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.
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.
I tried not to look as if I was hiding a handsome young lad under the mattress.
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.
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.