A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2)

by Tessa Dare

A man might engage in flirtation with disinterest, even disdain. But he never teases without affection.”

I’ve no doubt you meant well, but your good intentions land like mortar shells. Again and again, you fire off that mouth of yours, and the innocents around you get hurt.”

Who else is going to save this family? You?” She laughed bitterly.

Truly? That whole determined, dangerous saunter across the room was for me? In that case, would you mind going back and doing it all over again? Slowly this time, and with feeling.

No, you don’t fit the beautiful, elegant, predictable mold. But take heart, Marissa. Some men like to be surprised.”

Frightened. Ha. What was that he heard, splashing into the water? Must have been a gauntlet.

he would never understand what made a man—or woman—look at a stone wall and think, I believe I’d enjoy attending a symposium on these.

“Jesus,” he finally managed, pushing water off his face. “Jesus Christ and John the Baptist. For that matter, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John.” Still not enough. He needed to reach back to the Old Testament for this. “Obadiah. Nebuchadnezzar. Methuselah and Job.”

Untold numbers of women had already tried their hands—among other body parts—at “healing his broken soul,” with no success.

“Did I say disgusting? I meant enchanting. I’ve always wanted to go to bed with a primeval sea snail.”

“this design begins to appeal to me after all. Sea slugs aren’t the least bit arousing, but logarithms . . . I’ve always thought that word sounded splendidly naughty.”

“Logarithm.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “Ooh. Yes and thank you and may I have some more.”

‘Hypotenuse’ is downright lewd.” “ ‘Quadrilateral’ brings rather carnal images to mind.”

She looked like a memory, interrupted. A torrid dream. Or a glimpse of the future, perhaps.

least arousing things possible. Spiders with hairy legs. Those bumpy, long-necked gourds that made him think of poxy genitalia. Mashed peas. The dust-and-beeswax smell of impossibly old people.

Is it truly so unfathomable, that an imperfect girl might be perfectly loved?”

Men never hesitated to declare their presence. They were permitted to live aloud, in reverberating thuds and clunks, while ladies were always schooled to abide in hushed whispers.

Perhaps, she thought, people were more like ammonites than one would suppose. Perhaps they too built shells on a consistent, unchanging factor—some quality or circumstance established in their youth. Each chamber in the shell just an enlargement of the previous. Growing year after year, until they spiraled around and locked themselves in place.

If she could have anything she desired, she would ask only this. Love me. Love me, and let me love you.

“I thought you were the one who argued against having any expectations at all. Isn’t that your grand life philosophy? You said expectations lead to disappointments. That if you expect nothing, you’re always surprised.” He gave a bark of laughter. “In that case . . .” He turned to her. His hazel eyes sparked with intensity. “Surprise.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You’re marrying me.”

“And I will curse the gods along with them, Min. Some wild monsoon raged through me as I looked at you just now. It’s left me rearranged inside, and I don’t have a map.”

Because you are worthy, Colin. You’re a generous, good-hearted person, and you deserve to be loved. Deeply, truly, well, and often.”

He couldn’t compare a woman to a torrentially beautiful monsoon, and then look surprised that he’d gotten wet.

Her lips fell apart. “Court me. You . . . you want to court me?” “Yes. Very much so. More than anything.” “Colin, you do realize you’re currently inside me.” “I’m exquisitely aware of that, yes.”