I tried not to look as if I was hiding a handsome young lad under the mattress.
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.
Something bloomed right then and there in the small dark space between us. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew enough to know it was rare and delicate. And it felt so real I might have been able to reach out and touch it if I tried.
I blinked, pushing myself up into a sitting position. I felt less like a truck had run over me and then backed up to make sure the job was done properly. Now it felt as if the truck had hit me only once.
With her long dark hair and green eyes, she was pretty as a doll. You know, the kind of doll that came to life at night to kill monsters.
Could one write a strongly worded letter to the deceased requiring their full cooperation?
We were so close to home now, I would have tripped an old woman with a cane if she’d stood in the way of the first available chair.
We’d been waltzing and eating tea cakes with a murderer.
I could think of a hundred things I’d rather do than follow a possible murderess and the ghost of her victim.
I love you, too,′ he whispered, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. I grinned back, then kissed him until I felt light-headed and breathless.
Not me.” He bent his head, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Never me.
Or to want to take a photo of Nicholas with his fangs out and wearing a black cape lined with red satin and then hang it over my pillow in a heart-shaped frame.