Dearest Ivie (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #15.5)

by J.R. Ward

A fire during the daytime would put her in some difficulty, although in her opinion, you couldn’t spend your life worrying about what-ifs. You made yourself as safe as you could and then you just did your thing.

She needed a coat—no, not the puffy parka that made her feel like Violet Beauregarde from Wonka’s chocolate farm.

I was just going to binge-watch Gilmore Girls and eat popcorn—which is not a bad gig.

“But it doesn’t matter what you look like.” He lifted his head and stared at her. “The details of size and shape don’t matter to me. The fact that it is you…that is what makes it beautiful to me.”

“You don’t know about Marty McFly? What the heck do you rich people do for entertainment?”

But that was the nature of death, Ivie had come to learn. No matter when it happened or how expected it was, there was always a shock to the loss.

“Okay, FYI, the word ‘floozy’ was replaced by ‘ho’ in, like, the nineties. So you might want to make a note of that.

And later, much later, she would reflect that it was then that she became an adult.