I cannot go to school today"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry.
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox.
And there's one more - that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue,
It might be the instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke.
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in.
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My toes are cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There's a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is ...
What? What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is .............. Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!
Jules stood up and stretched gracelessly. “Let’s hurry up and pay before she”-she indicated Claire with a flick of her thumb-“sees something shiny and we lose her again.
Kimberly Derting (The Body Finder (The Body Finder, #1))
Dwarfs were not a naturally religious species, but in a world where pit props could crack without warning and pockets of fire damp could suddenly explode they'd seen the need for gods as the sort of supernatural equivalent of a hard hat. Besides, when you hit your thumb with an eight-pound hammer it's nice to be able to blaspheme. It takes a very special and strong-minded kind of atheist to jump up and down with their hand clasped under their other armpit and shout, "Oh, random-fluctuations-in-the-space-time-continuum!" or "Aaargh, primitive-and-outmoded-concept on a crutch!
Terry Pratchett (Men at Arms (Discworld, #15; City Watch, #2))
I want to change my life...except I sort of like it. I mean, I couldn't be more delighted every Monday night after Fletch goes to bed when I come downstairs, pull up the Bachelor on TiVo, drink Riesling, and eat cheddar/port wine Kaukauna cheese without freakign out over fat grams. I'm perpetually in a good mood because I do everything I want. I love having the freedom to skip the gym to watch a Don Knots movie on the Disney Channel without a twinge of guilt. I've figured out how to not be beholden to what other people believe I should be doing, and when the world tells me I ought to be a size eight, I can thumb my nose at them in complete empowerment.
Jen Lancaster (Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest to Discover If Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer)
Clubs rattled behind them. Skeet Cooper rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb and rose from the bench. “Looks like Kenny’s caddy’s here.”
Dallie lifted an eyebrow as his son stepped up on the tee carrying Kenny’s bag.
Ted smiled. “Sorry I’m late. Mom made me eat breakfast. Then she started fussing with my hair, don’t ask me why.”
Dallie took the driver Skeet handed him. “Funny you didn’t mention that you were going to caddy for Kenny today.”
“Must have forgot.” Ted smiled and shifted the bag. “I told Skeet.”
Dallie shot Skeet an annoyed look that didn’t bother Skeet one bit. Kenny gestured toward the tee. “Be my guest. I believe in showing respect for the elderly and the infirm.
Susan Elizabeth Phillips (Lady Be Good (Wynette, Texas, #2))
As we sat there, the door opened, just barely, and a hand slid inside and dropped a set of keys on a side table.
"Thanks, Garrett!" I called out.
He gave me a thumbs-up and closed the door.
"How do you suppose he knew we were performing sexual favors on each other?" I asked, snuggling against my man again.
"Possibly because you screamed my name about seven times.
Darynda Jones (Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson, #11))
The ringtone was a dead giveaway, emphasis on dead . . . creepy organ music. She didn’t even have to glance at the image of fanged
bunny slippers on the screen to know who was calling. She just sighed, thumbed it on, and held it to her ear.
“Claire! I need you here immediately. Something’s wrong with Bob.” Myrnin, her mad-scientist, blood-addicted boss, sounded actually shaken. “I
can’t get him to eat his insects, and I used his favorites. He just sits there.”
“Bob,” she repeated, looking at Shane in wide-eyed disbelief. “Bob the spider.”
“Just because he’s a spider doesn’t mean he deserves any less concern! Claire, you have a way with him. He likes you.”
Just what she needed. Bob the spider liked her. “You do realize that he’s a year old, at least. And spiders don’t live that long.”
“You think he’s dead?” Myrnin sounded horrified. So wrong.
“Is he curled up?”
“No. He’s just quiet.”
“Well, maybe he’s not hungry.”
“Will you come?” Myrnin asked. He sounded calmer now, but also oddly needy. “It’s been very lonely here these past few days. I’d like your
company, at least for a little while.” When she hesitated, he used the pity card. “Please, Claire.”
“Fine,” she sighed. “I’m bringing Shane.”
After a second of silence, he said, flatly, “Goody,” and hung up.
This is my friend Veronica,” I told him. “And this is Kaidan.”
“Oh, I've heard all about you.” Veronica gave him a big smile.
His brow elevated, but he didn't take the bait. Instead, he stared at me funny. “Nice wart.” Leaning forward without touching me, he flicked the wart from the tip of my nose.
Veronica let out a loud cackle, proving she should be the one in my costume.
“I told you it was stupid!” She gloated.
With my pointer finger, I moved the paint around my nose to fill in the blank spot. When I finished, he was still watching me.
“Your hair's grown a lot,” I said to him.
“So has your bottom.”
My eyes rounded and blood rushed to my face. Veronica hooted with hilarity, bending at the waist. Even Jay let out a loud snicker, the traitor.
I wished Kaidan weren't so perceptive, but it was true. The feminine curves that had always eluded me were finally making an appearance. Stupid tight dress.
“Dude, you can get away with anything,” said the pirate to the straight-faced ape.
“I meant it as a compliment.”
“That was awesome.” Veronica grabbed Jay by the hand. “Come on. Let's go find me a drink.”
She winked at me as they ambled away. I gave my attention to the dry, trampled grass and scattered cans for a moment before working up the nerve to say something.
“My dad gave me a cell phone.” And a car. And a ton of money.
Kaidan set the ape head on the ground and pulled his phone from a fuzzy pocket, blowing off brown lint. Then he held his furry thumbs above the buttons and nodded at me. I started to give him my number, but his brow creased in frustration with the big, costumed hands.
“Here,” I said, taking his phone. Saving my number for him gave me a thrill.
Wendy Higgins (Sweet Evil (Sweet, #1))
Under the mellowing influence of good food and good music, Adam relaxed, and I discovered that underneath that overbearing, hot-tempered Alpha disguise he usually wore was a charming, over-bearing, hot-tempered man. He seemed to enjoy finding out that I was as stubborn and disrespectful of authority as he’d always suspected.
He ordered dessert without consulting me. I’d have been angrier, but it was something I could never have ordered for myself: chocolate, caramel, nuts, ice cream, real whipped cream, and cake so rich it might as well have been a brownie.
“So,” he said, as I finished the last bit, “I’m forgiven?”
“You are arrogant and overstep your bounds,” I told him, pointing my clean fork at him.
“I try,” he said with false modesty. Then his eyes darkened and he reached across the table and ran his thumb over my bottom lip. He watched me as he licked the caramel from his skin.
I thumped my hands down on the table and leaned forward. “That is not fair. I’ll eat your dessert and like it—but you can’t use sex to keep me from getting mad.”
He laughed, one of those soft laughs that start in the belly and rise up through the chest: a relaxed, happy sort of laugh.
To change the subject, because matters were heating up faster than I was comfortable with, I said, “So Bran tells me that he ordered you to keep an eye out for me.”
He stopped laughing and raised both eyebrows. “Yes. Now ask me if I was watching you for Bran.”
It was a trick question. I could see the amusement in his eyes. I hesitated, but decided I wanted to know anyway. “Okay, I’ll bite. Were you watching me for Bran?”
“Honey,” he drawled, pulling on his Southern roots. “When a wolf watches a lamb, he’s not thinking of the lamb’s mommy.”
I grinned. I couldn’t help it. The idea of Bran as a lamb’s mommy was too funny. “I’m not much of a lamb,” I said.
He just smiled.
Patricia Briggs (Moon Called (Mercy Thompson, #1))
How can a cat be a housekeeper?’
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said again. They’d reached a circular elevator of gold and glass. Jupiter pressed a button to call it. ‘No opposable thumbs. How does she do the dusting? To be honest, I’ve asked myself the same question, but I’m not letting it keep me up at night and you shouldn’t either.
What’s wrong?” Billy’s question had me looking up. My second-oldest brother was already dressed for work in his suit and tie. “And shouldn’t you be fishing with Hank?”
“I cancelled. I have an errand to run.” Grabbing a coffee cup from the cabinet, I tossed a thumb over my shoulder. “The toilet is acting funny.”
“Like what? You mean satire?” This question came from Cletus, not bothering to glance away from where he was reading at the table. He was still in his pajamas, his curly hair a mess.Nevertheless, I was surprised to see him up so early.
“No, I mean—”
“I hope it’s a dark comedy,” he added, still not removing his attention from the newspaper.
“Cletus. That’s disgusting.”Sitting across from Cletus, Duane’s tone was reprimanding.
Finally, Cletus tore his eyes from the paper. “What?”
“Dark comedy?” My twin lifted his eyebrows.“Meaning poop?”
“No, Duane.” Cletus paired this with a suffering sigh.
“That would make it a shitty comedy,” I piped in, adding fuel to the conversation fire as I was prone to do, feeling more myself as I smiled.
“Y’all are a bunch of toilets,” Billy mumbled under his breath.
We all turned our attention to our older brother, with Cletus speaking for us, “Let me guess, because toilets in this house actfunny?”
Billy tilted his cup toward Cletus. “Exactly.”
I grinned, the rawness in me settling. Being around my brothers was a salve and a good reminder. We had all lived through dark times—sometimes together, sometimes separately—yet here we were, making toilet jokes on a Wednesday before 7:00 AM.
Penny Reid (Beard in Mind (Winston Brothers, #4))
How can you even joke about that?!” Loki tilts his head. The serious answer, the truthful answer, is how can he not? Joking about pain is the only weapon he has. It is the way he thumbs his nose up at the universe. The way he proves he is unbroken, and if not the god of mischief, then at least mischief’s master. But that isn’t the funny answer.
C. Gockel (Wolves (I Bring the Fire, #1))
Hermione made purple and gold streamers erupt from the end of her wand and drape themselves artistically over the trees and bushes.
“Nice,” said Ron, as with one final flourish of her wand, Hermione turned the leaves on the crabapple tree to gold. “You’ve really got an eye for that sort of thing.”
“Thank you, Ron!” said Hermione, looking both pleased and a little confused. Harry turned away, smiling to himself. He had a funny notion that he would find a chapter on compliments when he found time to peruse his copy of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches; he caught Ginny’s eye and grinned at her before remembering his promise to Ron and hurriedly striking up a conversation with Monsieur Delacour.
“Out of the way, out of the way!” sang Mrs. Weasley, coming through the gate with what appeared to be a giant, beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her. Seconds later Harry realized that it was his birthday cake, which Mrs. Weasley was suspending with her wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven ground. When the cake had finally landed in the middle of the table, Harry said,
“That looks amazing, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” she said fondly. Over her shoulder, Ron gave Harry the thumbs-up and mouthed, Good one.
J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Harry Potter, #7))
You should stop,” Siret agreed, watching me with a smile that said you really shouldn’t stop.
“Seduction,” I agreed while pointing at him, my index finger extended and my thumb sticking up: my fingers were arrows and I was shooting Seduction at him.
“It needs to stop,” Aros insisted. “She might look like me, but I do not act like that.”
In fairness, I’d never seen Aros make little arrows with his fingers and try to shoot people with Seduction, but he really should look into it, I decided.
Jaymin Eve (Trickery (Curse of the Gods, #1))
It's only second period, and the whole school knows Emma broke up with him. So far, he's collected eight phone numbers, one kiss on the cheek, and one pinch to the back of his jeans. His attempts to talk to Emma between classes are thwarted by a hurricane of teenage females whose main goal seems to be keeping him and his ex-girlfriend separated.
When the third period bell rings, Emma has already chosen a seat where she'll be barricaded from him by other students. Throughout class, she pays attention as if the teacher were giving instructions on how to survive a life-threatening catastrophe in the next twenty-four hours. About midway through class, he receives a text from a number he doesn't recognize.
If you let me, I can do things to u to make u forget her.
As soon as he clears it, another one pops up from a different number.
Hit me back if u want to chat. I'll treat u better than E.
How did they get my number? Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he hovers over his notebook protectively, as if it's the only thing left that hasn't been invaded. Then he notices the foreign handwriting scribbled on it by a girl named Shena who encircled her name and phone number with a heart. Not throwing it across the room takes almost as much effort as not kissing Emma.
At lunch, Emma once again blocks his access to her by sitting between people at a full picnic table outside. He chooses the table directly across from her, but she seems oblivious, absently soaking up the grease from the pizza on her plate until she's got at least fifteen orange napkins in front of her. She won't acknowledge that he's staring at her, waiting to wave her over as soon as she looks up.
Ignoring the text message explosion in his vibrating pocket, he opens the contain of tuna fish Rachel packed for him. Forking it violently, he heaves a mound into his mouth, chewing without savoring it. Mark with the Teeth is telling Emma something she thinks is funny, because she covers her mouth with a napkin and giggles. Galen almost launches from his bench when Mark brushes a strand of hair from her face. Now he knows what Rachel meant when she told him to mark his territory early on. But what can he do if his territory is unmarking herself? News of their breakup has spread like an oil spill, and it seems as though Emma is making a huge effort to help it along.
With his thumb and index finger, Galen snaps his plastic fork in half as Emma gently wipes Mark's mouth with her napkin. He rolls his eyes as Mark "accidentally" gets another splotch of JELL-O on the corner of his lips. Emma wipes that clean too, smiling like she's tending to a child.
It doesn't help that Galen's table is filling up with more of his admirers-touching him, giggling at him, smiling at him for no reason, and distracting him from his fantasy of breaking Mark's pretty jaw. But that would only give Emma a genuine reason to assist the idiot in managing his JELL-O.
Anna Banks (Of Poseidon (The Syrena Legacy, #1))
Haven’t I tired you out yet, darling?” Ian whispered several hours later.
“Yes,” she said with an exhausted laugh, her cheek nestled against his shoulder, her hand drifting over his chest in a sleepy caress. “But I’m too happy to sleep for a while yet.”
So was Ian, but he felt compelled to at least suggest that she try. “You’ll regret it in the morning when we have to appear for breakfast,” he said with a grin, cuddling her closer to his side.
To his surprise, the remark made her smooth forehead furrow in a frown. She tipped her face up to his, opened her mouth as if to ask him a question, then she changed her mind and hastily looked away.
“What is it?” he asked, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifting her face up to his.
“Tomorrow morning,” she said with a funny, bemused expression on her face. “When we go downstairs…will everyone know what we have done tonight?”
She expected him to try to evade the question.
“Yes,” he said.
She nodded, accepting that, and turned into his arms. “Thank you for telling me the truth,” she said with a sigh of contentment and gratitude.
“I’ll always tell you the truth,” he promised quietly, and she believed him.
It occurred to Elizabeth that she could ask him now, when he’d given that promise, if he’d had anything to do with Robert’s disappearance. And as quickly as the thought crossed her mind, she pushed it angrily away. She would not defame their marriage bed by voicing ugly, unfounded suspicions carried to her by a man who obviously had a grudge against all Scots.
This morning, she had made a conscious decision to trust him and marry him; now, she was bound by her vows to honor him, and she had absolutely no intention of going back on her own decision or on the vow she made to him in church.
“While we’re on the subject of truth, I have a confession to make.”
Her heart slammed into her ribs, and she went rigid. “What is it?” she asked tautly.
“The chamber next door is meant to be used as your dressing room and withdrawing room. I do not approve of the English custom of husband and wife sleeping in separate beds.” She looked so pleased that Ian grinned. “I’m happy to see,” he chuckled, kissing her forehead, “we agree on that.
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
I glanced over and saw Wyatt glaring at me. Journey’s “Lovin’ Touchin’, Squeezin’” was playing on the radio.
“What?” I asked.
“You secretly hate me, don’t you.” He gestured toward the radio. “You can’t stand the thought of me taking a much needed nap and leaving you to drive without conversation. You’re torturing me with this sappy stuff.”
“It’s Journey. I love this song.”
Wyatt mumbled something under his breath, picked up the CD case, and started looking through it. He paused with a choked noise, his eyes growing huge.
“You’re joking, Sam. Justin Bieber? What are you, a twelve-year old girl?”
There’s gonna be one less lonely girl, I sang in my head. That was a great song. How could he not like that song? Still, I squirmed a bit in embarrassment.
“A twelve-year old girl gave me that CD,” I lied. “For my birthday.”
Wyatt snorted. “It’s a good thing you’re a terrible liar. Otherwise, I’d be horrified at the thought that a demon has been hanging out with a bunch of giggling pre-teens.”
He continued to thumb through the CDs. “Air Supply Greatest Hits? No, no, I’m wrong here. It’s an Air Supply cover band in Spanish.” He waved the offending CD in my face. “Sam, what on earth are you thinking? How did you even get this thing?”
“Some tenant left it behind,” I told him. “We evicted him, and there were all these CDs. Most were in Spanish, but I’ve got a Barry Manilow in there, too. That one’s in English.”
Wyatt looked at me a moment, and with the fastest movement I’ve ever seen, rolled down the window and tossed the case of CDs out onto the highway. It barely hit the road before a semi plowed over it.
I was pissed. “You asshole. I liked those CDs. I don’t come over to your house and trash your video games, or drive over your controllers. If you think that will make me listen to that
Dubstep crap for the next two hours, then you better fucking think again.”
“I’m sorry Sam, but it’s past time for a musical intervention here. You can’t keep listening to this stuff. It wasn’t even remotely good when it was popular, and it certainly hasn’t gained anything over time. You need to pull yourself together and try to expand your musical interests a bit. You’re on a downward spiral, and if you keep this up, you’ll find yourself friendless, living in a box in a back alley, stinking of your own excrement, and covered in track marks.”
I looked at him in surprise. I had no idea Air Supply led to lack of bowel control and hard core drug usage. I wondered if it was something subliminal, a kind of compulsion programmed into the lyrics. Was Russell Hitchcock a sorcerer? He didn’t look that menacing to me, but sorcerers were pretty sneaky. Even so, I was sure Justin Bieber was okay. As soon as we hit a rest stop, I was ordering a replacement from my iPhone.
Debra Dunbar (Satan's Sword (Imp, #2))
The key point is that these patterns, while mostly stable, are not permanent: certain environmental experiences can add or subtract methyls and acetyls, changing those patterns. In effect this etches a memory of what the organism was doing or experiencing into its cells—a crucial first step for any Lamarck-like inheritance. Unfortunately, bad experiences can be etched into cells as easily as good experiences. Intense emotional pain can sometimes flood the mammal brain with neurochemicals that tack methyl groups where they shouldn’t be. Mice that are (however contradictory this sounds) bullied by other mice when they’re pups often have these funny methyl patterns in their brains. As do baby mice (both foster and biological) raised by neglectful mothers, mothers who refuse to lick and cuddle and nurse. These neglected mice fall apart in stressful situations as adults, and their meltdowns can’t be the result of poor genes, since biological and foster children end up equally histrionic. Instead the aberrant methyl patterns were imprinted early on, and as neurons kept dividing and the brain kept growing, these patterns perpetuated themselves. The events of September 11, 2001, might have scarred the brains of unborn humans in similar ways. Some pregnant women in Manhattan developed post-traumatic stress disorder, which can epigenetically activate and deactivate at least a dozen genes, including brain genes. These women, especially the ones affected during the third trimester, ended up having children who felt more anxiety and acute distress than other children when confronted with strange stimuli. Notice that these DNA changes aren’t genetic, because the A-C-G-T string remains the same throughout. But epigenetic changes are de facto mutations; genes might as well not function. And just like mutations, epigenetic changes live on in cells and their descendants. Indeed, each of us accumulates more and more unique epigenetic changes as we age. This explains why the personalities and even physiognomies of identical twins, despite identical DNA, grow more distinct each year. It also means that that detective-story trope of one twin committing a murder and both getting away with it—because DNA tests can’t tell them apart—might not hold up forever. Their epigenomes could condemn them. Of course, all this evidence proves only that body cells can record environmental cues and pass them on to other body cells, a limited form of inheritance. Normally when sperm and egg unite, embryos erase this epigenetic information—allowing you to become you, unencumbered by what your parents did. But other evidence suggests that some epigenetic changes, through mistakes or subterfuge, sometimes get smuggled along to new generations of pups, cubs, chicks, or children—close enough to bona fide Lamarckism to make Cuvier and Darwin grind their molars.
Sam Kean (The Violinist's Thumb: And Other Lost Tales of Love, War, and Genius, as Written by Our Genetic Code)
Marlboro Man and Tim were standing in the hall, not seven steps from the bathroom door. “There she is,” Tim remarked as I walked up to them and stood. I smiled nervously.
Marlboro Man put his hand on my lower back, caressing it gently with his thumb. “You all right?” he asked. A valid question, considering I’d been in the bathroom for over twenty minutes.
“Oh yeah…I’m fine,” I answered, looking away. I wanted Tim to disappear.
Instead, the three of us made small talk before Marlboro Man asked, “Do you want something to drink?” He started toward the stairs.
Gatorade. I wanted Gatorade. Ice-cold, electrolyte-replacing Gatorade. That, and vodka. “I’ll go with you,” I said.
Marlboro Man and I grabbed ourselves a drink and wound up in the backyard, sitting on an ornate concrete bench by ourselves. Miraculously, my nervous system had suddenly grown tired of sending signals to my sweat glands, and the dreadful perspiration spell seemed to have reached its end. And the sun had set outside, which helped my appearance a little. I felt like a circus act.
I finished my screwdriver in four seconds, and both the vitamin C and the vodka went to work almost instantly. Normally, I’d know better than to replace bodily fluids with alcohol, but this was a special case. At that point, I needed nothing more than to self-medicate.
“So, did you get sick or something?” Marlboro Man asked. “You okay?” He touched his hand to my knee.
“No,” I answered. “I got…I got hot.”
He looked at me. “Hot?”
“Yeah. Hot.” I had zero pride left.
“So…what were you doing in the bathroom?” he asked.
“I had to take off all my clothes and fan myself,” I answered honestly. The vitamin C and vodka had become a truth serum. “Oh, and wipe the sweat off my neck and back.” This was sure to reel him in for life.
Marlboro Man looked at me to make sure I wasn’t kidding, then burst into laughter, covering his mouth to keep from spitting out his Scotch. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned over and planted a sweet, reassuring kiss on my cheek. “You’re funny,” he said, as he rubbed his hand on my tragically damp back.
And just like that, all the horrors of the evening disappeared entirely from my mind. It didn’t matter how stupid I was--how dumb, or awkward, or sweaty. It became clearer to me than ever, sitting on that ornate concrete bench, that Marlboro Man loved me. Really, really loved me. He loved me with a kind of love different from any I’d felt before, a kind of love I never knew existed. Other boys--at least, the boys I’d always bothered with--would have been embarrassed that I’d disappeared into the bathroom for half the night. Others would have been grossed out by my tale of sweaty woe or made jokes at my expense. Others might have looked at me blankly, unsure of what to say. But not Marlboro Man; none of it fazed him one bit. He simply laughed, kissed me, and went on. And my heart welled up in my soul as I realized that without question, I’d found the one perfect person for me.
Ree Drummond (The Pioneer Woman: Black Heels to Tractor Wheels)
It’s not all about hitting. There’s an art to it. A talent. You need power but also smarts. When to hit and where. You have to outthink your opponent. It’s not all about size. Determination and experience play a part.”
“Like in business,” she said.
“The skill set translates.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t it hurt when you get hit?”
“Some. But boxing is what I knew. Without it, I would have just been some kid on the streets.”
“You’re saying hitting people kept you from being bad?”
“Something like that. Put down your glass.”
She set it on the desk. He did the same, then stepped in front of her.
“Hit me,” he said.
She tucked both hands behind her back. “I couldn’t.”
The amusement was back. “Do you actually think you can hurt me?”
She eyed his broad chest. “Probably not. And I might hurt myself.”
He shrugged out of his suit jacket, then unfastened his tie. In one of those easy, sexy gestures, he pulled it free of his collar and tossed it over a chair.
“Raise your hands and make a fist,” he said. “Thumbs out.”
Feeling a little foolish, she did as he requested. He stood in front of her again, this time angled, his left side toward her.
“Hit me,” he said. “Put your weight behind it. You can’t hurt me.”
“Are you challenging me?”
He grinned. “Think you can take me?”
Not on her best day, but she was willing to make the effort. She punched him in the arm. Not hard, but not lightly.
He frowned. “Anytime now.”
“Try again. This time hit me like you mean it or I’ll call you a girl.”
“I am a girl.”
She punched harder this time and felt the impact back to her shoulder. Duncan didn’t even blink.
“Maybe I’d do better at tennis,” she murmured.
“It’s all about knowing what to do.” He moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You want to bend your knees and keep your chin down. As you start the punch, think about a corkscrew.” He demonstrated in slow motion.
“That will give you power,” he said. “It’s a jab. A good jab can make a boxer’s career. Lean into the punch.”
She was sure his words were making sense, but it was difficult to think with him standing so close. She was aware of his body just inches from hers, of the strength and heat he radiated. The need to simply relax into his arms was powerful.
Still, she did her best to pay attention, and when he stepped in front of her again so she could demonstrate, she did her best to remember what he’d said.
This time, she felt the impact all the way up her arm. There was a jarring sensation, but also the knowledge that she’d hit a lot harder.
“Did I bruise you?” she asked, almost hoping he would say yes, or at least rub his arm.
“No, but that was better. Did you feel the difference?”
“Yes, but I still wouldn’t want to be a boxer.”
“Probably for the best. You’d get your nose broken.”
She dropped her arms to her sides. “I wouldn’t want that.” She leaned closer. “Have you had your nose broken?”
“A couple of times.”
She peered at his handsome face. “I can’t tell.”
“I was lucky.”
She put her hand on his chin to turn his head. He looked away, giving her a view of his profile. There was a small bump on his nose. Nothing she would have noticed.
“You couldn’t just play tennis?” she asked.
He laughed, then captured her hand in his and faced her. They were standing close together, his fingers rubbing hers. She shivered slightly, but not from cold. His eyes darkened as he seemed to loom over her. His gaze dropped to her mouth. He swallowed.
The word was more breath than sound. She heard the wanting in his voice and felt an answering hunger burning inside her. There were a thousand reasons she should run and not a single reason to stay. She knew that she was the one at risk, knew that he wasn’t looking for anything permanent. But the temptation was too great. Being around Duncan was the best part of her day.
Susan Mallery (High-Powered, Hot-Blooded)
also brought home a set of fly-fishing how-to videotapes. This is the eighties, I reasoned, the age of video. What better way to take up a sport than from a comfortable armchair? That’s where I’m at my best with most sports anyway. There were three tapes. The first one claimed it would teach me to cast. The second would teach me to “advanced cast.” And the third would tell me where trout live, how they spend their weekends, and what they’d order for lunch if there were underwater delicatessens for fish. I started the VCR and a squeaky little guy with an earnest manner and a double-funny hat came on, began heaving fly line around, telling me the secret to making beautiful casting loops is … Whoever made these tapes apparently assumed I knew how to tie backing to reel and line to backing and leader to line and so on all the way out to the little feather and fuzz fish snack at the end. I didn’t know how to put my rod together. I had to go to the children’s section at the public library and check out My Big Book of Fishing and begin with how to open the package it all came in. A triple granny got things started on the spool. After twelve hours and help from pop rivets and a tube of Krazy Glue, I managed an Albright knot between backing and line. But my version of a nail knot in the leader put Mr. Gordian of ancient Greek knot fame strictly on the shelf. It was the size of a hamster and resembled one of the Woolly Bugger flies I’d bought except in the size you use for killer whales. I don’t want to talk about blood knots and tippets. There I was with two pieces of invisible plastic, trying to use fingers the size of a man’s thumb while holding a magnifying glass and a Tensor lamp between my teeth and gripping nasty tangles of monofilament with each big toe. My girlfriend had to come over and cut me out of this with pinking shears. Personally, I’m going to get one of those nine-year-old Persian kids that they use to make incredibly tiny knots in fine Bukhara rugs and just take him with me on all my fishing trips.
P.J. O'Rourke (Thrown Under the Omnibus: A Reader)
You, douche bags! Do not blame God. As a thumb rule, know that all evil thoughts are your own. And all good thoughts are God’s own. Own up, you, nutcases!
Ready?" Aeron called over.
Michael span to see him giving a thumbs up to the booth. His eye was drawn down to the huge war hammer hanging from his other hand.
"How about we start with a chase? Try to touch the far wall and get back here before I cripple you." He smiled as if he'd said 'tag you', not 'cripple you'.
Dylan Perry (Gods Just Want To Have Fun)
Spence beached the boat and strutted up to where Denny and Mr. Jones were working. He stared at Denny and smiled. “You got enough of that shit on your face?” he asked.
Mr. Jones look up sharply. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “You don’t talk to a lady like that.”
Spence laughed. “What lady?” he said.
Denny blushed. She could see the anger building in Mr. Jones’s eyes. “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “I don’t care.”
Mr. Jones turned to her. “Well, you should,” he told her, his eyes flashing, “and Mr. Spencer here would respect you more if you did, whether he realizes it or not.”
Spence snorted derisively.
“Well, like it or not, you keep a civil tongue while you’re working for me, mister, understand?” said Mr. Jones.
Spence shrugged. “You’re the boss,” he said, and started walking up toward the shack.
Mr. Jones picked up a nail. “You kids today use too darn much profanity anyway,” he yelled. He banged the nail into the brace. “You use it anytime, anyplace. It’s not right.” He banged another nail. “Shows a lack of respect, not to mention a deficient vocabulary.” He slammed another nail into the wood. “There’s a time and a place for profanity.” He held another nail and smashed the hammer down. “Aagh! Like now! Dammit!” He dropped the hammer and grabbed his thumb.
Denny covered her mouth and turned away so he wouldn’t see her laugh, but he saw anyway.
“Oh, very funny, huh?” said Mr. Jones.
Denny couldn’t stop giggling. Soon she had Mr. Jones laughing too. “That’s what I get for trying to defend your honor,” he said.
“Sorry,” said Denny. She looked up the hill and saw Spence duck into the shed. There was a burst of loud, muffled laughter, and she started giggling all over again.
“All right, all right,” said Mr. Jones. “Are you going to go get me a Band-Aid or do I have to stand here and bleed to death while you and your friend up there make sport of me?
Jackie French Koller (The Last Voyage of the Misty Day)
Taking a deep breath, Sailor decided to lay himself at her feet. "I was imagining the future and thinking of how if everything went according to plan, I'd have a very successful business with a high turnover."
He made sure his hands were locked behind Ísa's back--just in case she decided to leave him in her dust a fourth time. "And since I'd be rich, I'd be able to buy houses and other nice things for my family."
Ísa frowned. "I don't think your family expects that."
"They don't exactly need my largess either," Sailor muttered. "But in my future fantasy, I'm buying everyone fancy cars and houses. Go with it."
Ísa's lips twitched. "Okay, big spender. What else is fantasy Sailor doing?"
"He's building a ginormous mansion. Swimming pool, tennis court, the works."
"Is he hiring a buff personal masseuse named Sven?"
"Hell no." He glared at her. "The masseuse is a fifty-year-old forner bodybuilder named Helga. Now, can I carry on?"
Pretending to zip up her lips and throw away the key, Ísa made a "go on" motion.
"Future Sailor is also creating a huge walk-in closet for you and filling it with designer shoes and clothes. He's giving you everything your heart desires."
A flicker of darkness in Ísa's gaze, but she didn't interrupt... though her hands went still on his shoulders.
"And there's a tricked-out nursery too," he added. "Plus a private playground for our rug rats."
Throat moving, Ísa said, "How many?" It was a husky question.
"Seven, I think."
"Very funny, mister."
"I'm not done." Sailor was the one who swallowed this time. "And in this fantasy house, future Sailor walks in late for dinner again because of a board meeting, and he has a gorgeous, sexy, brilliant wife and adorable children. But his redhead doesn't look at him the same anymore. And it doesn't matter how many shoes he buys her or how many necklaces he gives her, she's never again going to look at him the way she did before he stomped on her heart.
Ísa's lower lip began to quiver, but she didn't speak.
"I'm so sorry, baby." Sailor cupped her face, made sure she saw the sheer terror he felt at the thought of losing her. "I've been so tied to this idea of becoming a grand success that I forgot what it was all about in the first place--being there for the people I love. Sticking through the good and the bad. Never abandoning them."
Silent tears rolled own Ísa's face.
"But that great plan of mine?" he said, determined not to give himself any easy outs. "It'd have mean abandoning everyone. How can I be there for anyone when all I do is work? When I shove aside all other commitments? When the people I love hesitate to ask for my time because I'm too tired and too busy?"
Using his thumbs, he rubbed away her tears. More splashed onto the backs of his hands, her hurt as hot as acid. "Spitfire, please," he begged, breaking. "I'll let you punch me as many times as you want if you stop crying. With a big red glove. And you can post photos online."
Ísa pressed her lips together, blinked rapidly several times. And pretended to punch him with one fist, the touch a butterfly kiss.
Catching her hand, he pressed his lips to it. "That's more like my Ísa." He wrapped his arms around her again. And then he told her the most important thing. "I realized that I could become a multimillionaire, but it would mean nothing if my redhead didn't look at me the way she does now, if she expected to have to take care of everything alone like she's always done--because her man was a selfish bastard who was never there."
Ísa rubbed her nose against his. "You're being very hard on future Sailor," she whispered, her voice gone throaty.
"That dumbass deserves it," Sailor growled. "He was going to put his desire to be a big man above his amazing, smart, loving redhead.
Nalini Singh (Cherish Hard (Hard Play, #1))
He moved down from the trail we had just been climbing and started to take the steep dirt path downward. Not paying a bit of attention to the trail because I was too focused on wondering how hard it would be to get myself off using his body and the vibrations, when his nose end hit the mud first, a huge wave of brown wetness covered us. And of course, because I was too busy trying to work at getting myself off, my back was arched. I had, in my mind, the best plan to arch my back and rub my core against the seat and his hard body. But when that mud wave came up and then back down, it shot straight down the back of my pants.
“Oh, my God, Lee!”
He doesn’t answer, just laughs harder. So hard, in fact, that he has to stop the four-wheeler.
“This isn’t funny! I have mud . . . oh my God . . . I have mud in my ass!”
His laughter picks up until he is forced to hold his sides.
“Holy crap. I can feel it. It’s all in my panties, Lee!”
Again, the big jerk just keeps on laughing until he has to pull his shirt up, flip it to the inside and wipe the tears his laughing has caused, rolling down his face.
“I swear, Liam Beckett. I was this close, this freaking close,” I scream, holding my pointer finger just an inch from my thumb, “To having one hell of an orgasm. It was building so high, I was too busy wondering if I would fall off the back when I went off. This freaking close and now . . . now I have mud in my ASS!
Harper Sloan (Bleeding Love (Hope Town, #2))
I wish you were going home with me tomorrow.” “I know.” She nearly added Me too, then realized she didn’t. Where would that leave the children? Stephen turned her hand over and ran his thumb across the ring. The wind tugged her hair. A lone seagull cried overhead, floating on the wind, almost stationary. “There was a part of me that hoped you would,” he said. “You know I can’t.” Hadn’t they been through this before? “It won’t be much longer. School will be out in a little over a month. And if the Goldmans buy the property, that’ll expedite things.” “And then what?” “The property would close thirty days from the signing. Maybe you could come for another visit between now and then.” “That’s not what I mean, Meridith.” She knew he referred to the children coming home with her, to their being a family, and she wished so desperately the day had gone better. “Today was a bad day. They’re not normally so quarrelsome, and Ben’s vomiting . . .” The memory was such a horrific end to the day, it was almost funny. She felt a laugh bubbling up inside. “Well, you have to keep your sense of humor around here, that’s for sure.” “I don’t find it funny in the least.” The bubble of laughter burst, unfulfilled. “I appreciate that you want to give them a chance. I’m just trying to say it isn’t always like this.” He looked at her, his eyes intent with purpose. “I didn’t come to bond with the kids, Meridith. I came to remind you what we have together.” He pressed another kiss to her palm. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Her breath caught, but not because he’d repeated the words he’d spoken when he’d proposed. The other words made a far stronger impression. I didn’t come to bond with the kids. She’d misread the reason for his visit. She’d taken her own wish and transferred it onto him. “We have plans, good ones,” he said. “Save for a home in Lindenwood Park while we focus on our careers for three to five years. By then we’ll have enough to buy that dream home and start a family.” Meridith knotted the quilt material in her fist with the daffodil, clutching the stem against her chest. “I already have a family, Stephen.” His face fell. “They’re not your kids, Meridith. And they’re not mine.” “They’re my siblings. And they have no one else.” “That wasn’t our plan when I asked you to marry me. When you said yes.” “Life doesn’t always go according to plan, Stephen. Things happen. Change happens. I didn’t ask for this.” “I didn’t either. And I’m asking you to put me first. To put us first.” His grip tightened on her hand. “I love you. The future I want for us doesn’t include someone else’s children.” Meridith eased away from him, pulled her hand from his, and stood, even as he tightened his grip. If Stephen’s future didn’t include her siblings, then it didn’t include her either. She
Denise Hunter (Driftwood Lane (Nantucket, #4))
I wish you were going home with me tomorrow.” “I know.” She nearly added Me too, then realized she didn’t. Where would that leave the children? Stephen turned her hand over and ran his thumb across the ring. The wind tugged her hair. A lone seagull cried overhead, floating on the wind, almost stationary. “There was a part of me that hoped you would,” he said. “You know I can’t.” Hadn’t they been through this before? “It won’t be much longer. School will be out in a little over a month. And if the Goldmans buy the property, that’ll expedite things.” “And then what?” “The property would close thirty days from the signing. Maybe you could come for another visit between now and then.” “That’s not what I mean, Meridith.” She knew he referred to the children coming home with her, to their being a family, and she wished so desperately the day had gone better. “Today was a bad day. They’re not normally so quarrelsome, and Ben’s vomiting . . .” The memory was such a horrific end to the day, it was almost funny. She felt a laugh bubbling up inside. “Well, you have to keep your sense of humor around here, that’s for sure.” “I don’t find it funny in the least.” The bubble of laughter burst, unfulfilled. “I appreciate that you want to give them a chance. I’m just trying to say it isn’t always like this.” He looked at her, his eyes intent with purpose. “I didn’t come to bond with the kids, Meridith. I came to remind you what we have together.” He pressed another kiss to her palm. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Her breath caught, but not because he’d repeated the words he’d spoken when he’d proposed. The other words made a far stronger impression. I didn’t come to bond with the kids. She’d misread the reason for his visit. She’d taken her own wish and transferred it onto him. “We have plans, good ones,” he said. “Save for a home in Lindenwood Park while we focus on our careers for three to five years. By then we’ll have enough to buy that dream home and start a family.” Meridith knotted the quilt material in her fist with the daffodil, clutching the stem against her chest. “I already have a family, Stephen.” His face fell. “They’re not your kids, Meridith. And they’re not mine.” “They’re my siblings. And they have no one else.” “That wasn’t our plan when I asked you to marry me. When you said yes.” “Life doesn’t always go according to plan, Stephen. Things happen. Change happens. I didn’t ask for this.” “I didn’t either. And I’m asking you to put me first. To put us first.” His grip tightened on her hand. “I love you. The future I want for us doesn’t include someone else’s children.” Meridith
Denise Hunter (Driftwood Lane (Nantucket, #4))
You think it’s funny to laugh at a blind girl. That kind of worries me, Morg. Makes me wonder about what kind of man I have managing my bar. See, there are two things I hate.” I held up my thumb and my pointer finger and counted them off. “Bullies and bitches. I never knew you were a bully, Morg. Now, don’t bitch, or I’ll have two reasons to fire you. Go home.
Amy Harmon (The Song of David (The Law of Moses, #2))
You know the funny thing about truth is that it’s like raw chicken. You can hide it. You can freeze it. You can bury it, but eventually, that shit starts to smell. Bad. One day the power will go out, and that frozen, nasty ass chicken will stink up the house. Your girl will come home and want to know what the hell is with that stench. And you’ll be standing there like an idiot, twiddling your thumbs, saying you just didn’t get around to putting it in the trashcan when you should’ve, five years ago.
Penelope Bloom (Her Bush (Objects of Attraction, #6))
I want to make this work, Pippa. I knew we met for a reason.” His breath is warm on my face as he whispers, “I can’t not be with you.”
I close my eyes and absorb his words. He wants to make this work. I want to make this work. It will. Somehow.
“You really like me that much?”
I hear him swallow. “I’m not sure like is a strong enough word.”
I lift my chin until our lips meet in a sweet, gentle kiss. And then I ruin it when I surrender to another giggle fit.
He leans away to look at me, alarmed. “Why is that funny?”
“No no no, I’m not laughing at you.” I stroke his wrist with my thumb. “It’s just…I actually brought a guy home from Italy. This is crazy.”
He relaxes a little. “What do you mean?”
“Remember when I told you about that list of goals Morgan had me write out at the beginning of my trip?”
“Ugh, this is going to seem so stupid to you.” I pause to get the last bit of laughter out, preparing myself for what I’m about to reveal to him. “One of my goals was to fall in love with an Italian.”
The dimples pop in his cheeks before he draws out, “Reaaally?”
“I was going to fall in love and bring him home with me when summer was over. But I just had to eat gelato before dinner, and there you were, throwing me off course on my first day in the country.”
Now he laughs. “So I foiled your master plan, huh?” he asks, and I nod with pouty lips. “Am I that hard to resist?” He straightens, smoothing out the front of his shirt.
“Well, you kept popping up everywhere! How was I supposed to fall in love with anyone else?” My hands are shaking so I slide them underneath me. “It was a silly game anyway.”
“I don’t--wait.” Color spreads through his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “Are you saying you’re in love with me?”
Is that what I was saying? Am I in love with him?
I’m mute. All I can do is stare at him, soak him up.
Darren gets a spacey look on his face as he pats at the surface of the water with his feet, mumbling something that sounds like, “Oh, my parents are gonna love this story.
Kristin Rae (Wish You Were Italian (If Only . . ., #2))
Who is that girl?” Loretta demanded one evening.
“What girl?” Hunter felt heat rising up his neck and avoided meeting his wife’s flashing blue gaze.
“That girl, the one who seems to have something in her eye.”
Hunter obliged Loretta by giving Bright Star a bored glance. “She is sister to my woman who is dead.” He bent back over the arrowhead he was sharpening. “She is called Bright Star.”
“She doesn’t look very bright. Is that a tic, or does she always blink that way?”
Hunter smothered a snort of laughter. “She makes eyes, yes?”
He straightened and lifted a dark brow. “You think she makes eyes for you?”
Loretta’s spine stiffened. “You think this is funny? Doesn’t she realize that you’re a married--” The flash in her eyes grew more fiery. “Oh, yes, how remiss of me. I forgot that you can have an entire herd of wives.”
Hunter sighed and set aside the arrowhead. “This Comanche has no wish for a herd of wives. One is sure enough plenty trouble.”
“Are you saying I make your life miserable? If that’s the case, why did you marry me? Why didn’t you marry her?”
Hunter knew jealousy when he saw it. Everything else had failed. New tactics were called for. “I could have. Bright Star thinks I would be a fine husband, yes?”
“She can have you.”
That wasn’t exactly the response Hunter had been hoping for. “You have me, one unto the other, forever until we die and rot. It was your wish.”
She sputtered for a moment, trying to speak. “I wasforced into this farce of a marriage!”
He shrugged again. “And you do not want your man. It is sure enough a sad thing.” He thumbed his hand at Bright Star, who was still fluttering her lashes. “She wants what you do not. Yet you are angry? It is boisa, Blue Eyes.”
Loretta flew to her feet, hands clenched at her sides. “It sounds as if you’ve been cheated all the way around, you poor man. Well, let me tell you something!”
“I am here.”
She jutted her small chin at him. “As long as you have wandering eyes, this woman wouldn’t have you in her buffalo robes if you crawled on your knees and begged. Is that clear?” She swung her arm toward Bright Star. “You can have her! You can have every woman in the village! Be my guest. But you can’t have me as well, make no mistake in that!”
With that, Loretta spun and ran into the lodge. Hunter sat there a moment, listening to the muffled sounds that drifted from the doorway. Sobbing. With a snarl, he picked up the nearly finished arrowhead he had been sharpening and threw it into some nearby brush.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
She couldn’t help it; she looked hungrily at his dessert-covered chest and abs. Like a woman starved and stranded at sea. Her gaze rose slowly to meet his. But before she could reply, or attack and devour him, a boat horn sounded, making them both start. An amused voice carried the short distance across the water. “He surrenders, Kerry! Don’t make him walk the plank!”
Kerry pulled back as if she’d been physically poked, swinging her gaze across the water to where another sailboat was passing by, getting ready to leave the harbor for the bay, sails fully unfurled. It was Jim Stein, with his wife, Carol, an older couple who were long-time friends of Fergus’s but well known to the whole McCrae clan. She felt her cheeks flaming in embarrassment and was grateful they were far enough away not to see the particulars of what was going on. Of course they could plainly see Cooper was shirtless, but she still had on the hoodie and fishing hat, so how inappropriately could they be behaving, right?
If only they knew. Five more minutes and her old friends might have gotten a completely different eyeful. Hell, five more seconds.
She waved, flashed a thumbs-up, then waved again as they sailed on, leaving laughter in their wake. With her teeth still gritted in a smile, she said, “This will be all over the Cove five seconds after they get back. Sooner if they have radio signal.” She turned back to Cooper, who was grinning shamelessly, hands linked behind his head now, as if preparing for his plank walk. “Very funny,” she said, trying to ignore how the posture made his biceps flex and showed off the definition in his six-pack. She couldn’t help but note that some of the blueberries had slid all the way down to the waistband of his cargo shorts, leaving streaks of blue on his skin, like arrows pointing to where she should go to resume their little game.
She realized she was staring when her eyes slid a little lower still and--she jerked her gaze back to his, realizing he’d made her blush again. She typically wasn’t much of a blusher either. But she didn’t usually find herself playing food Twister with a half-naked man. Rather than finding a mocking smile waiting for her, the curve of his lips was amused, maybe even a little affectionate. Like she was being cute or something. She’d show him cute. Then she met his eyes and saw there was nothing amused or even borderline condescending to be found there. Incendiary was the word that came to mind.
Donna Kauffman (Starfish Moon (Brides of Blueberry Cove, #3))
Hi,” I say quietly. I’m surprised that noise crept past the emotion in my throat because I still feel like it’s going to choke me. “Hi,” he says quietly. He looks over at Jill, and she gives him a thumbs-up. She doesn’t get up, though. I see her wipe a tear from her cheek. “Did you meet my friend, Hayley?” I ask. He nods. Paul keeps trying to catch my eyes with his, but I won’t let him. “I’m Friday,” I say. I’m your mother, and I love you more than anything, anywhere, anytime. The words rush to my lips, but I bite them back. “What’s your name?” Jacob runs over to his mother and says something to her. She reaches into the big bag at her feet and takes out a box. She hands it to him, and he runs back over. He never did tell me his name, but that’s okay. I’d rather he have a little stranger danger. And I’m a stranger, after all. Jacob sits down on the sidewalk and opens his box. He takes out a clunky piece of chalk and says, “Do you want to draw with me?” I sit down beside him and say, “What color should I use?” He gives me a blue piece of chalk. “This one.” So I sit for hours and draw with my son in chalk on the sidewalk. We draw rainbows and dragons, and we even make some flowers for his mom. I look around and see that the sidewalk is completely full of our art. There’s not an available space to be had. “You’re a really good drawer,” he says. He grins up at me, and I see the space where his missing tooth should be. “So are you.” I reach out a tentative hand and touch the top of his head. I close my eyes and breathe, letting my hand riffle through the silky strands. I pull back way sooner than I want to because he’s looking at me funny. I look over and see Paul sitting and talking quietly with Jill. He gets up and yells over to us. “We’re going to get some lunch! We’ll be right back!” I give him a thumbs-up and get up to chase Hayley and Jacob over to the swings. “Push me!” Hayley cries. “Push me!” Jacob calls at the same time. He laughs, and I put my hand in the center of both their backs, standing between them, and give them both a shove. It’s only a minute or two later when Paul and Jill come back carrying hot dogs and drinks. The kids race to the table. I jam my hands into my pockets and walk over a little more slowly. Paul and Jill sit side by side on one side of the picnic table, and Hayley and Jacob sit on the other. “Sit beside me!” Hayley cries. “No, me!” Jacob says. I put my legs over the bench and sit between them, and Paul hands me a hot dog. Jacob scoots so close to me that I can feel his thigh against mine. The heat of his little body seeps into the cold of mine and warms me everywhere. I close my eyes for a moment and just breathe, enjoying the feel of having my living, breathing child pressed into my side.
Tammy Falkner (Proving Paul's Promise (The Reed Brothers, #5))
You know he came to see me, right?” he asks. I roll my eyes. “I’m not deaf, Dad. You just told me that.” “Not today, Sky. Yesterday. He came to see me.” I go to the fridge and get a bottle of water. Chunky Monkey makes me thirsty, apparently. “Why would Matt come to see you?” “He wanted to ask for my permission to marry you.” I drop my bottle, and it rolls across the floor. “He wanted what?” “You’re not deaf, Sky,” he says. “Not funny, Dad.” But a grin steals across my face. “He really asked you that?” He smiles, too. “Yeah, he did. I told him you guys should just shack up like young people do, but he told me he couldn’t do that as long as there are impressionable kids in the house. He said that Seth will learn how to treat women from the way he treats you, and that Joey and Mellie will learn how to treat men from the way you treat him. And vice versa. So, he wants to marry you and make it all legitimate.” My heart warms at the very idea of it. “He hasn’t asked me yet.” But I know what my answer would be. I feel for my ring finger with the pad of my thumb. I want to wear Matt’s ring. I want him to be my husband. Dad takes in my grin. “He’s the one, huh?” he asks. “Yeah,” I say. “He’s the one.” “I had a feeling he would be. I met him when Kendra was sick. He seems like a wonderful person. Good and kind. And persistent.” He narrows his eyes at me. I laugh. “He’s definitely persistent. But you know what I love about him most, Dad?” I ask. He quirks a brow instead of responding. “I love that he was willing to give up tonight and walk away for the good of the kids.” “I don’t get it.” He looks confused. “I ran to my apartment because I didn’t want to face him. He came there and told me he would give up if I would just go back to the kids, because they didn’t deserve for me to leave them. He quit our argument. He walked away. And that makes me love him even more than I did before.” Dad walks over and gives me an awkward hug. He’s not nearly as good at it as Seth is, but he’s trying. He gets points for trying. I look up at my dad. “Did you tell him yes, Dad?” I ask quietly. He brushes my hair back from my face. “Yes, Sky. I did.” I grin. “I’m glad.” “Me, too. Glad you met him. Glad he’s capable of loving you like you deserve.
Tammy Falkner (Maybe Matt's Miracle (The Reed Brothers, #4))
Don’t I have to be a Presbyterian, to work full-time at the church?” “No,” he said. “Not necessary. I’m the one with the calling, you’re working for a living. Is that what’s worrying you?” “I can’t work for someone who wants to kiss me.” “Oh, that. Well, I think we’re doing okay with that. Don’t you?” “No,” she said, snuggling closer. “You’ve been behaving, but it’s right there, under the surface, I can feel it. You’re dying to do it again.” He laughed. “I am.” He put his thumb and finger on her chin and turned her face up toward his. “But I’m not sure I even remember it right.” He touched her lips briefly with his. “Pah. Not that great. I can live without it.” She laughed at him. “Funny. That was a decoy, which is the same as a lie, Your Worship.” His
Robyn Carr (Forbidden Falls)
I cannot go to school today" Said little Peggy Ann McKay. "I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps. My mouth is wet, my throat is dry. I'm going blind in my right eye. My tonsils are as big as rocks, I've counted sixteen chicken pox. And there's one more - that's seventeen, And don't you think my face looks green? My leg is cut, my eyes are blue, It might be the instamatic flu. I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, I'm sure that my left leg is broke. My hip hurts when I move my chin, My belly button's caving in. My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained, My 'pendix pains each time it rains. My toes are cold, my toes are numb, I have a sliver in my thumb. My neck is stiff, my voice is weak, I hardly whisper when I speak. My tongue is filling up my mouth, I think my hair is falling out. My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight, My temperature is one-o-eight. My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear, There's a hole inside my ear. I have a hangnail, and my heart is … What? What's that? What's that you say? You say today is .............. Saturday? G'bye, I'm going out to play!” Shel Silverstein
Neeraj Kumar (Funny Quotes: Learn with Fun)
Have I told you today why I love you?” Carter takes a step toward me, then another, his smile growing with each inch he eliminates. “I love you because you’re funny and snarky, sarcastic as all hell, and the night we met, you told me to go fuck myself.” He ignores the way Cara shrieks his name. “You’re also kind and soft, sensitive and sweet, the best auntie, and a teacher I would’ve died to have in high school. You’re not just my girlfriend; you’re my biggest cheerleader and my best friend.” He takes my face in his hands, thumbs wiping at the overflowing tears dripping down my cheeks. I don’t even know where they came from. “Why are you crying, Ollie girl? I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet.” “I don’t know what’s going on, but you called me your best friend and your girlfriend,” I sob, folding toward his chest as I grip the loosened collar of his shirt. His soft chuckle is warm against my lips as he tips my chin up to kiss me. He takes a step backward, dipping his hand in his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box, and he sinks to one knee. “I’m hoping to call you something else when I’m done doing what I need to do here.
Becka Mack (Consider Me (Playing For Keeps, #1))
Guard her like you're me.'
'You mean like I'm six inches taller and built like a bull?' Ridoc gives him a thumbs-up. 'Sure. I'll do my best. In the meantime, you'd better run.'
Liam's gaze finds mine. 'Stay alive.'
'Working on it, and not just for my sake.' I give him a smile. 'Thanks for being a great shadow.
Rebecca Yarros (Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1))
How do you feel about Coldplay, Bach, and Taylor Swift for an opening trio?” C’s thumbs tap away at the screen.
“Am I going through a 17th-century break-up with a beach?” Neo asks, monotonous.
“That’d make a cool music video, actually.” C looks up, considering it.
Lancali. (I Fell in Love with Hope)
So, you're suggesting I led you out here, instead of toward a private room with a bed' - he dragged the tips of his fingers down my right arm- 'to engage in a particular type of inappropriate behaviour?'
'That's exactly what I'm saying, though my room would've been a better option.' My heart had already started pounding the moment my rear ended up in his lap. Now, it felt as if it were going to explode out of my chest.
'What if I said that isn't true?'
'I...' My stomach fluttered as his fingers found their way to my hip. 'I wouldn't believe you.'
'Then what if I said it didn't start off that way?' His thumb moved against my hip. But then there was the moonlight and you, with your hair down, in this dress, and then the idea occurred to me that this would be the perfect location for some wildly inappropriate behaviour.'
'Then I... I would say that's more likely.'
HIs hand glided over the thin, gauzy material of the gown. 'So, there you have it.'
'At least, you're honest.
Jennifer L. Armentrout (From Blood and Ash (Blood and Ash, #1))
After all we shared? You throw a dagger at my face?'
'All we shared? It was a handful of minutes and a few kisses,' I said, and the truth of that struck me with startling clarity. That was all we'd shared. Gods, I was so... sheltered. Because in my limited experience, it had become... so much more to me. The wake-up call that it was only a few kisses was utterly brutal.
'It was more than a few kisses.' His voice dropped low. 'If you've forgotten, I'm more than willing to remind you.'
Tiny coils of tension formed in my stomach. Part of me wanted to be reminded of what I surely had not forgotten. Thank the gods, the smarter, logical part of me won out. 'There was nothing worth remembering.'
'Now you insult me after throwing a dagger at my face? You've wounded my tender feelings.'
'Tender feelings?' I snorted. 'Don't be overdramatic.'
'Hard not to be when you threw a dagger at my head and then cut my neck,' he shot back, his grip on me surprisingly gentle compared to the hardness of his tone.
'I knew you'd move out of the way.'
'Did you? Is that why you tried to slice open my throat?' His golden eyes burned from beneath heavy, thick lashes.
'I nicked your skin,' I corrected. 'Because you had a hold of me and wouldn't let go. Obviously, you haven't learnt anything from it.'
'I've actually learned a lot, Princess. That's why your hands and your dagger aren't getting anywhere near my neck.' His thumb slid over the inside of my wrist as a reminder, and my fingers spasmed around the handle of my weapon. 'But if you let go of the dagger, there's a whole lot of me I'll let your hands get close to.
Jennifer L. Armentrout (From Blood and Ash (Blood and Ash, #1))