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“I’m so sorry about that,” I heard Mom say. “She has no manners.” Well, that was rude. I did have manners. I didn’t always use them, but I had them, so there.
“Time is like a penis, Nicholas. It’s never as long as you think it is.”
“I’m not your sweetheart. And I don’t want to sleep with you.” “My fingers are on your wrist, Quinn. I can feel your pulse, and from what I can feel, you’re lying.” Damn it. Stupid heart. Stupid body. Stupid hormones. Fucking traitors.
“Great. Are we done here? I don’t even know why I’m here,” I asked, tugging my zip up as far as my thick, knitted scarf would allow it to go. “I’m freezing my ass off.” Nicholas looked at me with mischief in his eyes. “You’re here because you were with Michael and then I assume you stayed to offer an opinion we didn’t ask for.” Wow. He was right, but wow.
All good beards needed sitting on.
Like the idea that all good beards needed sitting on. That was a sassy cross stitch right the fuck there.
“I’m not bargaining with you. You’re eighty. Why are you spiking eggnog anyway?” “Because Jazzy keeps singing and narrating her entire life, your dad thinks he’s dying, your mom is yelling at everyone, and your sister keeps ringing some little fucking bell she’s bought like she’s some kind of old British aristocrat and has an army of servants to wait on her hand and foot.” Well. It was a little hard to argue with that. As far as reasoning went, he had a pretty solid little monologue.

