Steam Cleaning Quotes

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Love surrounds you like steam in the shower. You can’t see the individual drops, but you get warm. And wet. And clean.
Jo Nesbø (The Son)
ALTERNATE UNIVERSE IN WHICH I AM UNFAZED BY THE MEN WHO DO NOT LOVE ME when the businessman shoulder checks me in the airport, i do not apologize. instead, i write him an elegy on the back of a receipt and tuck it in his hand as i pass through the first class cabin. like a bee, he will die after stinging me. i am twenty-four and have never cried. once, a boy told me he doesn’t “believe in labels” so i embroidered the word chauvinist on the back of his favorite coat. a boy said he liked my hair the other way so i shaved my head instead of my pussy. while the boy isn’t calling back, i learn carpentry, build a desk, write a book at the desk. i taught myself to cum from counting ceiling tiles. the boy says he prefers blondes and i steam clean his clothes with bleach. the boy says i am not marriage material and i put gravel in his pepper grinder. the boy says period sex is disgusting and i slaughter a goat in his living room. the boy does not ask if he can choke me, so i pretend to die while he’s doing it. my mother says this is not the meaning of unfazed. when the boy says i curse too much to be pretty and i tattoo “cunt” on my inner lip, my mother calls this “being very fazed.” but left over from the other universe are hours and hours of waiting for him to kiss me and here, they are just hours. here, they are a bike ride across long island in june. here, they are a novel read in one sitting. here, they are arguments about god or a full night’s sleep. here, i hand an hour to the woman crying outside of the bar. i leave one on my best friend’s front porch, send my mother two in the mail. i do not slice his tires. i do not burn the photos. i do not write the letter. i do not beg. i do not ask for forgiveness. i do not hold my breath while he finishes. the man tells me he does not love me, and he does not love me. the man tells me who he is, and i listen. i have so much beautiful time.
Olivia Gatwood (New American Best Friend)
The face you wear in a battlefield should be a solemn one until the time when things are cleaned up and the real world drips its way in.
Terry Pratchett (Raising Steam (Discworld, #40; Moist von Lipwig, #3))
Day followed day, and night followed night, until Dany knew she could not endure a moment longer. She would kill herself rather than go on, she decided one night... Yet when she slept that night, she dreamt the dragon dream again. Viserys was not in it this time. There was only her and the dragon. Its scales were black as night, wet and slick with blood. Her blood, Dany sensed. Its eyes were pools of molten magma and when it opened its mouth, the flame came roaring out in a hot jet. She could hear it singing to her. She opened her arms to the fire, embraced it, let it swallow her whole, let it cleanse her and temper her and scour her clean. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away, could feel her blood boil and turn to steam, and yet there was no pain. She felt strong and new and fierce. And the next day, strangely, she did not seem to hurt quite as much.
George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1))
Miss Roberts, where should I send the check for the steam cleaning of your furniture and replacement of your ruined panties?
Alexandra Iff (Flash Burn Complete Series (Flash Burn #1-4))
How … how do you know if someone loves you, Pelle?” “You just know. It’s the sum total of all the little things you can never really put your finger on. Love surrounds you like steam in the shower. You can’t see the individual drops, but you get warm. And wet. And clean.” Pelle laughed, embarrassed and almost a little proud at his own words.
Jo Nesbø (The Son)
I locate the ladies' room. Luckily, it's empty, no one to see the vacant-eyed girl, staring in the mirror. Staring at a stranger who doesn't care if she dies. Maybe she wants to die. Who would care if I died? My face is hollow-cheeked, spiced with sores--the places where I stab at bugs. Tiny bugs, almost invisible, but irritating. Usually they come out at night, when I'm lying there, begging for sleep. I've been meaning to tell the manager that the apartment needs to be sprayed. Sprayed. Steam cleaned. Deodorized. My hair looks odd too. It used to be darker. Shinier. Prettier. Can hair lose color when you're only eighteen? What if I go all the way gray? Will Trey still love me? Will anyone? That is, if I fool them all and don't die.
Ellen Hopkins
The hermit escapes the human world and likes to sleep on mountains among green widely-spaced vines where clear torrents sing harmonies. He steams with joy, swinging at ease through freedom, not stained with worldly affairs, heart clean as a white lotus.
Hanshan
Ethanol is a volatile, flammable, colourless liquid with a slight chemical odour. It is used as an antiseptic, a solvent, in medical wipes and antibacterial formulas because it kills organisms by denaturing their proteins. Ethanol is an important industrial ingredient. Ethanol is a good general purpose solvent and is found in paints, tinctures, markers and personal care products such as perfumes and deodorants. The largest single use of ethanol is as an engine fuel and fuel additive. In other words, we drink, for fun, the same thing we use to make rocket fuel, house paint, anti-septics, solvents, perfumes, and deodorants and to denature, i.e. to take away the natural properties of, or kill, living organisms. Which might make sense on some level if we weren’t a generation of green minded, organic, health-conscious, truth seeking individuals. But we are. We read labels, we shun gluten, dairy, processed foods, and refined sugars. We buy organic, we use natural sunscreen and beauty products. We worry about fluoride in our water, smog in our air, hydrogenated oils in our food, and we debate whether plastic bottles are safe to drink from. We replace toxic cleaning products with Mrs. Myers and homemade vinegar concoctions. We do yoga, we run, we SoulCycle and Fitbit, we go paleo and keto, we juice, we cleanse. We do coffee enemas and steam our yonis, and drink clay and charcoal, and shoot up vitamins, and sit in infrared foil boxes, and hire naturopaths, and shamans, and functional doctors, and we take nootropics and we stress about our telomeres. These are all real words. We are hyper-vigilant about everything we put into our body, everything we do to our body, and we are proud of this. We Instagram how proud we are of this, and we follow Goop and Well+Good, and we drop 40 bucks on an exercise class because there are healing crystals in the floor. The global wellness economy is estimated to be worth $4 trillion. $4 TRILLION DOLLARS. We are on an endless and expensive quest for wellness and vitality and youth. And we drink fucking rocket fuel.
Holly Whitaker (Quit Like a Woman: The Radical Choice to Not Drink in a Culture Obsessed with Alcohol)
Ohhhhh." A lush-bodied girl in the prime of her physical beauty. In an ivory georgette-crepe sundress with a halter top that gathers her breasts up in soft undulating folds of the fabric. She's standing with bare legs apart on a New York subway grating. Her blond head is thrown rapturously back as an updraft lifts her full, flaring skirt, exposing white cotton panties. White cotton! The ivory-crepe sundress is floating and filmy as magic. The dress is magic. Without the dress the girl would be female meat, raw and exposed. She's not thinking such a thought! Not her. She's an American girl healthy and clean as a Band-Aid. She's never had a soiled or a sulky thought. She's never had a melancholy thought. She's never had a savage thought. She's never had a desperate thought. She's never had an un-American thought. In the papery-thin sundress she's a nurse with tender hands. A nurse with luscious mouth. Sturdy thighs, bountiful breasts, tiny folds of baby fat at her armpits. She's laughing and squealing like a four year-old as another updraft lifts her skirt. Dimpled knees, a dancer's strong legs. This husky healthy girl. The shoulders, arms, breasts belong to a fully mature woman but the face is a girl's face. Shivering in New York City mid-summer as subway steam lifts her skirt like a lover's quickened breath. "Oh! Ohhhhh." It's nighttime in Manhattan, Lexington Avenue at 51st Street. Yet the white-white lights exude the heat of midday. The goddess of love has been standing like this, legs apart, in spike-heeled white sandals so steep and so tight they've permanently disfigured her smallest toes, for hours. She's been squealing and laughing, her mouth aches. There's a gathering pool of darkness at the back of her head like tarry water. Her scalp and her pubis burn from the morning's peroxide applications. The Girl with No Name. The glaring-white lights focus upon her, upon her alone, blond squealing, blond laughter, blond Venus, blond insomnia, blond smooth-shaven legs apart and blond hands fluttering in a futile effort to keep her skirt from lifting to reveal white cotton American-girl panties and the shadow, just the shadow, of the bleached crotch. "Ohhhhhh." Now she's hugging herself beneath her big bountiful breasts. Her eyelids fluttering. Between the legs, you can trust she's clean. She's not a dirty girl, nothing foreign or exotic. She's an American slash in the flesh. That emptiness. Guaranteed. She's been scooped out, drained clean, no scar tissue to interfere with your pleasure, and no odor. Especially no odor. The Girl with No Name, the girl with no memory. She has not lived long and she will not live long.
Joyce Carol Oates (Blonde)
When we came out of the sunnily lit interior of the Ladies' Day offices, the streets were gray and fuming with rain. It wasn’t the nice kind of rain that rinses. you clean, but the sort of rain I imagine they must have in Brazil. It flew straight down from the sky in drops the size of coffee saucers and hit the hot sidewalks with a hiss that sent clouds of steam writhing up from the gleaming, dark concrete.
Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar)
the boy says he prefers blondes and i steam clean his clothes with bleach. the boy says i am not marriage material and i put gravel in his pepper grinder. the boy says period sex is disgusting and i slaughter a goat in his living room. the boy does not ask if he can choke me, so i pretend to die while he’s doing it.
Olivia Gatwood (New American Best Friend)
I have clean clothes and the salve you requested in the workshop, sir,” the butler intoned. “Miss Greyson insisted I tend to your back. Threatened to do the task herself if I refused.” “Did she?” Darius grinned as he toweled his hair dry. The thought of Nicole’s fingers delicately applying salve to his scalded skin was a rather tantalizing prospect. Too bad it was also highly improper.
Karen Witemeyer (Full Steam Ahead)
Whether it’s the waitress who brings steaming hot food to a table of hungry people or the janitor who keeps an office clean and free of germs, each of us have the power to deliver joy and happiness to the people around us through the work we do.
Alex Kakuyo (Perfectly Ordinary: Buddhist Teachings for Everyday Life)
What did he fear? It was not fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine. “What’s yours?” asked the barman. “Nada.” “Otro loco m ás,” said the barman and turned away.
Ernest Hemingway (The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway)
Vacuum pumps driven by electric motors are forced into American households for the purpose of cleaning an obsolete form of floor covering, the carpet or the rug, whose appropriateness for use in interiors, if it did not disappear with the caravans where it originated, certainly passed out of existence with rubber heels and steam-heated houses. To count such pathetic examples of waste to the credit of the machine is like counting the rise in the number of constipation remedies a proof of the benefits of leisure.
Lewis Mumford (Technics and Civilization)
In addition, I recommend the following steps to treat colds/flu: Take plenty of rest, drink plenty of liquids, eat fresh fruits, take Zinc and vitamin C throat lozenges, clean your nasal passages and throat frequently with warm water and inhale steam at least three times a day.
Sarfraz Zaidi (Power of Vitamin D: A Vitamin D Book That Contains The Most Scientific, Useful And Practical Information About Vitamin D - Hormone D)
The six elephants stood, roped each by the foreleg side by side in the vast thirty-foot tent put up several days since for their comfort; their trunks peacefully swaying as the cowardie scuttled back and forth with limp forkloads of hay. Small puffs of steam came from their mouths. Their breath was sweet, filling the sun-warmed, crisp air; and their hides, soothed, clean and lustrous from the water, lay calm on their great hips like the skin of the moon. Only at the end of the line the great bull stirred a little, the towering back swathed and padded and the knowing eye blurred.
Dorothy Dunnett (Queens' Play (The Lymond Chronicles, #2))
With all the arrangements made, Marcus carried Lillian to the largest guest room in the building, where a bath and food were sent up as quickly as possible. It was sparely furnished but very clean, with an ample bed covered in pressed linen and soft, faded quilts. An old copperplate slipper tub was set before the hearth and filled by two chambermaids carrying steaming kettles. As Lillian waited for the bathwater to cool sufficiently, Marcus bullied her into eating a bowl of soup, which was quite tolerable, though its ingredients were impossible to identify. “What are those little brown chunks?” Lillian asked suspiciously, opening her mouth reluctantly as he spooned more in. “It doesn’t matter. Swallow.” “Is it mutton? Beef? Did it originally have horns? Hooves? Feathers? Scales? I don’t like to eat something when I don’t know what—” “More,” he said inexorably, pushing the spoon into her mouth again. “You’re a tyrant.” “I know. Drink some water.
Lisa Kleypas (It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers, #2))
Her mother had smelled of cold and scales, her father of stone dust and dog. She imagined her husband's mother, whom she had never met, had a whiff of rotting apples, though her stationary had stunk of baby powder and rose perfume. Sally was starch, cedar, her dead grandmother sandalwood, her uncle, swiss cheese. People told her she smelled like garlic, like chalk, like nothing at all. Lotto, clean as camphor at his neck and belly, like electrified pennies at the armpit, like chlorine at the groin. She swallowed. Such things, details noticed only on the edges of thought would not return. 'Land,' Mathilde said, 'odd name for a guy like you.' 'Short for Roland,' the boy said. Where the August sun had been steaming over the river, a green cloud was forming. It was still terrifically hot, but the birds had stopped singing. A feral cat scooted up the road on swift paws. It would rain soon. 'Alright Roland,' Mathilde said, suppressing as sigh, 'sing your song.
Lauren Groff (Fates and Furies)
Ildiko shuddered.  Her hope to never again see or eat the Kai’s most beloved and revolting delicacy had been in vain.  When Brishen informed her that the dish was one of Serovek’s favorites, she resigned herself to another culinary battle with her food and put the scarpatine on the menu.  She ordered roasted potatoes as well, much to the head cook’s disgust. When servants brought out the food and set it on the table, Brishen leaned close and whispered in her ear.  “Revenge, wife?” “Hardly,” she replied, keeping a wary eye on the pie closest to her.  The golden top crust, with its sprinkle of sparkling salt, pitched in a lazy undulation.  “But I’m starving, and I have no intention of filling up on that abomination.” Their guest of honor didn’t share their dislike of either food.  As deft as any Kai, Serovek made short work of the scarpatine and its whipping tail, cleaved open the shell with his knife and took a generous bite of the steaming gray meat. Ildiko’s stomach heaved.  She forgot her nausea when Serovek complimented her.  “An excellent choice to pair the scarpatine with the potato, Your Highness.  They are better together than apart.” Beside her, Brishen choked into his goblet.  He wiped his mouth with his sanap.  “What a waste of good scarpatine,” he muttered under his breath. What a waste of a nice potato, she thought.  However, the more she thought on Serovek’s remark, the more her amusement grew. “And what has you smiling so brightly?”  Brishen stared at her, his lambent eyes glowing nearly white in the hall’s torchlight. She glanced at Serovek, happily cleaning his plate and shooting the occasional glance at Anhuset nearby.  Brishen’s cousin refused to meet his gaze, but Ildiko had caught the woman watching the Beladine lord more than a few times during dinner. “That’s us, you know,” she said. “What is us?” “The scarpatine and the potato.  Better together than alone.  At least I think so.” One of Brishen’s eyebrows slid upward.  “I thought we were hag and dead eel.  I think I like those comparisons more.”  He shoved his barely-touched potato to the edge of his plate with his knife tip, upper lip curled in revulsion to reveal a gleaming white fang. Ildiko laughed and stabbed a piece of the potato off his plate.  She popped it into her mouth and chewed with gusto, eager to blunt the taste of scarpatine still lingering on her tongue.
Grace Draven (Radiance (Wraith Kings, #1))
Margherita was not allowed to play in the 'portego,' for one never knew when a customer would come, and the room must always be clean and tidy and respectable. It was only ever used by the family on special occasions, and so Margherita's eyes widened when she saw that her mother had spread the table with a spotless white cloth and the best pewter bowls and mugs. A small bunch of 'margherita' daisies was in a fat blue jug, and three sweet oranges sat in an earthenware bowl. Coarse brown bread stood ready on a wooden board, next to a bowl of soft white cheese floating in golden oil and thyme sprigs. Soup made with fish and clams and fennel and scattered with sprigs of fresh parsley steamed in a big clay pot.
Kate Forsyth (Bitter Greens)
Hey, hey,” I whispered into her face. The heat from her crying thick like steam. “I know you don’t know my voice or the feel of my arms, but I’m going to tell you something.” I pressed my lips against her forehead, breathing her in, her scent so clean and powdery. “I’m never going to let anything happen to you.” I held my lips there, my eyes closing, my heart pounding away. “I promise.
Marni Mann (The Single Dad (The Dalton Family, #3))
I was surprised to learn from my research, however, that the well-known notion of anger catharsis is poppycock. There’s no evidence for the belief that “letting off steam” is healthy or constructive. In fact, studies show that aggressively expressing anger doesn’t relieve anger but amplifies it. On the other hand, not expressing anger often allows it to disappear without leaving ugly traces.
Gretchen Rubin (The Happiness Project (Revised Edition): Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun)
He’s almost finished when Bertha walks back in. “Look at you!” she crows. “Somebody looks happier.” Do I? I guess so. It’s good to be clean. She doesn’t say a word about the steam in the air or our damp hair and bare feet. Instead, she gathers the sheets up off the bed and disappears, returning a minute later with a clean set. She puts them on while Wes finishes smoothing the last bits of shaving cream off my face.
Sarina Bowen (Us (Him, #2))
Quite a few inventions do conform to this commonsense view of necessity as invention’s mother. In 1942, in the middle of World War II, the U.S. government set up the Manhattan Project with the explicit goal of inventing the technology required to build an atomic bomb before Nazi Germany could do so. That project succeeded in three years, at a cost of $2 billion (equivalent to over $20 billion today). Other instances are Eli Whitney’s 1794 invention of his cotton gin to replace laborious hand cleaning of cotton grown in the U.S. South, and James Watt’s 1769 invention of his steam engine to solve the problem of pumping water out of British coal mines. These familiar examples deceive us into assuming that other major inventions were also responses to perceived needs. In fact, many or most inventions were developed by people driven by curiosity or by a love of tinkering, in the absence of any initial demand for the product they had in mind.
Jared Diamond (Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (20th Anniversary Edition))
Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with himself. It is the light of course but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.
Ernest Hemingway (The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway)
But are we strong enough?” wondered Blackwood. “How strong is strong? They won’t be prepared for us, at least. They haven’t the imagination. Those clean young rocket men with their antiseptic bloomers and fish-bowl helmets, with their new religion. About their necks, on gold chains, scalpels. Upon their heads, a diadem of microscopes. In their holy fingers, steaming incense urns which in reality are only germicidal ovens for steaming out superstition. The names of Poe, Bierce, Hawthorne, Blackwood—blasphemy to their clean lips.
Ray Bradbury (The Illustrated Man)
In real life I am a large, big-boned woman with rough, man-working hands. In the winter I wear flannel nightgowns to bed and overalls during the day. I can kill and clean a hog as mercilessly as a man. My fat keeps me hot in zero weather. I can work outside all day, breaking ice to get water for washing; I can eat pork liver cooked over the open fire minutes after it comes steaming from the hog. One winter I knocked a bull calf straight in the brain between the eyes with a sledge hammer and had the meat hung up to chill before nightfall.
Alice Walker (Everyday Use)
A few scrapes, my ass,” she muttered, wringing her shaking hands. Constance shoved a bulb of garlic at her. “They’re Highlanders, dear. They’ll get themselves stabbed, dragged through a briar patch, thrown over a cliff, and punched in the face all before breakfast and call it ‘a fair interesting morn’.’ Now, peel those and put the cloves in the hot water.” The older woman nodded toward the steaming kettle a maid had deposited on the hearth. “Garlic water cleans wounds better than plain water and keeps infection away.” She latched onto the competence Constance radiated. While calming her with brisk assurances that all would be well, the older woman deftly deployed a small army of castle servants on various missions relating to “doctoring a bone-headed Highland husband.
Jessi Gage (Wishing for a Highlander (Highland Wishes Book 1))
NAMING THE EARTH (a poem of light for national poetry day) And the world will be born again in circles of steaming breath and beams of light as each one of us directs our inner eye upon its name. Hear the cry of wings, the sigh of leaves and grass, smell the new sweet mist rising as the pathway is cleared at last. Stones stand ready - they have known since ages and ages ago that they were not alone. Water carries the planet's energy into skies and down to earth and bones. The cold parts steadily as we come together, bodies and hearts warm, hands tingling. We are silent but our eyes are singing. We look, we feel, we know, we trust each other's souls, we have no need to speak. Not now, but later, when the time is right, the name will ring within the iron core of each other's listening - and the very earth's being. Every creature, every plant, will hear it calling, tolling like a bell - a sound we've always felt but never dared to hope to hear reverberating - true at last, at every level of existence. The poets come together to open the intimate centre. Believe in life and air - breathe the light itself, for these are the energies and rhythms that we need to see, to touch, to reach, to identify, to say, the NAME. Colours on your skin fuse and dissolve - leave the river clean for pure space and time to enter and flow in. We all become one fluid stream of stillness and motion, of flaring thought pulses discovering weird pools and twists within where darkness hides from the flames in our eyes but will not snare us. We probe deeper still, journeying towards a unity which will be more raw and yet also more formed than anything written or spoken before. Our fragile bodies fall away - and the trees, and the roots of trees, guide us - lead us away from the faces we remember seeing each day in the mirror - into an ocean of dreams seething with warmth, love, where the beginning is real, ripe, evolving. And the world is born again in circles of steaming breath and beams of light. An ache - a signal - a trembling moment - and the time is right to say the name. We sing as one whole voice of the universal - all the words, the names of every tiny thirsting thing, and they ring out together as one sound, one energy, one sense, one vibration, one breath. And the world listens, beats, shines, glows - IS - Exists!
Jay Woodman
There’s one major shortcoming inherent to using this method of cooling. Unlike in a typical PWR, the water entering the reactor is the same water that passes through the cooling pumps and then as steam through the turbines, meaning highly irradiated water is present in all areas of the system. A PWR uses a heat exchanger to pass heat from the reactor water to clean, lower pressure water, allowing the turbines to remain free of contamination. This is better for safety, maintenance and disposal. A second problem is that steam is allowed to form in the core, making dangerous steam voids more likely, and further increasing the chances of a positive void coefficient. In ordinary boiling water reactors, which use water as both a coolant and moderator like in a PWR, this would not be such a problem, but it is in a graphite-moderated BWR.
Andrew Leatherbarrow (Chernobyl 01:23:40: The Incredible True Story of the World's Worst Nuclear Disaster)
The rock came loose, but Jake’s satisfied grunt turned into a howl of outraged pain as a set of huge teeth in the next stall clamped into Jake’s ample rear end. “You vicious bag of bones,” he shouted, jumping to his feet and throwing himself half over the rail in an attempt to land a punch on Attila’s body. As if the horse anticipated retribution, he sidled to the edge of his stall and regarded Jake from the corner of his eye with an expression that looked to Jake like complacent satisfaction. “I’ll get you for that,” Jake promised, and he started to shake his fist when he realized how absurd it was to threaten a dumb beast. Rubbing his offended backside, he turned to Mayhem and carefully put his own rump against the outside wall of the barn. He checked the hoof to make certain it was clean, but the moment his fingers touched the place where the rock had been lodged the chestnut jerked in pain. “Bruised you, did it?” Jake said sympathetically. “It’s not surprisin’, considering the size and shape of the rock. But you never gave a sign yesterday that you were hurtin’,” he continued. Raising his voice and infusing it with a wealth of exaggerated admiration, the patted the chestnut’s flank and glanced disdainfully at Attila while he spoke to Mayhem. “That’s because you’re a true aristocrat and a fine, brave animal-not a miserable, sneaky mule who’s not fit to be your stallmate!” If Attila cared one way or another for Jake’s opinion, he was disappointingly careful not to show it, which only made Jake’s mood more stormy when he stomped into the cottage. Ian was sitting at the table, a cup of steaming coffee cradled between his palms. “Good morning,” he said to Jake, studying the older man’s thunderous frown. “Mebbe you think so, but I can’t see it. Course, I’ve spent the night freezin’ out there, bedded down next to a horse that wants to make a meal of me, and who broke his fast with a bit of my arse already this mornin’. And,” he finished irately as he poured coffee from the tin pot into an earthenware mug and cast a quelling look at his amused friend, “your horse is lame!” Flinging himself into the chair beside Ian, he gulped down the scalding coffee without thinking what he was doing; his eyes bulged, and sweat popped out on his forehead. Ian’s grin faded. “He’s what?” “Picked up a rock, and he’s favoring his left foreleg.” Ian’s chair legs scraped against the wooden floor as he shoved his chair back and started to go to the barn. “There’s no need. It’s just a bruise.
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
Tips for Attending a Dinner Party When Your World Has Ended and Another World Is Just Beginning Savor every little spoonful. Put your fork down between bites and actually listen to the conversation bubbling around you. Remember, you’re here for the experience. At the end of your long, languorous evening, should your host refuse you once, even twice, persevere—wash as many dishes as you can! Relish the feeling of the warm water, the steam on your face, the easy certainty of a dirty bowl made clean again. There is always work to be done, so why not do it? Everything can suddenly be taken away, like we’re just birds flying blissfully into a pane of glass. Enjoy the flavor of these intimate kitchen conversations. Ask more questions than you provide answers. When you do speak about yourself, don’t rehash old party material. Be vulnerable! And remember, before you ask your host where to put things, make sure to look in the cabinets and drawers. She won’t mind if her sugar bowl is put away in the wrong place when she wakes up to a kitchen she didn’t have to clean. As for you, you will probably wake up tomorrow, too. The sun will probably rise. Breath will probably move in and out of your lungs, blood will probably pump despite your amazing broken heart. Right now, you have a body, a mind, and a memory that extends backward through time’s infinite doorways. You are an everyday miracle. Enjoy life. Because even with the promise of forever, nothing lasts.
Chana Porter (The Seep)
Lillian’s lashes lowered as she let him ease her closer, his hand sliding over the length of her spine. Her breasts and waist felt swollen within the insulating grip of her corset, and she suddenly longed to be rid of it. Taking as deep a breath as the stays would allow, she became aware of a sweetly spicy scent in the air. “What is that?” she murmured, drawing in the fragrance. “Cinnamon and wine…” Turning in the circle of his arms, she looked around the spacious bedroom, past the poster bed to the small table that had been set near the window. There was a covered silver dish on the table, from which a few traces of sweet-scented steam were still visible. Perplexed, she twisted back to look at Marcus. “Go and find out,” he said. Curiously Lillian went to investigate. Taking hold of the cover’s handle, which had been wrapped with a linen napkin, she lifted the lid, letting a soft burst of intoxicating fragrance into the air. Momentarily puzzled, Lillian stared at the dish, and then burst out laughing. The white porcelain dish was filled with five perfect pears, all standing on end, their skin gleaming and ruby-red from having been poached in wine. They sat in a pool of clear amber sauce that was redolent of cinnamon and honey. “Since I couldn’t obtain a pear from a bottle for you,” came Marcus’s voice from behind her, “this was the next best alternative.” Lillian picked up a spoon and dug into one of the melting-soft pears, lifting it to her lips with relish. The bite of warm, wine-soaked fruit seemed to dissolve in her mouth, the spiced honey sauce causing a tingle in the back of her throat. “Mmmm…” She closed her eyes in ecstasy. Looking amused, Marcus turned her to face him. His gaze fell to the corner of her lips, where a stray drop of honey sauce glittered. Ducking his head, he kissed and licked away the sticky drop, the caress of his mouth causing a new pleasurable ache deep inside her. “Delicious,” he whispered, his lips settling more firmly, until she felt as if her blood were flowing in streams of white-hot sparks. She dared to share the taste of wine and cinnamon with him, tentatively exploring his mouth with her tongue, and his response was so encouraging that she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself closer. He was delicious, the taste of his mouth clean and sweet, the feel of his lean, solid body immeasurably exciting. Her lungs expanded with shaky-hot breaths, restrained by the clench of her corset stays, and she broke the kiss with a gasp. “I can’t breathe.” Wordlessly Marcus turned her around and unfastened the gown. Reaching her corset, he untied the laces and loosened them with a series of expert tugs, until the stays expanded and Lillian gulped in relief. “Why did you lace so tightly?” she heard him ask. “Because the dress wouldn’t fasten otherwise. And because, according to my mother, Englishmen prefer their women to be narrow-waisted.” Marcus snorted as he eased her back to face him. “Englishmen prefer women to have larger waists in lieu of fainting from lack of oxygen. We’re rather practical that way.” Noticing that the sleeve of her unfastened gown had slipped over her white shoulder, he lowered his mouth to the smooth curve.
Lisa Kleypas (It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers, #2))
Each purpose, each mission, is meant to be fully lived to the point where it becomes empty, boring, and useless. Then it should be discarded. This is a sign of growth, but you may mistake it for a sign of failure. For instance, you may take on a business project, work at it for several years, and then suddenly find yourself totally disinterested. You know that if you stayed with it for another few years you would reap much greater financial reward than if you left the project now. But the project no longer calls you. You no longer feel interested in the project. You have developed skills over the last few years working on the project, but it hasn’t yet come to fruition. You may wonder, now that you have the skills, should you stick with it and bring the project to fruition, even though the work feels empty to you? Well, maybe you should stick with it. Maybe you are bailing out too soon, afraid of success or failure, or just too lazy to persevere. This is one possibility. Ask your close men friends if they feel you are simply losing steam, wimping out, or afraid to bring your project to completion. If they feel you are bailing out too soon, stick with it. However, there is also the possibility that you have completed your karma in this area. It is possible that this was one layer of purpose, which you have now fulfilled, on the way to another layer of purpose, closer to your deepest purpose. Among the signs of fulfilling or completing a layer of purpose are these: 1. You suddenly have no interest whatsoever in a project or mission that, just previously, motivated you highly. 2. You feel surprisingly free of any regrets whatsoever, for starting the project or for ending it. 3. Even though you may not have the slightest idea of what you are going to do next, you feel clear, unconfused, and, especially, unburdened. 4. You feel an increase in energy at the prospect of ceasing your involvement with the project. 5. The project seems almost silly, like collecting shoelaces or wallpapering your house with gas station receipts. Sure, you could do it, but why would you want to? If you experience these signs, it is probably time to stop working on this project. You must end your involvement impeccably, however, making sure there are no loose ends and that you do not burden anybody’s life by stopping your involvement. This might take some time, but it is important that this layer of your purpose ends cleanly and does not create any new karma, or obligation, that will burden you or others in the future. The next layer of your unfolding purpose may make itself clear immediately. More often, however, it does not. After completing one layer of purpose, you might not know what to do with your life. You know that the old project is over for you, but you are not sure of what is next. At this point, you must wait for a vision. There is no way to rush this process. You may need to get an intermediary job to hold you over until the next layer of purpose makes itself clear. Or, perhaps you have enough money to simply wait. But in any case, it is important to open yourself to a vision of what is next. You stay open to a vision of your deeper purpose by not filling your time with distractions. Don’t watch TV or play computer games. Don’t go out drinking beer with your friends every night or start dating a bunch of women. Simply wait. You may wish to go on a retreat in a remote area and be by yourself. Whatever it is you decide to do, consciously keep yourself open and available to receiving a vision of what is next. It will come.
David Deida (The Way of the Superior Man: A Spiritual Guide to Mastering the Challenges of Women, Work, and Sexual Desire)
Iofur had noticed. He began to taunt Iorek, calling him broken-hand, whimpering cub, rust-eaten, soon-to-die, and other names, all the while swinging blows at him from right and left which Iorek could no longer parry. Iorek had to move backward, a step at a time, and to crouch low under the rain of blows from the jeering bear-king. Lyra was in tears. Her dear, her brave one, her fearless defender, was going to die, and she would not do him the treachery of looking away, for if he looked at her he must see her shining eyes and their love and belief, not a face hidden in cowardice or a shoulder fearfully turned away. So she looked, but her tears kept her from seeing what was really happening, and perhaps it would not have been visible to her anyway. It certainly was not seen by Iofur. Because Iorek was moving backward only to find clean dry footing and a firm rock to leap up from, and the useless left arm was really fresh and strong. You could not trick a bear, but, as Lyra had shown him, Iofur did not want to be a bear, he wanted to be a man; and Iorek was tricking him. At last he found what he wanted: a firm rock deep-anchored in the permafrost. He backed against it, tensing his legs and choosing his moment. It came when Iofur reared high above, bellowing his triumph, and turning his head tauntingly toward Iorek’s apparently weak left side. That was when Iorek moved. Like a wave that has been building its strength over a thousand miles of ocean, and which makes little stir in the deep water, but which when it reaches the shallows rears itself up high into the sky, terrifying the shore dwellers, before crashing down on the land with irresistible power—so Iorek Byrnison rose up against Iofur, exploding upward from his firm footing on the dry rock and slashing with a ferocious left hand at the exposed jaw of Iofur Raknison. It was a horrifying blow. It tore the lower part of his jaw clean off, so that it flew through the air scattering blood drops in the snow many yards away. Iofur’s red tongue lolled down, dripping over his open throat. The bear-king was suddenly voiceless, biteless, helpless. Iorek needed nothing more. He lunged, and then his teeth were in Iofur’s throat, and he shook and shook this way, that way, lifting the huge body off the ground and battering it down as if Iofur were no more than a seal at the water’s edge. Then he ripped upward, and Iofur Raknison’s life came away in his teeth. There was one ritual yet to perform. Iorek sliced open the dead king’s unprotected chest, peeling the fur back to expose the narrow white and red ribs like the timbers of an upturned boat. Into the rib cage Iorek reached, and he plucked out Iofur’s heart, red and steaming, and ate it there in front of Iofur’s subjects.
Philip Pullman (The Golden Compass (His Dark Materials, #1))
In Hiding - coming summer of 2020 WAYNE ANTHONY SEEKS REDEMPTION FROM A BAD DAY - Although warned about getting the stitches wet, he believed a hot shower was the only road to his redemption. Experienced taught him the best way to relieve the tightness in his lower back was by standing beneath the near-scalding water. Dropping the rest of his clothing, he turned the shower on full blast. The hot water rushed from the showerhead filling the tiny room with steam, instantly the small mirror on the medicine cabinet fogged up. The man quietly pulled the shower curtain back and entered the shower stall without a sound. Years of acting as another’s shadow had trained him to live soundlessly. The hot water cascaded over his body as the echo from the pounding water deadened slightly. Grabbing the sample sized soap, he pulled the paper off and tossed the wrapper over the curtain rail. Wayne rubbed the clean smelling block until his large hands disappeared beneath the lather. He ignored the folded washcloth, opting to use his hands across his body. Gently he cleaned the injury allowing the slime of bacterial soap to remove the residual of the rust-colored betadine. All that remained when he finished was the pale orange smear from the antiseptic. This scar was not the only mar to his body. The water cascaded down hard muscles making rivulets throughout the thatches of dark hair. He raised his arms gingerly as he washed beneath them; the tight muscles of his abdomen glistened beneath the torrent of water. Opening a bottle of shampoo-slash-conditioner, he applied a dab then ran his hands across his scalp. Finally, the tension in his square jaw had eased, making his handsome face more inviting. The cords of his neck stood out as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. It coursed down his chest leading down to his groin where the scented wash caught in his pelvic hair. Wayne's body was one of perfection for any woman; if that was, she could ignore the mutilations. Knife injuries left their mark with jagged white lines. Most of these, he had doctored himself; his lack of skill resulted in crude scars. The deepest one, undulated along the left side of his abdomen, that one had required the art of a surgeon. Dropping his arms, he surrenders himself to the pelting deluge from the shower. The steamy water cascaded down his body, pulling the soap toward the drain. Across his back, it slid down several small indiscernible pockmarks left by gunshot wounds, the true extent of their damage far beneath his skin. Slowly the suds left his body, snaking down his muscular legs. It slithered down the scars on his left knee, the result of replacement surgery after a thug took a bat to it. Wayne stood until the hot water cooled, and ran translucent over his body. Finally, he washes the impact of the long day from his mind and spirit.
Caroline Walken
China during the Mao era was a poor country, but it had a strong public health network that provided free immunizations to its citizens. That was where I came in. In those days there were no disposable needles and syringes; we had to reuse ours again and again. Sterilization too was primitive: The needles and syringes would be washed, wrapped separately in gauze, and placed in aluminum lunch boxes laid in a huge wok on top of a briquette stove. Water was added to the wok, and the needles and syringes were then steamed for two hours, as you would steam buns. On my first day of giving injections I went to a factory. The workers rolled up their sleeves and waited in line, baring their arms to me one after another – and offering up a tiny piece of red flesh, too. Because the needles had been used multiple times, almost every one of them had a barbed tip. You could stick a needle into someone’s arm easily enough, but when you extracted it, you would pull out a tiny piece of flesh along with it. For the workers the pain was bearable, although they would grit their teeth or perhaps let out a groan or two. I paid them no mind, for the workers had had to put up with barbed needles year after year and should be used to it by now, I thought. But the next day, when I went to a kindergarten to give shot to children from the ages of three through six, it was a difference story. Every last one of them burst out weeping and wailing. Because their skin was so tender, the needles would snag bigger shreds of flesh than they had from the workers, and the children’s wounds bled more profusely. I still remember how the children were all sobbing uncontrollably; the ones who had yet to be inoculated were crying even louder than those who had already had their shots. The pain the children saw others suffering, it seemed to me, affected them even more intensely than the pain they themselves experienced, because it made their fear all the more acute. That scene left me shocked and shaken. When I got back to the hospital, I did not clean the instruments right away. Instead, I got hold of a grindstone and ground all the needles until they were completely straight and the points were sharp. But these old needles were so prone to metal fatigue that after two or three more uses they would acquire barbs again, so grinding the needles became a regular part of my routine, and the more I sharpened, the shorter they got. That summer it was always dark by the time I left the hospital, with fingers blistered by my labors at the grindstone. Later, whenever I recalled this episode, I was guilt-stricken that I’d had to see the children’s reaction to realize how much the factory workers must have suffered. If, before I had given shots to others, I had pricked my own arm with a barbed needle and pulled out a blood-stained shred of my own flesh, then I would have known how painful it was long before I heard the children’s wails. This remorse left a profound mark, and it has stayed with me through all my years as an author. It is when the suffering of others becomes part of my own experience that I truly know what it is to live and what it is to write. Nothing in the world, perhaps, is so likely to forge a connection between people as pain, because the connection that comes from that source comes from deep in the heart. So when in this book I write of China’s pain, I am registering my pain too, because China’s pain is mine.
Yu Hua (十個詞彙裡的中國)
Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon’s daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.
Bob Thurber (Nothing But Trouble)
The Quiche Lorraine Pie Shell: You can mix up your favorite piecrust recipe and line a 10-inch pie plate. Or…you can buy frozen shells at the grocery store. (If you decide to go the grocery store frozen pie shell route, buy 9-inch deep-dish pie shells.)   Hannah’s 1stNote: There’s no need to feel guilty if you choose to use the frozen pie shells. They’re good and it’s a real time saver. I happen to know that Edna Ferguson, the head cook at Jordan High, has been known to remove frozen pie shells from their telltale disposable pans and put them in her own pie tins to bake! (Sorry Edna—I just had to tell them.) Stack your pie shells in the refrigerator, or leave them in the freezer until two hours before you’re ready to use them.   Prepare your piecrust by separating one egg. Throw away the white and whip up the yolk with a fork. Brush the bottom and inside of your piecrust. Prick it all over with a fork and bake it in a 350 F. degree oven for 5 minutes. Take it out and let it cool on a wire rack or a cold stovetop while you mix up the custard. If “bubbles” have formed in the crust, immediately prick them with a fork to let out the steam. The Quiche Lorraine Custard: 5 eggs 1½ cups heavy whipping cream *** Hannah’s 2ndNote: You can do this by hand with a whisk, or use an electric mixer, your choice.   Combine the eggs with the cream and whisk them (or beat them with an electric mixer) until they’re a uniform color. When they’re thoroughly mixed, pour them into a pitcher and set it in the refrigerator until you’re ready to assemble the rest of your quiche. You may notice that you’re not adding any salt, pepper, or other seasoning at this point. You’ll do that when you assemble the quiche.   Hannah’s 3rdNote: You can mix up the custard ahead of time and store it in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours. When you’re ready to assemble your quiches, all you have to do is whisk it smooth and pour it out from the pitcher. The Quiche Lorraine Filling: 2 cups grated Gruyere cheese (approximately 7 ounces)*** 1 cup diced, well-cooked and drained bacon ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ¼ teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (optional—use if you like it a bit spicy) ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg (freshly grated is best, of course)   Sprinkle the grated cheese in the bottom of your cooled pie shell.   Spread the cup of diced bacon on top of the cheese.   Sprinkle on the salt, and grind the pepper over the top of the bacon.   Sprinkle on the cayenne pepper (if you decided to use it).   Grate the nutmeg over the top. Put a drip pan under your pie plate. (I line a jellyroll pan with foil and use that.) This will catch any spills that might occur when you fill your quiche with the custard mixture.   Take your custard mixture out of the refrigerator and give it a good whisk. Then pour it over the top of your Quiche Lorraine, filling it about half way.   Open your oven, pull out the rack, and set your pie plate and drip pan on it. Pour in more custard mixture, stopping a quarter-inch short of the rim. Carefully push in the rack, and shut the oven door.   Bake your Quiche Lorraine at 350 degrees F., for 60 minutes, or until the top is nicely browned and a knife inserted one-inch from the center comes out clean.   Let your quiche cool for 15 to 30 minutes on a cold stovetop or a wire rack, and then cut and serve to rave reviews.   This quiche is good warm, but it’s also good at room temperature. (I’ve even eaten it straight out of the refrigerator for breakfast!)
Joanne Fluke (Joanne Fluke Christmas Bundle: Sugar Cookie Murder, Candy Cane Murder, Plum Pudding Murder, & Gingerbread Cookie Murder (Hannah Swensen))
Immaculate Carpet Cleaning offers you the best in cleaning services. We use the best and most advanced processes and techniques to clean your carpet, tile, grout, and mattresses the right way. Our truck-mounted high-powered steam extraction process heats water to 185 to 200 degrees, a temperature that allows us to loosen and remove stains while also killing germs, bacteria, and dust mites on contact. Cleaning your carpet the right way will make your carpet last longer and save you money over the long run.
Jamie Palmer
Shuck Corn Cleanly Getting rid of that silk can be tedious business. Slice off the stalk one inch above the last row of kernels. Microwave for two to four minutes (add time to this for multiple ears). Then gently shake and squeeze the husk (wear an oven mitten—it will be hot) until the corn slides out. The steam will separate threads from the kernels, and you’ll have a freshly cooked cob.
Anonymous
Clean cooking means avoiding frying food on huge amounts of oil and focusing more on frying in small amounts of oil, steaming, stewing, and cooking on low heat. However, of all of these, steaming is the most nutritious and preserves most of the vitamins, antioxidants and fibers.
Jonathan Vine (Clean Food Diet: Avoid Processed Foods and Eat Clean with Few Simple Lifestyle Changes)
Secret Marketing Techniques For Your Carpet Cleaning Business In Oklahoma Is Here Building a profitable carpet cleaning service business is a big feat for a sole proprietor. Carpet cleaning business in Oklahoma proprietors rarely is in the position to find the most appropriate method for market share improvement and development. Be sure to put your new marketing plans in place as soon as you validate their worth. The following recommendations are designed to help you put together an effective marketing plan. Industry experts are all in agreement; the very best carpet cleaning service business education you receive is usually via personal experience. Experts often say that it is best to learn by doing things in order to get places and do more in general. The resources and techniques you could absorb while in employment could later serve you when you take the step towards finally owning and managing your business. While picking up some business skills could be done through literature, in reality, you may only gain the proper skills through a strong work ethic while under employment. Ensure legal problems won't harm your carpet cleaning service business by making sure that you file all appropriate government forms and also have a general understanding of business laws before you really open your doors. Without an understanding of the fundamentals of business law, you should discuss it with a lawyer who is an expert on this subject. It's recommended to keep in mind that many a successful business have been put out of carpet cleaning service business by only one court case. Prior to you find yourself with legal issues, it's an excellent idea to garner a strong relationship with a business attorney ahead of time. Should you find yourself needing to make hard carpet cleaning service business decisions, discussing it with workers could be a good way to simplify your thoughts. A successful way of cleaning up your planning process is to create a simple list of some pros and cons. This list will help to reveal the very best options for your business, as history has shown. It is advised that you consult with a business development professional if you're unsure just what the next move ought to be for your business. Successful businesses depend on an army of loyal customers. Businesses who certainly have very satisfied staff members will find that their staff members will stay with them for a while, even though the carpet cleaning company is handed down from generations prior to. Effective companies will do whatever it requires to guard and develop their online reputation at every chance. You need to use good online reputation management tools in order to keep negative reviews from being more of a threat than needed. Master Clean Carpet Cleaning
Master Clean Carpet Cleaning
Secret Marketing Techniques For Your Carpet Cleaning Business In Oklahoma Is Here Building a profitable carpet cleaning service business is a big feat for a sole proprietor. Carpet cleaning business in Oklahoma proprietors rarely is in the position to find the most appropriate method for market share improvement and development. Be sure to put your new marketing plans in place as soon as you validate their worth. The following recommendations are designed to help you put together an effective marketing plan. Industry experts are all in agreement; the very best carpet cleaning service business education you receive is usually via personal experience. Experts often say that it is best to learn by doing things in order to get places and do more in general. The resources and techniques you could absorb while in employment could later serve you when you take the step towards finally owning and managing your business. While picking up some business skills could be done through literature, in reality, you may only gain the proper skills through a strong work ethic while under employment. Ensure legal problems won't harm your carpet cleaning service business by making sure that you file all appropriate government forms and also have a general understanding of business laws before you really open your doors. Without an understanding of the fundamentals of business law, you should discuss it with a lawyer who is an expert on this subject. It's recommended to keep in mind that many a successful business have been put out of carpet cleaning service business by only one court case. Prior to you find yourself with legal issues, it's an excellent idea to garner a strong relationship with a business attorney ahead of time. Should you find yourself needing to make hard carpet cleaning service business decisions, discussing it with workers could be a good way to simplify your thoughts. A successful way of cleaning up your planning process is to create a simple list of some pros and cons. This list will help to reveal the very best options for your business, as history has shown. It is advised that you consult with a business development professional if you're unsure just what the next move ought to be for your business. Successful businesses depend on an army of loyal customers. Businesses who certainly have very satisfied staff members will find that their staff members will stay with them for a while, even though the carpet cleaning company is handed down from generations prior to. Effective companies will do whatever it requires to guard and develop their online reputation at every chance. You need to use good online reputation management tools in order to keep negative reviews from being more of a threat than needed.
Master Clean Carpet Cleaning
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Master Clean Carpet Cleaning
Regular-Cal Food Guidelines The following Serving Size Simplifier should be used as a portion quantity guideline for each meal. Its intuitive approach is customized to your body size and will help you put calorie counting to rest for good. It was originally inspired by the amazing work done by my friends at Precision Nutrition. •Fibrous veggies: 2 to 4 handfuls •Clean protein: 1 palm-size portion for women, 1 to 2 palm-size portions for men •Starchy carbs and fruits: 1 handful for women, 1 to 2 handfuls for men •Fit fats: ½ shot glass (1½ tablespoons) for oils and butter (easier to measure/eyeball since these are generally poured); for nuts and seeds, 1 thumb-size serving for women, 2 thumb-size servings for men Each element needs not be present at each meal, but do your best to keep them all in mind throughout the day. For instance, normally a green juice would consist of only leafy greens and other vegetables. However, you can power it up with a shot of flax oil or fish oil. Adding in these fats will not only stabilize your blood sugar but also improve your absorption of the fat-soluble vitamins found in the greens. With that said, I would strongly recommend that each time you eat (other than the odd apple here and there), you include protein and fiber in your meal. Doing so will prevent your blood sugar from rising and keep you full longer, both of which will help you lose fat instead of storing it. For dinner, you might have a fillet of salmon (protein) cooked in butter (oil and fats) with a side of steamed greens (fibrous vegetables) and a small amount of quinoa (starchy carbs). Nuts and seeds would not be present in this meal—again, no big deal. You can always have a few almonds throughout the day. For solid meals (not smoothies or juices), these guidelines should yield a plate that is:
Yuri Elkaim (The All-Day Fat-Burning Diet: The 5-Day Food-Cycling Formula That Resets Your Metabolism To Lose Up to 5 Pounds a Week)
When she bent to set another pitcher beside Travis, and he absently reached out to hug her hips, Cade's composure cracked. Lily gasped in surprise as Travis's hand was ripped from her side and then Travis himself was hauled from his chair and shoved toward the door. Ollie leapt up, knocking his own chair over as he attempted to interfere, but Cade grabbed his collar with his spare hand and shoved him in the same direction as Travis. Both men came up swinging, but Cade already had the door open, and with the kick of his boot and a block from his shoulder, he shoved them out into the pouring rain and slammed the door after them. Roy came to the door of his cubicle to investigate the commotion. Lily stared at Cade's calm features for a second, then in an explosion of rage, slammed out of the room in the direction of her chambers. Cade pointed his finger at Roy, sending him scurrying back to bed. Tankard in hand, Ephraim looked up from the table at the young giant standing in the room's center, water streaming from his soaked clothing as he visibly forced his fists to unclench in the sudden emptiness of the room. The older man shook his head and took a sip of his steaming drink. "You certainly do know how to empty a room," Ephraim commented to the house at large. Surveying the havoc he had wreaked, the overturned chairs and spilled plates, the tracks of mud across clean planked floors, the condemning silence of closed doors, Cade reached for a plate and the hot stew kept warming by the fire for him. Without a word, he filled his plate, sat down across from the old man, and began to eat. Ephraim raised his shaggy eyebrows, took a drink, and hid his grin in his cup. It didn't seem like the rest of his company was going to return any too soon. It looked like he'd better learn to get along with this one. Generously,
Patricia Rice (Texas Lily (Too Hard to Handle, #1))
regulations, wastewater was managed in treatment facilities and no longer dumped into streams. Thus, the cost of pollution was captured in the cost of oil production. indeed, clean water from these treatment facilities was sold to nearby farmers for irrigation. on the other hand, these new technologies spewed large amounts of pollutants into the air. That air pollution was viewed as a cost of doing business; its environmental costs were ignored. oil prices collapsed in the 1980s. at the same time, air-quality regulations were becoming stiffer. operations at the Kern river oil field were again tenuous. yet once again, technological innovation provided a fix. oil companies built facilities to generate electricity that were fueled by natural gas, which burns cleaner than oil. This electricity was a source of revenue. The electric facilities also supplied steam that was used to increase production from the wells. in 2000, the Kern river oil field produced nearly 40 million barrels of oil. however, this level of production could not be sustained. since then, production has fallen to less than 30 million barrels each year (Figure 15.3). since 1899, over 2 billion barrels of oil have been extracted from the Kern river oil field. scientists estimate that this field could yield another 475 million barrels. But actually producing that much oil will depend on continuing improvements in technology and high oil prices. like many of the resources upon which we depend, oil is being consumed by humans at a rate that is thousands of times faster than the rate at which it is being produced. What are the factors that influence the total amounts of such resources? how do technology and economic factors affect the availability of those resources? What are the environmental consequences of their use? These questions are central to
Norm Christensen (The Environment and You)
Andrew closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the memories of that night as the rest of the world moved on around him. He realized that even after all this time he hadn’t forgotten the smile she seemed to have patented, the light blue tank top she wore so well, or the way she had laughed when he accidentally spilled an entire can of Mountain Dew on the carpet she’d spent hours steam cleaning. And although he hadn’t kissed Cooper McKay that night, or even held her hand, he could still remember the feeling of finding out that love at first sight did truly exist.
Joey Jones (A Bridge Apart)
I take the roasting pan of braised chicken thighs with shallots and tomatoes and mushrooms in a white wine Dijon sauce out of the fridge and pop it in the oven to reheat. I dump the celery root potato puree out of its tub and into my slow cooker to gently warm, then grab the asparagus that I steamed yesterday and set it on the counter to take the chill off. I pull the butter lettuce I bought at Whole Foods out and separate the leaves into a bowl, filling it with cool water as I go, and when they are clean, I pop them into my salad spinner and whizz the crap out of them. They go into the big wooden salad bowl I got in Morocco. When dinnertime comes I'll chop the asparagus and add it to the salad along with some tiny baby marinated artichokes, no bigger than olives, toss with a peppery vinaigrette. The sourdough baguette I picked up goes into the table intact; I love to just let guests tear pieces off at the table. The three cheeses I snagged at the cheese counter get set to the side so that they will be appropriately room temp by the time I serve them after dinner. I might not be French, but all those years there have stuck, and I simply cannot have dinner without some cheese after.
Stacey Ballis (How to Change a Life)
Carpet steam cleaning & upholstery cleaning & mattress cleaning & tile and grout cleaning & hardwood floor cleaning in Rockford, IL. To get carpet cleaning services it's good to look for professionals in Rockford, IL to do the job. The company is legally certified by IICRC government inspection and has the Seal of Approval from Carpet and Rug Institute. Also, it's is credited with Clean Trust Certification. All these certifications by government relevant institutions show credibility of company.
Rockford Carpet Illinois
Amarillo 66 Carpet Cleaners samanthasmithnew734@gmail.com 4101 SW 45th Avenue, Apt. 4004, Amarillo, TX, 79109, USA 806-404-0659 Amarillo 66 Carpet Cleaners specialize in the very best carpet cleaning solutions for both residential and commercial owners within the Amarillo area. We deliver a variety of carpet, steam, and upholstery cleaning services that are both effective and efficient. As one of Amarillo’s leading professional cleaning companies, our esteemed and ever-growing clientele is a testament to our ongoing growth and superb customer service.
Amarillo 66 Carpet Cleaners
Special Agent Brad Wolgast hated Texas. He hated everything about it. He hated the weather, which was hot as an oven one minute and freezing the next, the air so damp it felt like a wet towel over your head. He hated the look of the place, beginning with the trees, which were scrawny and pathetic, their limbs all gnarled up like something out of Dr. Seuss, and the flat, windblown nothingness of it. He hated the billboards and the freeways and faceless subdivisions and the Texas flag, which flew over everything, always big as a circus tent; he hated the giant pickup trucks everybody drove, no matter that gas was thirteen bucks a gallon and the world was slowly steaming itself to death like a package of peas in a microwave. He hated the boots and the belt buckles and the way people talked, y’all this and y’all that, as if they spent the day ropin’ and ridin’, not cleaning teeth and selling insurance and doing the books, like people did everywhere.
Justin Cronin (The Passage (The Passage, #1))
Behind the scenes, in a smaller room provided with geysers for the making of tea and large sinks for washing-up dirty dishes, a band of earnest workers was toiling at cutting bread at high speed to refill the returned empties from the hall in which the locusts were at work. Pile after pile of bread-and-butter was tipped on the plates which arrived, swept clean, through the hatches. The ammunition was provided by a number of women, armed with fierce and flashing breadknives and who brandished them with machine-like skill and precision. Each lady had brought her own tools, the better to get on with the job. Others continually replenished the tea urns from the steaming, spluttering water-boilers. Now and then, as one of the party left the kitchen for some purpose or another, there would be a brief pause whilst the rest criticised, verbally or by appropriate looks and gestures, her dress, demeanour, speed of work, contribution to the communal labours, or style of headgear — all the women wore hats, by the way — behind her back. Then they would turn-to again.
George Bellairs (Death Stops the Frolic)
Your bath is ready, sodbuster.” Lily stood. “I’m not going to bathe in the open,” she said. “All right, then,” Caleb answered, pulling his shirt from his trousers, “I will. No sense letting all this nice hot water go to waste.” Lily might have loved Caleb Halliday, but she begrudged him that clean, steaming bath water in the worst way. “Don’t you dare step into that tub,” she said, marching over to where he stood. “It’s mine.” Caleb smiled and folded his arms. “Fine,” he said. He didn’t show any sign of moving, and the fire around the tub was getting low. Soon the chilly evening air would cool the water. “You could at least give me some privacy.” He smiled and sat down on the nearby stump of a long-gone maple tree. “I could,” he said. It was perfectly clear that he didn’t intend to, however. Lily looked with longing at the water, then turned her back on Caleb and pretended he wasn’t there. Quickly, before her courage could desert her, she removed her clothes and stepped into the tub. The feel of the hot water closing around her tired, achy flesh was so delicious that she made a little crooning sound as she settled in. She was caught completely by surprise when Caleb joined her, naked as the day he’d left heaven, and sank into the water. Some of it splashed over the edges of the oblong tub and sizzled as it met the fire. “I suppose it would be a waste of breath to ask you to get out of this tub,” Lily said. “Absolutely,” Caleb replied.
Linda Lael Miller (Lily and the Major (Orphan Train, #1))
Who do you think he was, Kash? Who the fuck do you think he is to me?” “Other than Candice’s cousin, I don’t know! I want you to explain what I saw.” He reached around me and tried to turn off the shower but I smacked his arm back. “No! I need to get clean, please!” “You can take a shower after we’ve talked this out.” “Think about it!” I shrieked, and whirled on him. “Did I look like I was enjoying seeing him? I couldn’t even look at him. Think about when Candice said I was ‘dating’ him. Think. About. It.” Steam was filling the tiny bathroom and again, I tried to go into the shower. I just needed to wash him away. “Please, let me get clean,” I cried. “Clean,” he whispered like that word had finally sunk in, and sucked in a quick gasp. “Oh my God, Rach—” “I hate him, Kash. I hate him with everything in me. If I never see or hear from him again, it will be too soon! He tried to ruin me. And today—he saw us kiss. He started texting me. He said I forgot who I belonged to.” Kash’s hand dropped from my arm and I cried in relief when my body hit the stinging water. I grabbed a loofah and poured shower gel on it before hastily scrubbing at my body. I was grabbing for more shower gel when Kash caught my wrist. I looked up at him and saw his horrified expression. “Baby, please—don’t . . . don’t tell me he was right there and I did nothing.” My jaw trembled and I blinked back the tears that began to cloud my vision. Kash’s face drained of color and his shoulders slumped. “Son of a bitch. You said he worked at UT, I thought—I thought he was a professor. I was expecting some old, sick bastard, not . . . that.” I shook my head quickly and began scrubbing myself again. “He’s a personal trainer there. He’s only twenty-six.” His body swayed before going rigid, his eyes wide. “And he’s Candice’s cousin? Her goddamn cousin raped you?!” Sobs filled the bathroom and I continued to scrub vigorously. “That’s why she didn’t believe me,” I explained when I could take a deep enough breath in. “She was so mad, said I was just accusing him because I didn’t want to date him.” “What the fuck? She—how could she—” “He’s her family. She loves him, I get it.” “There’s nothing to get. That shouldn’t make a difference. Rachel, I’m so sorry. I’m . . . I’m sorry.” He grabbed the loofah out of my hand and tossed it in the tub. Cupping his hands to catch the water, he tried to help wash the suds off me and turned the water off when I was soap free. “You don’t need to get clean, baby. You aren’t dirty. You’re okay.” He wrapped a large towel around my body and pulled me close as I trembled. “You’re okay. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize, I’m sorry I was upset with you.” I face-planted into his chest and let him lead me into my bedroom. Letting me go for a moment, he flipped off the lights, quickly undressed until he was only in his boxer-briefs, and walked back up to me. Grabbing the comforter off the bed, he had me let go of the wet towel and let it fall to the floor before wrapping me up in the comforter. I climbed onto the bed after him, and he got under the sheet and pulled me close to him, his arms tightening around my shaking body. “I’ve got you,” he whispered against the top of my head. “You’re safe.” My
Molly McAdams (Forgiving Lies (Forgiving Lies, #1))
Several times, I woke to the sound of him tapping his grey nails against the steering wheel.  When I opened my eyes to look at him, I could see his elongated canines.  At those times, I wanted to reach over and pat his leg, but I held myself back. When I woke to see his ears pointed too, I quietly studied him for a few minutes.  I knew I was the cause of his agitation.  He’d sensed my withdrawal.  I hadn’t wanted him to see my confusion.  I wanted to talk to Sam first, before saying anything to Clay.  But my approach obviously wasn’t the right one.  Clay had stuck by me through everything.  I needed to trust that he wouldn’t turn away from me after I revealed what had happened. “Clay...” He paused his tapping. “Could you pull over for a minute?” He glanced at me, lifted a concerned brow, but did as I asked.  The tires crunched on the snowy shoulder.  He stopped the car then turned toward me. A sad smile lifted my lips.  I hated to see him like this.  I tapped my lips.  I needed affirmation that we still had our connection, and he needed assurance I was fine. His tight grip on the steering wheel loosened, and he shook his head in amusement.  I held my breath as he leaned toward me. Clay cradled my face in his hands and kissed me tenderly.  I clutched his shirt, dragging him closer.  When he opened his mouth to nip my bottom lip, I groaned and willingly let him in.  We steamed the windows.  My lungs burned for air.  Finally, I had to pull away to catch my breath.  He wrapped his arms around me and placed small gentle kisses on the top of my head. His neck hovered in my line of sight.  I could give him what he wanted.  A quick bite and I wouldn’t need to worry about other potential Mates.  I could Claim him as my own.  But I didn’t want to hurt him anymore.  Physically or emotionally.  I pulled back from our make-out session. Clay gave me one last kiss on the lips then put the car in drive.  The smooth, tan skin of his very human ears called my attention, as did his clean, pink nails.  He looked content, no longer tapping his fingers while he stared ahead at the snow-covered roads. I
Melissa Haag (Hope(less) (Judgement of the Six #1))
The second he caught her scent, he stopped. “Leelan! Are you sure you should be up?” Turned out the smell of the food was one hell of a distraction: the spike of hunger she got in response enough to halt her in her tracks. “Ah . . . yeah, I feel okay. I’m hungry, actually.” As well as scared to death. While the staff continued on into the billiards room, filing in past some sheets of heavy plastic, Wrath came over to the base of the stairs. “Let’s get you into the kitchen.” Heading all the way down to join him, she let him take her arm, and leaned into his strength, taking a deep, easing breath. She’d probably just imagined everything up there. Really. Probably. Crap. “You know, I slept well,” she murmured as if to reassure herself. Which didn’t work. “Yeah?” “Mm-hm.” Together, they walked past the long dining table, and went through the flap door in the far corner. On the other side, iAm was once again at the stove, stirring a great pot. The Shadow turned—and immediately frowned as he looked at her. “What?” She put her hands to her stomach. “What are you—” “Nothing,” he said, banging his wooden spoon on the steel vat. “You two like chicken soup?” “Oh, yes, that sounds perfect.” Beth hopped up onto a stool. “And some bread maybe—” Fritz materialized at her elbow with a baguette and a plate with butter. “For you, madam.” She had to laugh. “How did you know?” As Wrath sat on the stool next to her, George parked it between them. “I had him on standby.” A steaming bowl of soup was slid in front of her by the Shadow. “Enjoy.” “Him, too?” she asked of iAm. “Yeah, the Shadow mighta been on it as well.” Picking up the spoon Fritz offered her, she dug in, aware the three males were staring at her—Wrath with such intensity, it was almost as if he’d gotten his sight back— “Mmmmm,” she said—and meant it. The soup was perfect, simple, not too heavy, and warm, warm, warm. Maybe it was just that she’d been through the needing and not eaten for how long? “So what’s going on in the billiards room,” she asked, to try to distract the males. “They’re cleaning up after me.” She winced. “Ah.” Wrath patted around for the baguette and broke off the hard end, putting it aside. The piece he then tore for her was soft in the middle, crunchy on the outside—and the butter he put on it was the unsalted, sweet kind. The combo was great with the soup. “Would you like something to drink?” Fritz asked. “Wine?” iAm said—before catching himself. “No, not wine. Milk. You need the calcium.” “Good idea, Shadow,” Wrath chimed in as he nodded at Fritz. “Make it whole—” “No, no, that will make me gag.” Annnnd didn’t that stop all of them in their tracks. “Which was true before all the, well, you know. But the skim does sound good.” And so it went, the three of them waiting on her: More soup? iAm hit her bowl again right away. More bread with butter? Husband was on it. More milk? The butler raced for the fridge.
J.R. Ward (The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #12))
Are you all right?” Arin glanced up at Roshar, then returned his attention to the horse. He ran a hand down the inside of its front left leg and picked up the hoof, cupping its front. With his free hand, he cleaned the hoof with a pick, brushed it off, and used a knife to probe the outer edges of the hoof, looking for the source of the problem. Steam rose from a nearby bucket of hot, salted water. It was near noon. “Arin.” “Just thinking.” Kestrel’s written words still radiated through him, making him feel larger inside than he had been before, as if he’d swallowed the sun and it somehow fit, and blazed and ached and left him dazzled: half-blind but still seeing things more clearly than before. “Well, stop it,” Roshar said. “You’ve been looking either dour or dreamy and neither really suits the victorious leader of his free people.” Arin snorted. The horse, feeling his knife touch a sore spot, tried to pull her hoof away. He held it fast, supporting it from below with his knee. “You could at least make a rousing speech,” Roshar said. “Can’t. I’m riding to Sythiah.” Roshar made a strangled sound. “Not on this horse,” Arin said. “She’s lame.” “What are you doing?” “She was limping. It hurt to look at her. An abscess, I think. She must have stepped on something sharp.” “Arin, you’re not a damn farrier. Someone else can do this.” “Tssah,” Arin hissed in sympathy when he found the abscess. The horse tried again to tug away, but he punctured the sealed wound, which instantly dribbled black pus. He worked on opening the abscess, then pressed the rest of the pus out. “Bring that bucket closer, will you?” “Oh, certainly. I live to please.
Marie Rutkoski (The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3))
Are you all right?” Arin glanced up at Roshar, then returned his attention to the horse. He ran a hand down the inside of its front left leg and picked up the hoof, cupping its front. With his free hand, he cleaned the hoof with a pick, brushed it off, and used a knife to probe the outer edges of the hoof, looking for the source of the problem. Steam rose from a nearby bucket of hot, salted water. It was near noon. “Arin.” “Just thinking.” Kestrel’s written words still radiated through him, making him feel larger inside than he had been before, as if he’d swallowed the sun and it somehow fit, and blazed and ached and left him dazzled: half-blind but still seeing things more clearly than before. “Well, stop it,” Roshar said. “You’ve been looking either dour or dreamy and neither really suits the victorious leader of his free people.” Arin snorted.
Marie Rutkoski (The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3))
The moon has risen. She sits now, at the same spot where she saw the eagle, waiting, waiting for something to come and take her. Have you ever waited for IT? Wondering whether it will come from outside or inside? Finally past the futile guesses at what might happen...now and then re-erasing brain to keep it clean for the Visit...yes wasn't it close to here? remember didn't you sneak away from camp to have a moment alone with What you felt stirring across the land...it was the equinox...green spring equal nights...canyons are opening up, at the bottoms are steaming fumaroles, steaming the tropical life there like greens in a pot, rank, dope-perfume, a hood of smell...human consciousness, that poor cripple, that deformed and doomed thing, is about to be born. This is the World just before men. Too violently pitched alive in constant flow ever to be seen by men directly. They are meant only to look at it dead, in still strata, transputrefied to oil or coal. Alive, it was a threat: it was Titans, was an overpeaking of life so clangorous and mad, such a green corona about Earth's body that some spoiler HAD to be brought in before it blew the Creation apart. So we, the crippled keepers, were sent out to multiply, to have dominion. God's spoilers. Us. Counter-revolutionaries. IT IS OUR MISSION TO PROMOTE DEATH. The way we kill, the way we die, being unique among the Creatures. It was something we had to work on, historically and personally. To build from scratch up to its present status as reaction, nearly as strong as life, holding down the green uprising. But only nearly as strong.
Thomas Pynchon
A raindrop strikes the lawn, sending up a tiny plume of dust. Others follow, a barrage of dusty explosions bursting all around me. The leaves of the banyan tree rebound from their impact. The parrots disappear from sight. In the distance, the clouds seem to reach down to touch the earth. And then a curtain of water falls quietly and shatters across the city with a terrifying roar, drenching me instantly. I hear the hot concrete of the driveway hissing, turning rain back into steam, and I smell the dead grass that lies under the dirt of the lawn. I fill my mouth with water, gritty at first, then pure and clean, and roll into a ball with my face pressed against my knees, sucking on a hailstone, shivering as wet cloth sticks to my body. Heavy drops beat their beat on my back and I rock slowly, my thoughts silenced by the violence of the storm, gasping in the sudden, unexpected cold.
Mohsin Hamid (Moth Smoke)
We read labels. We shun gluten, dairy, processed foods, and refined sugars. We buy organic. We use natural sunscreens and beauty products. We worry about fluoride in our water, smog in our air, hydrogenated oils in our food, and we debate whether plastic bottles are safe to drink from. We replace toxic cleaning products with Mrs. Meyer’s and homemade vinegar concoctions. We do yoga, we run, we SoulCycle and Fitbit, we go paleo and keto, we juice, we cleanse. We do coffee enemas and steam our yonis and drink clay and charcoal and shoot up vitamins and sit in infrared foil boxes and hire naturopaths and shamans and functional doctors and we take nootropics, and we stress about our telomeres (these are all real words). We are hypervigilant about everything we put into our body, everything we do to our body. And we are proud of this. We Instagram how proud we are of this and follow Goop and Well + Good and drop forty bucks on an exercise class because there are healing crystals in the floor. The global wellness economy is estimated to be worth four trillion dollars. Four trillion dollars. We are on an endless and expensive quest for wellness and vitality and youth. And we drink fucking rocket fuel.
Holly Whitaker (Quit Like a Woman: The Radical Choice to Not Drink in a Culture Obsessed with Alcohol)
We all stepped inside. Gorsky was in the glassed-in shower, butchering “ ’O Sole Mio” and lathered up so thickly that he looked like a sheep. Thankfully, between the lather and the steamed-up glass, his nether regions were hidden from our view. He was so busy cleaning himself, he didn’t notice our arrival right away. A gun sat on the vanity within arm’s reach of the shower door. Catherine calmly picked it up, then pointed it at Gorsky. “Che bella cosa!” Gorsky sang in a voice that made me want to run screaming from the room. “Na jurnata ’e sole . . . Aaugh!
Stuart Gibbs (Spy School Goes South)
Upholstery Cleaning Richardson TX (972) 454-9815 Your furniture is the most expensive item in your home, along with probably your jewelry and electronics, cars, and other possessions. It's possible that some of this furniture was passed down through generations. You want to take care of it so that future generations can continue to enjoy it. Call Richardson TX Carpet Cleaning right away if you require steam cleaning for your upholstery!
Upholstery Cleaning Richardson TX
Green Carpet Cleaning Garland (972) 256-8544 One of methods we follow at cover cleaning is "Steam Cleaning Administration" that depends on utilizing minimal high temp water and more steam, centering steam - which infiltrating into profound on spots and stain to dissolve every one of them even the hardest ones and kill all poisons from your rug. Then, at that point, the job of our compelling green items starts to clear this large number of components, returning your floor covering shimmered and bright. At last, we utilize our excellent dry machines, so your rug will be full dry inside no time. We have specific floor covering steam cleaners, so they know how to follow the high amazing skill simultaneously, safeguarding your rug from any harms.
Green Carpet Cleaning Garland
for the rest of the night. Other than to refuel with holiday leftovers. “Would you still love me if I told you I didn’t know what tasted better, Christmas leftovers or you?” Jana cocked her eyebrow with a sexy smile on her face. Damn, she was beautiful. “No but I will be mad unless you do some very thorough research and come up with a satisfying answer…” I grinned. This Christmas was unlike any of the others Jana and I had spent together. This time we had two little boys, a bigger family and we’d faced our biggest threat yet and come out on top. “If it’s for the sake of research, consider me in babe.” And I spent the rest of the night doing science. Between the gorgeous legs of my beautiful wife. I was pretty sure in that moment, life for the Reckless Bastard’s couldn’t get any better. Merry friggin’ Christmas to us! * * * * If you think the Reckless Bastards are spicy bad boys, they’re nothing compared to the steam in my next series Reckless MC Opey, TX Chapter where Gunnar and Maisie move to Texas! There’s also a sneak peek on the next page.   Don’t wait — grab your copy today!  Copyright © 2019 KB Winters and BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Chapter One Gunnar “We’re gonna be cowboys!” Maisie had been singing that song since we got on the interstate and left Nevada and the only family we’d had in the world behind. For good. Cross was my oldest friend, and I’d miss him the most, even though I knew we’d never lose touch. I’d miss Jag too, even Golden Boy and Max. The prospects were cool, but I had no attachment to them. Though I gave him a lot of shit, I knew I’d even miss Stitch. A little. It didn’t matter that the last year had been filled with more shit than gold, or that I was leaving Vegas in the dust, we were all closer for the hell we’d been through. But still, I was leaving. Maisie and I’d been on the road for a couple of days. Traveling with a small child took a long damn time. Between bathroom breaks and snack times we’d be lucky to make it to Opey by the end of the month. Lucky for me, Maisie had her mind set on us becoming cowboys, complete with ten gallon hats, spurs and chaps, so she hadn’t shed one tear, yet. It wasn’t something I’d been hoping for but I was waiting patiently for reality to sink in and the uncontrollable sobs that had a way of breaking a grown man’s heart. “You’re not a boy,” I told her and smiled through the rear view mirror. “Hard to be a cowboy if you’re not even a boy.” Maisie grinned, a full row of bright white baby teeth shining back at me right along with sapphire blue eyes and hair so black it looked to be painted on with ink. “I’m gonna be a cowgirl then! A cowgirl!” She went on and on for what felt like forever, in only the way that a four year old could, about all the cool cowgirl stuff she’d have. “Boots and a pony too!” “A pony? You can’t even tie your shoes or clean up your toys and you want a pony?” She nodded in that exaggerated way little kids did. “I’ll learn,” she said with the certainty of a know it all teenager, a thought that terrified the hell out of me. “You’ll help me, Gunny!” Her words brought a smile to my face even though I hated that fucking nickname she’d picked up from a woman I refused to think about ever again. I’d help Maisie because that’s what family did. Hell, she was the reason I’d uprooted my entire fucking life and headed to the great unknown wilds of Texas. To give Maisie a normal life or as close to normal as I was capable of giving her. “I’ll always help you, Squirt.” “I know. Love you Gunny!” “Love you too, Cowgirl.” I winked in the mirror and her face lit up with happiness. It was the pure joy on her face, putting a bloom in her cheeks that convinced me this was the right thing to do. I didn’t want to move to Texas, and I didn’t want to live on a goddamn ranch, but that was my future. The property was already bought and paid for with my name
K.B. Winters (Mayhem Madness (Reckless Bastards MC #1-7))
One spring day, when the daffodils were blowing on the Ingleside lawn, and the banks of the brook in Rainbow Valley were sweet with white and purple violets, the little, lazy afternoon accommodation train pulled into the Glen station. It was very seldom that passengers for the Glen came by that train, so nobody was there to meet it except the new station agent and a small black and yellow dog, who for four and a half long years had met every train that had steamed into Glen St. Mary. Thousands of trains had Dog Monday met and never had the boy he waited and watched for returned. Yet still Dog Monday watched on with eyes that never quite lost hope. Perhaps his dog-heart failed him at times; he was growing old and rheumatic; when he walked back to his kennel after each train had gone his gait was very sober now—he never trotted but went slowly with a drooping head and a depressed tail that had quite lost its old saucy uplift. One passenger stepped off the train—a tall fellow in a faded lieutenant’s uniform, who walked with a barely perceptible limp. He had a bronzed face and there were some grey hairs in the ruddy curls that clustered around his forehead. The new station agent looked at him anxiously. He was used to seeing the khaki-clad figures come off the train, some met by a tumultuous crowd, others, who had sent no word of their coming, stepping off quietly like this one. But there was a certain distinction of bearing and features in this soldier that caught his attention and made him wonder a little more interestedly who he was. A black and yellow streak shot past the station agent. Dog Monday stiff? Dog Monday rheumatic? Dog Monday old? Never believe it. Dog Monday was a young pup, gone clean mad with rejuvenating joy. He flung himself against the tall soldier, with a bark that choked in his throat from sheer rapture. He flung himself on the ground and writhed in a frenzy of welcome. He tried to climb the soldier’s khaki legs and slipped down and grovelled in an ecstasy that seemed as if it must tear his little body in pieces. He licked his boots and when the lieutenant had, with laughter on his lips and tears in his eyes, succeeded in gathering the little creature up in his arms Dog Monday laid his head on the khaki shoulder and licked the sunburned neck, making queer sounds between barks and sobs. The station agent had heard the story of Dog Monday. He knew now who the returned soldier was. Dog Monday’s long vigil was ended. Jem Blythe had come home.
L.M. Montgomery (Rilla of Ingleside)
We will have to get you to the bed, Jacques.” Gregori’s voice dispelled the thick tension in the room, pushed it aside to replace it with clean, fragrant air. “Mikhail, I will need herbs. You know which ones. Tell Byron to bring me plenty of rich soil from the steam chamber in the caves.” Gregori glided closer to the couple, his graceful elegance failing to conceal the rippling strength of his muscles and the power emanating from his body. He looked totally confident, relaxed, completely fearless. The soft rumbling in Jacques’ throat increased; his fingers tightened possessively, crushing bones and tendon in Shea’s upper arm. Gregori stopped moving immediately. “I am sorry, woman, I know you are weak, but you will have to move to the other side of him or he will not allow me to help,” Gregori instructed calmly. What we need, Mikhail, is Raven’s calming influence. You look about as reassuring as a Bengal tiger. Oh, and you look like a bunny rabbit, Mikhail scoffed. “You could have brought Raven along,” Gregori chided softly, aloud. “You bring her along on every other dangerous thing she should not be involved in.” That was a clear reprimand. “You might have brought her where she could actually do some good.” Through the open doorway suddenly stepped a small woman, long ebony hair braided intricately, huge blue eyes flashing at Mikhail. As Byron shouldered his way inside behind her, she gave him a friendly smile and stood on her toes to brush his chin with a kiss. Mikhail stiffened, then immediately wrapped a possessive arm around her waist. “Carpathian women do not do that kind of thing,” he reprimanded her. She tilted her chin at him, in no way intimidated. “That’s because Carpathian males have such a territorial mentality--you know, a beat-their-chest, swing-from-the-trees sort of thing.” She turned her head to look at the couple lying on the floor. Her indrawn breath was audible. “Jacques.” She whispered his name, tears in her voice and in her blue eyes. “It really is you.” Eluding Mikhail’s outstretched, detaining hand, she ran to him.
Christine Feehan (Dark Desire (Dark, #2))
One spring day, when the daffodils were blowing on the Ingleside lawn, and the banks of the brook in Rainbow Valley were sweet with white and purple violets, the little, lazy afternoon accommodation train pulled into the Glen station. It was very seldom that passengers for the Glen came by that train, so nobody was there to meet it except the new station agent and a small black-and-yellow dog, who for four and a half years had met every train that had steamed into Glen St. Mary. Thousands of trains had Dog Monday met and never had the boy he waited and watched for returned. Yet still Dog Monday watched on with eyes that never quite lost hope. Perhaps his dog-heart failed him at times; he was growing old and rheumatic; when he walked back to his kennel after each train had gone his gait was very sober now—he never trotted but went slowly with a drooping head and a depressed tail that had quite lost its old saucy uplift. One passenger stepped off the train—a tall fellow in a faded lieutenant’s uniform, who walked with a barely perceptible limp. He had a bronzed face and there were some grey hairs in the ruddy curls that clustered around his forehead. The new station agent looked at him anxiously. He was used to seeing the khaki-clad figures come off the train, some met by a tumultuous crowd, others, who had sent no word of their coming, stepping off quietly like this one. But there was a certain distinction of bearing and features in this soldier that caught his attention and made him wonder a little more interestedly who he was. A black-and-yellow streak shot past the station agent. Dog Monday stiff? Dog Monday rheumatic? Dog Monday old? Never believe it. Dog Monday was a young pup, gone clean mad with rejuvenating joy. He flung himself against the tall soldier, with a bark that choked in his throat from sheer rapture. He flung himself on the ground and writhed in a frenzy of welcome. He tried to climb the soldier’s khaki legs and slipped down and groveled in an ecstasy that seemed as if it must tear his little body in pieces. He licked his boots and when the lieutenant had, with laughter on his lips and tears in his eyes, succeeded in gathering the little creature up in his arms Dog Monday laid his head on the khaki shoulder and licked the sunburned neck, making queer sounds between barks and sobs. The station agent had heard the story of Dog Monday. He knew now who the returned soldier was. Dog Monday’s long vigil was ended. Jem Blythe had come home.
L.M. Montgomery (Rilla of Ingleside (Unabridged Start Publishing LLC))
As we were to be here over Sunday, and Monterey was the best place to go ashore on the whole coast, and we had had no liberty-day for nearly three months, every one was for going ashore. On Sunday morning, as soon as the decks were washed, and we had got breakfast, those who had obtained liberty began to clean themselves, as it is called, to go ashore. A bucket of fresh water apiece, a cake of soap, a large coarse towel, and we went to work scrubbing one another, on the forecastle. Having gone through this, the next thing was to get into the head,—one on each side—with a bucket apiece, and duck one another, by drawing up water and heaving over each other, while we were stripped to a pair of trowsers. Then came the rigging-up. The usual outfit of pumps, white stockings, loose white duck trowsers, blue jackets, clean checked shirts, black kerchiefs, hats well varnished, with a fathom of black ribbon over the left eye, a silk handkerchief flying from the outside jacket pocket, and four or five dollars tied up in the back of the neckerchief, and we were “all right.” One of the quarter-boats pulled us ashore, and we steamed up to the town. I
Charles William Eliot (The Complete Harvard Classics - ALL 71 Volumes: The Five Foot Shelf & The Shelf of Fiction: The Famous Anthology of the Greatest Works of World Literature)
Couldn’t I, for once, fight in a field full of fragrant flowers with a small clean stream to wash the blood away after? I hated caked blood on my skin. Or a Chinese restaurant with steamed dumplings and Kung Pao chicken available for later? Food after a fight was always welcome.
Paulina Ian-Kane (Wolf Down (Forsaken Mountain Series Book 1))
Pushing the door open with the end of the bat, she watched the steam roll toward her and bring with it the scent of yummy-man. A man who smelled like that at any other time would have her following him just to get a whiff. His scent was clean, with citrus and spice overtones that made her mouth water. The body that stepped out of the shower bare-ass-naked stole the breath from her lungs, the attack plan from her memory, and made her thankful she was a woman who could appreciate the human form because she’d never seen one finer.
Robin Kaye (Breakfast in Bed (Domestic Gods, #3))
Ego autem sum quasi vas inane,’ he began awkwardly, stuttering along the lines of meaningless prose like a small child. ‘Ego donavit corpus meum ad dominum meum in exercitu magno Cardinalis Balthazar De La Senza,’ he continued, quickly becoming surprisingly fluent despite his vaguely cockney tone. ‘Tempore domini Inquisitoris magni voluntatis esse, aequo animo et scissa animam meam a fundamentis et suspensi in abyssum quasi stercora, nihil prorsus in aeternum damnatus egisse,’ he went on, oblivious to something stirring in the small box behind him. Wisps of purple drifted from it like steam from a cooling kettle. ‘Ego Christophorus Baxtere accipe usitata res est, uti et magnis La Senza caput meum corium et nervorum et magnifici primum genus dentium,’ Baxter continued, strangely enjoying himself. Far away in another place, the bound and trapped Cardinal La Senza had begun to whisper the words in unison beneath the folds of his hooded cloak. Oblivious, Baxter was flying now, quite unaware of the sinister coaching he was receiving. ‘O magnum La Senza, cum venerit, et ad hoc bonum esse propter tempus, quia ego miser!’ Baxter read on. A coiling snake-like tendril of purple had fingered its way through the lock of the cabinet and was creeping menacingly towards its target. It advanced up Baxter’s legs, body and neck until finally, it crept imperceptibly into his ears. ‘Ego Christophorus Baxtere immolare volens alumnam cerebrum meum et animam, ut vos mos postulo ut enable uariat possessione tua ...’ Pleased beyond measure by what he had fondled and explored, La Senza went still. Content for now, he drew back his sensing vines and they fell away from Baxter, unnoticed. His jailors had seen nothing. La Senza now had the chance he’d been craving for centuries, so many lifetimes of plotting and scheming. He knew nothing of the young man he had inspected so intimately – frankly, he didn’t care. It was the body, oh his body, so young and fit; teeth clean like white mice, no trace of Popery, no hint of Lutheran, Baptist, Jew, Muslim or Buddhist within his empty soul, nothing to restrain or inhibit the Inquisitor’s foul purposes. La Senza knew that his escape was mere days away. Immobile, he marshalled dark reserves for the events to come. ‘Nunc me vacua est anima mea praeparata et redditur supersunt, La Senza venit, et possident me! Sincere vestrum, Christopher Baxter,’ finished Chris, with a flourish. ‘Bravo Mr Baxter,’ said Ascot McCauley, standing as he clapped enthusiastically. ‘Bravo!
T.J. Brown (The Unhappy Medium (The Unhappy Medium, #1))
You’re home.” Emmie stopped her puttering, a luminous, beaming smile on her face, a pan of apple tarts steaming on the counter before her. “I am home”—he returned her smile—“though soaked and chilled to the bone.” “I thought I heard the door slam.” Val appeared at Emmie’s elbow. “It looks like a half-drowned friend of Scout’s has come to call. Come along, Devlin.” Val tugged at his wet sleeve. “Emmie had the bathwater heated in anticipation of your arrival. We’ll get you thawed and changed in time for dinner, and then you can regale us with your exploits.” “Behold,” Val announced when they returned forty-five minutes later, “the improved version of the Earl of Rosecroft. Scrubbed, tidied, and attired for supper. He need only be fed, and we’ll find him quite civilized.” Emmie smiled at them both, and Winnie looked up from the worktable where she was making an ink drawing. “I made you a picture,” she said, motioning St. Just over. “This is you.” She’d drawn Caesar and a wet, shivering, bedraggled rider, one whose hat drooped, whose boots sagged, and whose teeth chattered. “We must send this to Her Grace,” St. Just said, “but you have to send along something cheerier, too, Win. Mamas tend to worry about their chicks.” “I thought she wasn’t your mama,” Winnie countered, frowning at her drawing. “She is, and she isn’t.” St. Just tousled Winnie’s blond curls—so like Emmie’s—and blew a rude noise against the child’s neck. “But mostly she is.” “When will you go see her again?” “I just did see her in September. It’s hardly December.” “She’s your mother,” Winnie said, taking the drawing back. “Every now and then, even big children should be with their mothers.” In the pantry, something loud hit the tile floor and shattered. Val and his brother exchanged a look, but Emmie’s voice assured them it had just been the lid to the pan of apple tarts, and no real harm had been done. “That’s fortunate,” St. Just said, going to the pantry and taking the pan from Emmie’s hands. “Watch your step, though, as there’s crockery everywhere.” “I’m sorry.” Emmie stood in the middle of the broken crockery, her cheeks flushed, looking anywhere but at him. “It was my own pan, though, so you won’t need to replace anything of Rosecroft’s.” “Em.” He sighed and set the tarts aside. “I don’t give a tin whistle for the damned lid.” He lifted her by the elbows and hauled her against his chest to swing her out of the pantry. “We’ve a scullery maid, don’t we?” “Joan.” “Well, fetch her in there. I am ravenous, and I will not be deprived of your company while I sup tonight.” “You didn’t stay in York,” Emmie said, searching his eyes. “There is very little do in York on a miserable afternoon that could compare with the pleasure of my own home, your company, and a serving of hot apple tarts.” She blinked then offered him a radiant smile and sailed ahead of him to the dining parlor. “Winnie,” St. Just barked, “wash your paws, and don’t just get them wet. Val, it’s your turn to say grace, and somebody get that damned dog out of here.” Scout slunk out, Winnie washed her paws, Val went on at hilarious length about being appreciative of a brother who wasn’t so old he forgot his apple tart recipe nor how to stay clean nor find his way home. Except
Grace Burrowes (The Soldier (Duke's Obsession, #2; Windham, #2))
The bundle in his arms cooed. “It’s winter.” Vim peeled away just enough blankets to expose baby-blue eyes. “Cold is part of it, but we’re English, so we refer to this as fresh air. Repeat after me: fresh air.” “Gah.” “My sentiments, as well, truth be told, but there’s a steaming bowl of porridge in it for you if you keep your nappy clean for the next fifteen minutes.” “Bah!” Vim was still smiling when Sophie emerged from the kitchen. Her gaze went from Vim to Kit and back to Vim. “This looks like a conspiracy in progress. What have you two been up to?” “Plotting a raid on the pantry. Shall we brave the elements?” “Please.
Grace Burrowes (Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish (The Duke's Daughters, #1; Windham, #4))
After I steamed four giant clams over a skillet of sake, Stephen ripped out the meat and hacked it into chunks. With cupped hands, he scooped up the chewy bits and threw them in a bowl. Then he stirred in spicy red-and-white radish wedges and a warm dressing of wasabi, sugar, and sweet white miso that I had stirred in a small saucepan over a low flame until it became thick and shiny. Following his directions, I spooned the golden clams back into their shells. Stephen garnished them with a pink-and-white "congratulatory" flower of spongy wheat gluten. "Precious," he said, winking at me. Next, we made sea urchin- egg balls, first blending creamy lobes of sea urchin with raw egg yolk and a little dashi. Stephen cooked the mixture until it formed a stiff paste and then pressed it through a sieve. I plopped a golden dollop in a clean damp cloth and flattened it into a disc. In the center I put three crescents of lily bulb tenderized in salt water. "Try one," urged Stephen, handing me a wedge of lily bulb. It was mealy and sweet, kind of like a boiled cashew. Stephen brought together the four corners of the damp cloth and twisted it gently to create a bubble of eggy sea urchin paste stuffed with lily bulb. When unveiled, it looked like a Rainier cherry. I twisted out nineteen more balls, which we later arranged on fresh green leaves draped across black lacquer trays. Next, we impaled several fat shrimp on two metal skewers, sending one rod through the head and the other through the tail. We grilled the grayish pink bodies until they became rosy on one side and then flipped them over until they turned opaque. Stephen painted golden egg yolk for prosperity over the juicy crustaceans and returned them to the grill until they smoldered and charred.
Victoria Abbott Riccardi (Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto)
But the accompanying steamed rice, pressed into the shape of a chrysanthemum, had a clean, delicate sweetness unlike any rice I had ever tasted. The tray also held a plastic bowl and sipped the savory liquid enriched with diced tofu and emerald wisps of wakame seaweed. In a shallow dish sat a small block of bean curd splashed with soy sauce and topped with pinkish curls of dried bonito that looked like pencil shavings. I cut into the silky white cube and tried to balance the craggy chunk on the slender pieces of wood. It tumbled off. After trying again, success was rewarded with the sweet taste of milky custard mingled with dark soy and smoky fish flakes. There were pickles too, crisp neon-yellow half-moons of sweet daikon radish and crunchy slices of eggplant. Although I had not expected culinary brilliance from a mall restaurant, dinner was exceeding expectations. The ingredients were plain, but exceptional in their purity and freshness.
Victoria Abbott Riccardi (Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto)
After the simplicity of the gnocchi, the fish course was astonishing. Pellegrino had spent the entire day preparing the two red mullets. He had partially removed the heads and cleaned the fish through those small openings, leaving the bodies intact. Then he massaged each fish to loosen the flesh and bones, which he painstakingly removed without breaking the skin. The mullet flesh was combined with chopped spider crab, cream-softened bread, finely minced shallots, and a whisper of garlic, thyme, nutmeg, and butter, and then carefully stuffed back into the skin. Pellegrino returned the heads to their natural position and patted each fish into its original shape. He surrounded the stuffed mullets with vegetables and herbs and sealed all of it in parchment to poach gently in its own flavorful steam.
Elle Newmark (The Book of Unholy Mischief)
Mother once said I’d marry a quarryman. She looked at me as we washed clothes in the giant steel washtub, two pairs of water-wrinkled hands scrubbing and soaking other people’s laundry. We were elbow-deep in dirty suds and our fingers brushed under the foamy mounds. “Some mistakes are bound to be repeated,” she murmured We lived in Stony Creek, a granite town at a time when granite was going out of fashion. There were only three types of men here: Cottagers, rich, paunchy vacationers who swooped into our little Connecticut town in May and wiled away time on their sailboats through August; townsmen, small-time merchants and business owners who dreamed of becoming Cottagers; and quarrymen, men like my father, who worked with no thought to the future. The quarrymen toiled twelve hours a day, six days a week. They didn’t care that they smelled of granite dust and horses, grease and putty powder. They didn’t care about cleaning the crescents of grime from underneath their fingernails. Even when they heard the foreman’s emergency signal, three sharp shrieks of steam, they scarcely looked up from their work. In the face of a black powder explosion gone awry or the crushing finality of a wrongly cleaved stone, they remained undaunted. I knew why they lived this way. They did it for the granite. Nowhere else on earth did such stone exist—mesmerizing collages of white quartz, pink and gray feldspar, black lodestone, winking glints of mica. Stony Creek granite was so striking, it graced the most majestic of architecture: the Battle Monument at West Point, the Newberry Library in Chicago, the Fulton Building in Pittsburgh, the foundations of the Statue of Liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge. The quarrymen of Stony Creek would wither and fall before the Cottagers, before the townsmen. But the fruits of their labor tethered them to a history that would stand forever. “You’ll marry one, Adele—I’m sure of it. His hands will be tough as buckskin, but you’ll love him regardless,” Mother told me, her breath warm in my ear as the steam of the wastewater rose around us. I didn’t say that she was wrong, that she couldn’t know what would happen. I’d learned that from the quarry. Pa was a stonecutter and he cut the granite according to rift and grain, to what he could feel with his fingertips and see with his eyes. But there were cracks below the surface, cracks that betrayed the careful placement of a chisel and the pounding of a mallet. The most beautiful piece of stone could shatter into a pile of riprap. It all depended on where those cracks teased and wound, on where the stone would fracture when forced apart. “Keep your eyes open, Adele. I don’t know who it will be—a steam driller, boxer, derrickman, powderman? Maybe a stonecutter like your father?” I turned away from her, feigning disinterest. “There’s no predicting, I told her.
Chandra Prasad
Mother once said I’d marry a quarryman. She looked at me as we washed clothes in the giant steel washtub, two pairs of water-wrinkled hands scrubbing and soaking other people’s laundry. We were elbow-deep in dirty suds and our fingers brushed under the foamy mounds. “Some mistakes are bound to be repeated,” she murmured We lived in Stony Creek, a granite town at a time when granite was going out of fashion. There were only three types of men here: Cottagers, rich, paunchy vacationers who swooped into our little Connecticut town in May and wiled away time on their sailboats through August; townsmen, small-time merchants and business owners who dreamed of becoming Cottagers; and quarrymen, men like my father, who worked with no thought to the future. The quarrymen toiled twelve hours a day, six days a week. They didn’t care that they smelled of granite dust and horses, grease and putty powder. They didn’t care about cleaning the crescents of grime from underneath their fingernails. Even when they heard the foreman’s emergency signal, three sharp shrieks of steam, they scarcely looked up from their work. In the face of a black powder explosion gone awry or the crushing finality of a wrongly cleaved stone, they remained undaunted. I knew why they lived this way. They did it for the granite. Nowhere else on earth did such stone exist—mesmerizing collages of white quartz, pink and gray feldspar, black lodestone, winking glints of mica. Stony Creek granite was so striking, it graced the most majestic of architecture: the Battle Monument at West Point, the Newberry Library in Chicago, the Fulton Building in Pittsburgh, the foundations of the Statue of Liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge. The quarrymen of Stony Creek would wither and fall before the Cottagers, before the townsmen. But the fruits of their labor tethered them to a history that would stand forever. “You’ll marry one, Adele—I’m sure of it. His hands will be tough as buckskin, but you’ll love him regardless,” Mother told me, her breath warm in my ear as the steam of the wastewater rose around us. I didn’t say that she was wrong, that she couldn’t know what would happen. I’d learned that from the quarry. Pa was a stonecutter and he cut the granite according to rift and grain, to what he could feel with his fingertips and see with his eyes. But there were cracks below the surface, cracks that betrayed the careful placement of a chisel and the pounding of a mallet. The most beautiful piece of stone could shatter into a pile of riprap. It all depended on where those cracks teased and wound, on where the stone would fracture when forced apart. “Keep your eyes open, Adele. I don’t know who it will be—a steam driller, boxer, derrickman, powderman? Maybe a stonecutter like your father?” I turned away from her, feigning disinterest. “There’s no predicting, I told her.
Chandra Prasad (On Borrowed Wings)
You needn’t have come to Hampshire in such a hurry.” “The threat of lawyers and Chancery Court impressed me with the need for haste,” he said darkly. Perhaps her telegram had been a bit dramatic. “I wasn’t really going to bring layers into it. I only wanted to gain your attention.” His reply was soft. “You always have my attention.” Kathleen wasn’t certain how to take his meaning. Before she could ask, the latch of the bathroom door clicked. The wood panels trembled as someone began to push his way in. Kathleen’s eyes flew open. She wedged her hands against the door, her nerves stinging in horror. A violent splash erupted behind her as Devon leaped from the bathtub and flattened a hand on the door to keep it from opening farther. His other hand slid around her to cover her mouth. That was unnecessary--Kathleen couldn’t have made a sound to save her life. She quivered in every limb at the feel of the large, steaming male at her back. “Sir?” came the valet’s puzzled voice. “Confound it, have you forgotten how to knock?” Devon demanded. “Don’t burst into a room unless it’s to tell me that the house is on fire.” Distantly Kathleen wondered if she might swoon. She was fairly certain that Lady Berwick would have expected it of her in such circumstances. Unfortunately her mind remained intractably awake. She swayed, her balance uncertain, and his body automatically compensated, hard muscles flexing to support her. He was pressed all along her, hot water seeping through the back of her riding habit. With every breath, she dew in the scents of soap and heat. Her heart faltered between every beat, too weak, too fast. Dizzily she focused on the large hand braced against the door. His skin was faintly tawny, the kind that would brown easily in the sun. One of his knuckles was scraped and raw--from lifting the carriage wheel, she guessed. The nails were short and scrupulously clean, but ink stains lingered in faint shadows on the sides of two fingers. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” the valet said. With an overdone respect that hinted at sarcasm, he added, “I’ve never known you to be modest before.” “I’m an aristocrat now,” Devon said. “We prefer not to flaunt our assets.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))