Last Call at the Local (Love, Lists & Fancy Ships, #3)

by Sarah Grunder Ruiz

Any game I had (minuscule, tiny, almost nonexistent) has abandoned me in my time of need.

trying to play it cool when, really, I’m melting more than a protein bar that’s worked its way to the bottom of my backpack.

My brain is just a shitty computer.

“Does Jack happen to be short for Jackass?” Raine asks when I set a plate of truffle chips before her on the bar. She’s the one.

Like I know he’s talking about for the job but like hehe also for the other reason

and though I have never consciously thought about freckles before, I discover that I am a man who really likes freckles.

“Do you flirt with all the girls who wander in here? Or just the ones who are having bad days?” “Only if they’re cute and interesting to talk to,”

It won’t happen again. Well, I can’t promise that. It might happen again. Actually, it probably will. But I’ll try not to do it again.

Sooo so real

“Aithníonn ciaróg, ciaróg eile,” he says. “It’s an Irish proverb. Roughly translated, it means, One beetle recognizes another.”

I’m not well. I haven’t been able to admit that, not even to myself. I’m not well. But I’m going to get better.

Jackieeeeeeeeeee

I open the fridge and stare inside it, but I keep forgetting to actually look at what’s there.

“Oh, Jackie,” she says. “You’ve got it bad.”