know someone, you don’t always know what they’re capable of.

I could easily admit I was obsessed with chocolate, rom-coms (in any form: book, movie, real life), and yoga.

make a gal self-conscious?

Jarko smiled. “C’est une belle nuit pour le chaos.” “I heard a chaos in there,” she said. “What did you say?” “I said it’s a beautiful night for chaos.

How can I help Juliet out when I’m stuck in my own SPAM situation?

She said I have no life” “Nora.” He just barely smiles. “You’re in books. Of course you don’t have a life. None of us do. There’s always something too good to read.

If you are limiting your experiences of intimacy only to containers labeled sex and romance, you are entirely missing out. ⁠ ⁠ Love your friends with wild abandon. Cultivate life partnerships with humans you’ll never know sexually. Dive deep into a love affair that doesn’t have a damn thing to do with being swept off your feet or the myth of happily ever after. ⁠ ⁠ Open your eyes, your mind, and your heart to the possibility that the deep intimacy you crave does not get delivered by a rom-com meet cute. ⁠ ⁠ Challenge the notion that your friendships can—and possibly should—hold the highest position in your personal hierarchy of devotion. ⁠ ⁠ Consider the myriad ways you can be met, held, and known outside of our cultural obsession with romantic fairy tales. ⁠ ⁠ The real hunger of your skin, your heart, and your soul, can be answered in so many different ways. If you only look for this level of connection inside of sexual and romantic love, you are missing so many beautiful possibilities. ⁠ Seek your people with intention. ⁠When you find them, invite them in, hold them close, and offer them your whole heart. ⁠ Rewrite the rule book. Reimagine all the ways you can fill your cup of longing.⁠ Open yourself to platonic intimacy.

an old T-shirt he’d gotten at a book festival that had always been too baggy for him. It fit snugly over her curves, leaving her thick, dimpled thighs on full display as she stood.

My hand’s on the door handle, but his voice stops me. “Hold up.” I glance over, and I swear to all the swoony alpha heroes in the romances I’ve read that his eyes have that certain sparkle. Huh. Thought that was only in books. I raise a brow. I’m immune. I am.

Ask me if at some point I'll get a husband just because I've lost all my best friends to theirs. Ask me if I used to get jealous watching the boys play football so freely on the tarmac. Ask me if I only picked up a book in the first place so I could raise it across my gaze to block out all the ways I wasn't allowed to run. Ask me if there are people I've lost who I'm still holding auditions to replace, whom I would give up a career to help die, if I ever lose hope or if I hang it on a keychain by the door at night so I can get to it in an emergency.

I love to read. Rom-coms, sports romance, traumances. Romance of any kind really. I love forgetting that I’m reading, like I’m in the story, in the book, so intently in the moment that I forget who I really am. No other feeling relates to being completely lost in a book,

Život je ponekad poput klackalice: netko poleti uvis, netko tresne o tlo.

He smells like evergreens and impending rain. Except it does, because men don’t smell like that. They smell like sweat, bar soap, or a little too much cologne. But this man is mythic, the too-shiny lead in a rom-com that has you shouting, NO DAIRY FARMER HAS THOSE ABS.

The conversation from last night replays through my mind like a piece of dialogue highlighted on my Kindle and posted to Goodreads.

Libraries aren’t famous for their penal codes, but some literary offenses deserve due punishments.

A book doesn’t have feelings, but it does have a soul. Life exhaled into every word by the author and then breathed into each person who reads those same words. So, in a sense, books are both alive themselves and give life to others simultaneously.

Alopecia, he read. An autoimmune disorder in which the immune system attacked hair follicles. Some people experienced balding in spots. Others, a total loss of hair on their scalp. And for some, he read on, a complete loss of hair across the entirety of their bodies. Alopecia universalis was a rare condition, and less than ten percent of people who experienced the disorder ever had their hair grow back.

Bravery isn’t the absence of fear.” “No?” Her eyes watered. “What is it then?” He squeezed her fingers. “Bravery is just the voice telling fear he can’t win today.

A book doesn’t have feelings, but it does have a soul. Life exhaled into every word by the author and then breathed into each person who reads those same words.

Because books are more than just paper and ink. They’re a portal leading to anywhere you ever wanted to go—heart, mind, or soul.

And that leaves romance. This genre took me a little longer than the others to realize I also didn’t qualify for a leading role. My ex-fiancé, Brett, was the first to let me in on the secret, although I missed the clues to begin with because, as I’ve established, I’d never make it as a mystery-solving sleuth. But looking back, I can see the hints along the way even before he sat me down for the big reveal. The ebbing interest in his eyes when he looked at me. The loss of touch that coincided with the loss of my hair. The tie of attraction that had at one time bound him to me unraveling, until one day it just wasn’t there anymore. At least for him. At first, I convinced myself Brett’s actions and words had nothing to do with my heroine status and everything to do with demoting him from leading man to villain. I mean, it was classic villainous behavior for him to have such a shallow depth of feeling that he was no longer attracted to me and stopped loving me when I developed alopecia, an autoimmune disease in which my T cells sound the bugle cry to attack my hair follicles like the swarm of bees that kept Winnie the Pooh from the honey in the tree (that’s probably a strange analogy, but I subbed for Martha at story time yesterday and the toddlers and preschoolers made buzzing sounds when we came to that page, so it’s still fresh in my mind).

I concede it’s safe to say most people have a base desire to be liked and accepted, but it’s dangerous if we start living and making decisions that will only please the people around us and not make us happy.

You are loved. You are loved. Tai said the same thing, but this is different. Deeper. Ancient. Not a romantic love, but a never-ending, never fading, eternal, supernatural type of love. “God has never stopped wooing you, Evangeline. He is the lover and romancer of your soul.

I think your grandmother means,” Grampie says, “that we prayed you’d let that brilliant light within you shine again and not let anyone dull it. That you’d stop running away from love long enough to see that love will never stop pursuing you.

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The room is a double, of course,” he offered, as if that piece of information could have possibly changed her mind. “It’s not a good idea.” “Why?” “Because people will think that we . . .” She noticed Adam’s look and immediately hushed. “Okay, fine. They already think that. But.” “But?” “Adam.” She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “There will be only one bed.” He frowned. “No, as I said it’s a double—” “It’s not. It won’t be. There will be only one bed, for sure.” He gave her a puzzled look. “I got the booking confirmation the other day. I can forward it to you if you want; it says that—” “It doesn’t matter what it says. It’s always one bed.” He stared at her, perplexed, and she sighed and leaned helplessly against the back of her chair. He’d clearly never seen a rom-com or read a romance novel in his life. “Nothing. Ignore me.

The feeling of your insides churning, the knot in your throat that words can't ease, your mouth being dry while your cheeks are wet—the emptiness, the hollowness. The nowhere to go. People call it heartbreak, but it hurts everywhere else.

We all fall short of the glory of God. No one is worthy as we are. We are a product of a fallen, lost world. But,” I was now offering words of hope, “We can be born again.” I reached out and held her hand.

I wonder when the universe will allow me a delete key for real life conversations.

As we continue our walk, I steal another glance at Laney, and for a fleeting moment, our eyes meet. There’s a story there in her gaze, and I find myself wanting to read every page.