Then she would be done with J. D. Jameson forever. No more having to prove herself; no more of those pesky jitters she felt whenever she saw him at work—something like butterflies in her stomach, it was actually quite annoying; no more stress; no more fights in the library; and definitely no more sexy I’m-gonna-kiss-you-now-woman blue-eyed heated gazes. She had no idea why she just thought that.

Jack leaned over, “Ever get the impression that these women are way out of our league?” “I shot the last guy who said that to me.

Well, at least I’m not a stubborn, button-pushing, Prius-driving, chip-on-your-shoulder-holding, ‘stay-at-home-mom’-is-the-eighth-dirty-word-thinking feminazi!

J.D. cleared his throat and pushed the button on the intercom. “Uh, Payton, hi. It’s J.D.” Dead silence. Then another crackle. “Sorry. Not interested.” Cute. But J.D. persisted. Again with the button. “I want to talk to you.” Crackle. “Ever hear of a telephone, asshole?” Okay, he probably deserved that.

I don’t mind hot and spicy. Actually find that appealing in a girl … And chicken wings.” Rylann turned her head and stared at him. “Did you really just compare me to chicken wings?” “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Chicken wings are the bomb.

Just because we haven’t met Mr. Right doesn’t mean we’re doing anything wrong. And by the way, you’re brilliant and awesome, too. If I were a lesbian, I’d totally settle down with you and make lots of in vitro babies.

You don't touch the purse. The purse is sacrosanct.