Tucking my nose into a book makes me completely oblivious to my surroundings. I would have made a terrible spy in the army – the first person to hand me a novel would have been able to shoot my head clean off without me noticing.
Love is the best revenge.
I read a lot. I love books. If they came in a bottle, I’d be a drunk too.
Very possibly this was the night my white-knight complex, as Solange put it, would get me killed. Someone had better write a poem about it. It was only fair.
I might have been more worried if I hadn’t been defending myself against six brothers my whole life. And if I didn’t have a mother who thought she was a ninja.
Her lips pursed. My palms went damp. Her fangs were out, as pointed and delicate as little bone daggers. “That’s disappointing, Solange.” I was going to die because I couldn’t embroider roses on a pillow.
With great hotness comes great responsibility.
Cross a small dog with a pig and you have a pug.