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“Gentry, if you don’t get your grubby child-size hands off my girlfriend in the next point three seconds, I’ll be doing the murdering,”
“I’m just gonna introduce his face to the river until the bubbles stop,”
I don’t care if you’re being hunted down by ISIS. Hell, I’ll sell T-shirts that say Ding Dong, the Dick Is Dead at your crime scene.”
“I didn’t have sparkling water, so I got it out of the tap and blew bubbles in it through the straw,” Mrs. Penny announced, handing over the glass to Griffin.
“Get your stupid fucking finger off my girl and put your goddamn clothes back on, Gentry, or I’m putting you in this wheelbarrow,”
where he was indeed pushing a wheelbarrow overflowing with trash bags.
I’m Griffin Gentry. Everybody loves me.” “Not me. You suck,” Josie said. “I think you’re a dick,” Brian agreed. “I hope you’re run down in a crosswalk by a bus full of schoolchildren,” Nick chimed in.
“You’re too good for me. I mean, I want you to know that I know that. But I also have no intention of letting you wander off to find someone more deserving.”
“I’m sorry we have to get dressed up and try to make sure no one kills my crappy ex-husband on your birthday.” “Look at it this way. He’s not your problem anymore. Now he’s our problem.”
“You know what else interests me?” “My boobs.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“You can fuck yourself too,”
“I am new to relationships, but it seems to me that there is a possibility your abandonment of Riley in pursuit of your own needs triggered old wounds, reminding her that she has yet to be in a relationship where she comes first for her partner,” Gabe said, steepling his fingers in what Nick considered to be annoying superior piety. Nick pointed a surly finger at Gabe. “I’ll have you know I make sure she comes first every time.”
He wanted to put a ring on Riley Thorn’s finger. Before her, he’d never even considered things like getting engaged or married or, you know, the future. They’d only known each other for four months. There was mozzarella in the cheese drawer older than their relationship. Sweat ran in rivulets down his back. They owned a home together. They worked together. They had a dog together. This wasn’t just another new relationship. This was the relationship. This was it. She was it.
“You two, with me,” he ordered. “You two, with me,” Nick mimicked under his breath. “Play nice,” Riley hissed.
“That was really hot, by the way.” “What was?” “You being all defend-y and authoritative and stuff.”
“I’m not firing you. I’m just struggling with the fact that I love you and you keep ending up in danger,” Nick said.
“Hon slår pingviner som Arnold Schwarzenegger.” Riley wasn’t sure if her boyfriend was speaking gibberish or actual Swedish because he did it with such confidence. Weber bobbed his head. “Åh! Ja. Du bär damunderkläder.”
“I don’t have head trauma, and I’m not overreacting to yet another criminal fiasco. I want you as my wife. My partner. You’re it for me. And I know I should have found a better way to do this, like with champagne and flowers and maybe a fucking violin. But this is us. Messy. Complicated. Slightly injured. Standing in the middle of yet another crime scene together after saving the day. So say yes. Marry me.”