Working at Rangeman is a high-stress job, and you’re one of our few sources of comic relief. I give you a car and my men start a pool on how long it will take you to trash it. You’re a line item in my budget under entertainment.
Ranger slung an arm around my shoulders and kissed me on the top of my head. “Someday I need to talk to you about car care.” “I know about car care. I kept a case of motor oil in the back.” “That’s my girl.
Ranger was not husband material. He was a heart-stopping handsome Latino, dark-skinned and dark-eyed. He was strong inside and out, an enigma who kept his life scars pretty much hidden.
I had a long history of calamitous mishaps.
Babe, you’ve destroyed a car, burned down two buildings, stapled a guy’s nuts, and you have sixteen stitches in your leg. Take a night off. Have a glass of wine, watch some television, and go to bed early.
I mostly eat peanut butter sandwiches. Peanut butter and banana, peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and potato chips, peanut butter and olives, and peanut butter and marshmallow goo. So sue me, I like peanut butter.
I write to entertain. When people read one of my books I want them to finish with a smile on their faces, feeling a little bit better about themselves and the people in their lives.
Only men you can count on these days are Ben and Jerry.
Personally, I’m a lazy kind of guy, and leaving the door open on the mystical saves me work. I don’t have to stress my brain trying to explain the unexplainable. It’s magic. End of discussion.
I’m so busy writing and editing two books a year that I don’t have time for painting anymore.
If anything happened to you, I’d be so destroyed they’d have to strap me to a bed and feed me through a tube. After five or six years, I might be capable of taking care of Rex. In the interim, you should assign a guardian.
My mother drove back to the intersection. “Who are you dating?” “Don’t ask,” I said. I wasn’t dating anyone. I was fornicating with Batman.
I really wouldn’t classify the books as mysteries. I prefer to say that they’re adventures.
Maybe your pregnant. Oops, hold on, you’re not pregnant, on account of you’re not gettin any.
Since I write in first person and have no idea what goes on in men’s heads.
Are you telling me your brain and your lady parts decided on a love fest bake-off winner?
I’m for sure a workaholic. I’m a complete control freak and I take on way too many projects.
I don’t know if it’s a good idea to give a woman a box of bullets when she’s got a pimple.
Cracker Jacks don’t count as junk food because they’re corn and peanuts, which we know to be high in nutrition. And they have a prize inside.
By about the sixth romance I knew I wasn’t in exactly the right place. I liked writing action. And I wanted to write a book with a little more edge than I was allowed in romance.