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I’m expecting to pull up on this frazzled kitten collapsed in a mess of tears, flipping her fancy latte and throwing a fit, demanding to speak to—who knows? The mayor, which we don’t have when it’s just a town council of selectmen. The manager? Some manager. Any manager.
I’d like it if you stuck around. We don’t usually get random bodies around here, I swear.”
“Word travels fast.” “Faster than the speed of light. Them NASA scientists ever figure out how to harness the speed of a small-town rumor, we’ll be on Pluto in a year.”
did you say it was Rachel Black’s mother who’s a kleptomaniac?” “Rachel White. Rachel Black’s mother is the one who stabbed her hubby in the foot with a fork because he was staring at the neighbor girl in a bathing suit.” Nora giggles. “What’s hilarious is that their marriage has never been stronger since.”
attacking my shirt with baking soda and her stain stick
“If I say no, you’ll just follow me out there for my own protection, won’t you?” she throws back. “Maybe, maybe not. Hard to be sneaky if I admit it out loud.”
I don’t know if I’m scared or pissed, but I swear to God Almighty I’m going to kick him square in the nuts if I catch him creeping on me again.
Lucas may talk slow, but he moves like lightning, all swift sizzle and a hint of growling thunder.
You really didn’t know?” He inhales sharply. “I wish like hell I had. Besides being insensitive and threatening, it’s downright tacky.”
Five minutes ago, she was shaking with fear. Now she’s revved up to slay dragons. My brave little cactus.
“I’d gladly bash someone over the head with a frying pan if they were trying to hurt you. Possibly a coffeepot. A blender. Whatever appliances hurt most, really.”
I swear that song plays in hell’s waiting room.
I’d give anything for a chance to make it right again and bring my pretty Lilah home to my arms.
when what I’m about to do would land me on a Too Stupid to Live Heroines list, if this were a romance novel.
“I’m Aleksander, but you can just call me Sandy.” “No one calls you Sandy,” Xavier grunts in disgust. “Not even you.
Don’t know why that woman always wants to talk to me.” “She’s got a thing for Cajun accents.” Micah smirks. “She’s eighty.” Henri shoots him a scorned look. “Not a day past seventy-eight,” I throw in mildly. “Still in her prime. Don’t be so closed-minded, ‘mon ami.’ That’s age discrimination.” “I hate all of y’all,”
