Stud in the Stacks (Girl Band #2)

by Pippa Grant

There are some who might say Tarzan isn’t a superhero, but Jane would beg to differ.

I read a lot. Don’t judge.

I crash into my apartment Thursday night just after nine armed with a quart of fury, three pounds of hopelessness, and a box of organic cheesecake.

Jesus, Mary, and One Direction,

I got my mother’s German booty, and the struggle is real.

He’s a gorgeous man, but that is not a gorgeous smile. It’s an I am displeased and someone’s head will roll smile, which, combined with the ink peeking through under his shirtsleeves makes him look like president of the Bad Boy Librarians Club. Which shouldn’t also be a turn-on, but apparently I’m easy this morning.

“That movie sucked. No happily ever after, even though Jack would’ve fit on that damn door and could’ve lived. It’s like Nicholas Sparks wrote the damn thing. Therefore, not a romance.”

“I want someone who can check his ego at the door, carry on an intelligent conversation without checking his phone every three minutes, demonstrate for me that the mythical man-made orgasm actually exists, and then leave me the hell alone so I can get my sleep.”

The intoxicating combination of smart and sexy tied up with her vulnerability and insecurity are making me feel like I need to earn her.

She goes up on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’m about to be late for band practice. I’ll call you later. Judy, Nana, so nice to see you again. Sorry for the awkward fun. Thanks for raising him right. Enjoy your unicorn poop.”

this man gives good chuckle.

Shiver me tingles,

It’s like—it’s like that dick in the Times today. Putting down romance because they’re not his type of beauty. Because love is something to be sniffed at. Because he’s too good to appreciate something outside his comfort zone. Fuck him and his insecurity. Fuck all of them and their pathetic attempts to diminish a strong woman to build themselves up.

I’m not going to cry. Vice presidents don’t cry.

holy mother of organic pancakes

I can’t remember my name. Or my home planet, anything but Parker Elliott

Brooks gestures to his nose. “Ah, you’ve got something…” Her eyes flare and she lunges under the table, coming up with a compact mirror. “What? Where?” “Oh, sorry. Thought that was your nose, but your asshole’s showing, and you sprouted two,” he says. “You’re not in high school anymore. Grow up.”

Because I’m hers. Heart, body, and soul. She’s it. I’m done.

Fucking dammit. There goes my strong, independent woman card, flying out the window because of a sex unicorn.

Whoever invented cheerful needs to be dragged out in the street and shot.

Let me know next time you need me to beat someone up in your quest to make all food organic.”