More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Riley smiled to herself at the colorful insults delivered in their thick Scottish brogues. A similar disorderly air erupted in her mother’s living room every time neighbors and friends gathered to get their hearts broken by the Eagles.
That felt like an unnecessary dig 😂😂
“Wait.” Eilean stopped working. “You’re not going to hit on him, are you?” “I mean, yeah,” Riley said, “but, like, respectfully.”
When he asked about her hometown, she described the place simply by enumerating its local culinary delicacies—soft pretzels, roast pork sandwiches with broccoli rabe, water ice (pronounced wooder ice, and which was neither water nor ice but instead some kind of in-between slush), and something called Tastykakes, which sounded truly appalling—and proudly talking about how her city’s sports fans were some of the most hated nationwide. To his surprise, she didn’t think much of cheesesteaks, though she insisted that if he did have one, he should go to Woodrow’s.
“Do you wanna kiss me?” Fuck. More than he wanted to keep breathing. But something held him back. “It’s late,” he said, but didn’t move away. “Kissing doesn’t have a curfew.” Her voice came out frayed at the edges.
Clark scoffed. “You’re going to prove this place is haunted?” “Cursed,” Riley corrected. Martin held up a finger. “What’s the difference?” “Whether the person fucking shit up still lives here.”
“Tell me something, darling,” he said in a desperate attempt to distract himself. “ ‘Darling,’ huh?” Riley sounded almost impressed. “Bold of you to offer me endearments from the business end of a blade.”
Riley liked who she was when she broke a curse. Powerful, useful, respected. Needed—even if only temporarily.
“Enemies it is,” Clark said, all crisp consonants and barely leashed scorn. “Do your worst.”
Picturing that Ina Garten meme, Riley muttered to herself, “If you can’t forage fresh herbs for a charm to repel your enemies, store-bought is fine.”
“I guess I feel guilty seeing you walking around all extra mopey.” “It’s called brooding,” Clark said, standing up a little straighter, “and no one complained when Darcy did it.” “Yeah, well”—she gave him a look just shy of a leer—“that’s because Colin Firth had the decency to get his shirt wet.”
There weren’t many positive side effects of having a bunch of hometown sports teams that constantly fumbled the bag at the end of the season, but at least Riley knew how to corral disappointed drunk people after a long-sought victory was snatched from underneath their noses.
Damn! She is hitting Philly sports really hard!
