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We need fluff; it’s the insulation from the harsh world around us. Don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed for reading fluffy romances.
For all the readers who think you aren’t loveable. I know you’ve hidden yourself away, you protected that spark deep inside your heart, the one that burns with the light of your true self. It’s time to let that spark ignite. The real you is exactly what the world needs.
The donkey pulled a spin move that would have made our running backs jealous.
Parker pointed to the corner where she’d somehow constructed a makeshift pen using a random shower curtain rod, some command hooks, and what looked like every blanket we owned.
Never before had I been thankful Parker was an insomniac.
“Also, I maybe already had some contingency plans in place. You know, in case we ever needed to hide something... or someone in our room.”
Also, we need to name him something epic. Something that captures his true spirit of chaos and glitter.”
Oh, ho. Not only was this book a romance novel, it was a really fucking dirty one.
She moved her finger to flip the virtual page, but her hand froze when I leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Wait a second. I’m not done with that page yet.”
I grew up with a goose named Sir Honksalot. He was cool as shit.”
🦆 Close enough
“Wanna be friends with my goose?” Sir Honksalot was, like, a thousand years old, and he wasn’t mine, but she was going to say no, anyway.
“You know, if you keep looking shocked every time I know something, people might start to think you’re operating under some unfair stereotypes about football players.”
“I got it,” I whispered as Professor Calloway started class. “It’s Donkey Hoetee de la Donkey, isn’t it?”
“Sir Francis Bacon Bits? No wait, that would be better for a pet pig.”
“You know, it’s okay to not be fine sometimes.” Her hands stilled on her notebook. “What makes you think I’m not fine?” “Just a feeling.”
“Oh, yeah. How is Baby Donk doo doo doo doo da doo?”
If this were my novel,
If I read this one more time I'm going to kmy. Ty
“Enséñales cómo se dice ‘tiene el trasero increíble pero no tiene huevos.’”
She proceeded to teach a group of increasingly confused hockey players how to say what I was quite sure translated to “pretty boy who runs away from feelings.” All while shooting me these little glances to make sure I was watching.
Fuck, and now I was jealous of a bottle of water.
“Shut up.” But she took the water, and some of the tension in my chest eased. “Your face is stupid.” “You just said my eyes were perfect.” “They can be stupid and perfect.”
“My hero would totally do this.” “Your what?”
“It’s nothing,” I insisted, but even I didn’t believe myself. “Just my Shakespeare tutor—” “Uh, but you love two fiction genres...sci-fi and Shakespeare.” Jules’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, you’re flunking your class to get with your tutor? You’re disgusting.”
“You’re just finally playing in her league instead of trying to get her to play in yours.” My Tempest was in a league of her own. And with her, I was playing in the pee-wees. But if there was one thing I knew how to do, it was up my game. Come class next week, I was going to be on the varsity get-the-girl team.
Because unless he said Houdonkini, the great disappearing farm animal, he’d be wrong. Flynn: Since I haven’t seen hide nor hair of our furry friend for weeks, you should call him Houdonki. Get it? Like Houdini, because he’s completely disappeared.
First of all, what the heck? How did he do that? And second, Houdonki was better than Houdonkini. But still not the right name for my favorite confidant.
“Anytime, my queen. Though next time, maybe we stick to smuggling something smaller and easier to hide... like chinchillas or oh, I know, let’s leave animals out of it all together and start a sex toys smuggling business.”
Dad studied her with the same intensity he used to evaluate potential recruits. Then his expression softened as the donkey bumped against his leg again. “That’ll do, donkey. That’ll do.”
“Though I have to admit, chaos looks good on you, my queen.”
“A party? For a donkey?” “Welcome to the Navarro family. We celebrate everything. When my sister Rosalind got her braces off, Abuela hired a mariachi band.” I shrugged at Flynn’s incredulous look. “She’s... theatrical.”
“Unbelievable,” Flynn muttered. “Cockblocked by a donkey. What do you even call that? Donkblocked?”
“Everyone, meet the newest member of our family. My beautiful boy. Mi Burrito Petito!”
🌯 Really
“Wait. Are you telling me all that time I was guessing epic donkey names, you hadn’t given the poor slob an actual name?”
“Well,” Rosalind’s surprised timbre said it all. “It seems our Tempest has found someone who speaks her quirky little language.”
One room. One bed. No dry clothes. And a long night ahead of us.
Loving her wasn’t scary. It was the easiest, most natural thing I’d ever done.
“My queen, I’m a D1 athlete about to go pro. I’ve been training my body my entire life. I’m not some breakable toy. If I’m not man enough to have my girl ride me like a cowgirl, I don’t know what I have all these muscles for.”
Romance novels are—” “Joy,” Abuela interrupted firmly. “They are joy and hope and the promise that everyone deserves love. Even girls who look like us, who take up space, who have curves and opinions and don’t fit into little boxes.”
“Love is not about someone rescuing you, mi amor. It’s about having someone who stands beside you when you rescue yourself.”
“That’s exactly when you should celebrate,” he insisted. “When the world tries to make you feel small or wrong or not enough. That’s when you put on something gorgeous and dance anyway.”
“To my favorite author,” Flynn said, clinking his glass against mine. “Who’s finally taking up all the space she deserves.”
