Shipped Angie Hockman Quotes

People are the problem. But they can also be the solution.

How do you feel about me? Usually? Irritation and an extreme urge to shove a whipped-cream pie in your face. But also, desperation. Desire. And, fuck, I want to kiss you.

But life is what you make it. It’s a balancing act. If all you do is work, you’ll wake up one day—ten, twenty, fifty years from now—utterly exhausted. Then you’ll be dead.

Life doesn’t give you many of these opportunities. My advice? Seize it, mold it, and make it everything you want it to be.

It’s amazin’ how a first impression of someone can completely change once you get to know them.

I want to savor him like a delicacy, like how you'd nibble truffles or caviar, but I can't hold back. I devour him like a 1 a.m. pizza.

You know, I think I could fall in love with you.” Warmth floods my chest. “Ditto.

The most genuine, soul-stirring smile forms and his entire aspect brightens when his eyes meet mine. My steps falter. No one’s ever looked at me like that before—like I’m the sunrise after a long winter’s night. Or the first present on Christmas morning. It’s a look you see in movies, and from Graeme, it’s devastating.

He’s definitely threatened by Henley,” says Tory, her normally cheery voice flattening. Christina nods emphatically. “When it comes to smart, ambitious women, mediocre men usually are,” says Michelle.

You gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, you might feel the same way about me as I feel about you.” “How do you feel about me?” I whisper. “Usually? Irritation and an extreme urge to shove a whipped-cream pie in your face. But also, desperation. Desire. And, fuck, I want to kiss you.

I don’t like splashing details about my life across the Internet. It’s not real, what people post. It’s a carefully cultivated highlight reel. Everyone is marketing their own personal brand whether they know it or not, and I’d rather keep my personal life to myself instead of trying to sell a fake version of it online. And opening up your life to others means people can comment on it,

Every time I collect my mail from the paint-spattered box in the lobby and see my name printed over and over in bold black ink, I’m reminded that I’m named after a rock star. Not an endlessly cool rocker like Stevie Nicks, Joan Jett, or Madonna. No, my name is Henley Rose Evans, and my parents consciously named me after the lead singer and drummer of every boomer’s favorite easy listening band, the Eagles.

And in our weekly video conferences, you wear those dresses—very professional. But pretty too. Colorful.” Heat floods my cheeks. “Oh, um…” He laughs. “I’m saying I like them. Your style is like you—a sucker punch people don’t see coming.

it, mold it, and make it everything you want it to be.

I lock eyes with Graeme. The lounge speakers crackle. With a grin that makes me tingle all the way to my toes, he drops his chin to his chest. The opening refrain to ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” pumps through the speakers. And my heart bursts like a piñata.

Men rarely do, especially the decent ones. But still, too often their actions sting. How many times had I shown up to meetings only to be underestimated? Talked over? Snubbed by my male colleagues while they exclusively talked to one another and ignored the women in the room? Plenty. And I am so over it.

Do you want to know what finally changed things for me?” “What?” My voice is barely above a whisper. Dappled sunlight falls across his face, highlighting his flushed cheeks. “I met someone. She’s about five-six, golden brown hair, devastating smile. The kind that warms you from the inside out. And she made me so mad. Not two weeks after I started the job, she called to grill me about a story I posted on Facebook. She insisted I edit it because I didn’t get the wording right.” He adopts a mock falsetto voice. “ ‘It isn’t the “Panama Canal” cruise. It’s “Panama Canal and the Wonders of Azuero.” Fix it, please.’ ” My muscles go limp and my knees nearly buckle. Because he’s talking about me. “Finally, someone who wasn’t walking on eggshells. She actually snapped at me, and it was like she snapped me out of my fog. I may have been unnecessarily combative after that, just to get a rise out of her, but I started to feel again. Irritation, at first, but then more. After a while, I began getting out of the house. Seeing a therapist. Playing hockey. I adopted Winnie—best decision ever. I actually started looking forward to waking up in the morning.” Graeme steps closer, but I’m glued to the spot. Heat sizzles through my veins when he reaches up to run his knuckles along my cheek. “And staff meeting Thursdays? They became my favorite day of the week. Because I got to see her face.” My heart is hammering and my lungs seize. The sound of guests approaching rumbles closer, but I don’t look away. I swallow past the lump that’s lodged in my throat. “After this cruise, they’re my favorite day of the week too.” Reaching up, I run my fingers lightly along the hand that’s cupping my cheek. Graeme’s eyes widen and his lips part. Gathering every ounce of resolve I can muster, I step away just as Nikolai and Dwight crest a nearby hill. We continue through the highlands, fastening our platonic coworker facades into place. But an unspoken understanding hangs in the space between us, heavy and undeniable… This just went way past any bet.

Something inside me splinters and cracks like an iceberg. I tear my gaze away from the phone to stare at Graeme. At his stubble-roughened jaw, his supple lips, and his eyes. His clear, kind eyes. I see it now, the tenderness, the honest concern for others. He’s nothing like I thought. “She’s perfect,” I murmur. “I think so too,” he says softly. But he’s not looking at the picture of his dog. He’s looking at me. Biting the inside of my cheek, I hand him his phone back and our fingers brush. Every nerve lights up like fireworks. This time, I don’t pull away. Graeme brushes his thumb across my knuckles—accidentally? On purpose? He leans forward, eyes glinting.

I scan my apps to find a new notification—it’s from Instagram. One new follower. I gasp when I open it. Graeme Cracker_Collins has followed me. Graham Cracker. My own private nickname for him. My heart gallops and my chest aches. I click on the tiny photo of Graeme, his face smiling at me from underneath his windswept hair. He’s posted three photos from the Galápagos, and one of them is of me, although you can’t exactly tell. It’s the one he snapped in the highlands. A sunburst obscures most of my face, casting it in shadow, but the outline of my profile cuts a dramatic figure against the trees. I tap on the photo to read the caption. Graeme Cracker_Collins: To the woman who inspired me to rejoin the world, “thank you” will never be enough. Graeme already has more than two hundred followers, many of whom have left messages of love and welcome. Clearly, friends and extended family. Ryan_Collins206 commented on the photo of me: “Who is this woman? I need to give her a kiss.” I swallow past the painful lump in my throat. Graeme has officially returned to the world. Heart cracking, I follow him back.

The vague, persistent headache that is adulting. But mostly my career. It’s hard to take time out of the office when you’re trying to climb the corporate ladder and make director before the age of thirty.

His voice is deep and rich and husky, like a lumberjack dipped in a chocolate fountain.

Once I reach the lounge, it’s empty except for an elderly couple sipping tea and reading matching Kindles

Non mi piace spiattellare i particolari della mia vita su internet. Quello che le persone postano non è reale. Mettono solo i momenti salienti, i fatti positivi, scelti con attenzione, non cose spontanee. Che ne siano consapevoli o meno, nel loro profilo tutti puntano a promuovere l’immagine migliore di sé, e invece io preferisco tenere la mia vita privata per me, anziché cercare di vendere in rete una versione fasulla della mia persona. Aprire la propria vita agli altri significa permetter loro di commentarla

travels down to his black athletic shorts and I snort. “Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” The words are out of my mouth before I can reel them in. Sleep-deprived Henley equals loopy Henley. Graeme’s lips twitch and the dimple in his chin deepens. “You’re lucky I didn’t record that. Human resources wouldn’t approve of such innuendo.” My chest tightens for only a heartbeat before Graeme pulls a perky yellow banana from his pocket with a wink. Unpeeling it, he lifts it to his mouth, but pauses before taking a bite.

I respect you, Henley. You say you don’t want to do this? Okay. I’ll leave you alone. You say you want to give us a shot but keep it on the DL? I’m down. This is your decision, your choice. I would never do anything you don’t want to do, including reveal personal feelings at work if that makes you uncomfortable.

Reaching into his bag, he pulls something out—a postcard. My postcard. The one I wrote to myself on Floreana Island. Graeme must have fished it out of the historic post office barrel when I wasn’t looking. A bark of incredulous laughter escapes me. When I take it, our fingers brush and I can’t stop a shiver of energy from zinging through my veins. “I was intending on delivering it later, but today seemed like the right time.” Lifting the card, I read the three words I penned to myself in an oversized scrawl. Keep chasing sharks. Letting out a breathy laugh, I tap the card against my palm. I’ve been chasing a shark all evening, and with Graeme here… I might chase the biggest shark of all.