His eyebrows drew together. He was perilously close to unibrow; I guess nobody had held him down and administered a good plucking to the caterpillar climbing across his forehead.

Graves: Are you skipping? Off to a good start. Dru Anderson: I don’t want to deal with it today. Graves: Okay. I know a place to go. You shoot pool? I’m Graves. Dru Anderson: I know. Dru. Graves: Dru. You’re new. Couple of weeks, right? Welcome to Foley.

I don't believe in getting clothes that just look pretty or that'll fall apart—they have to stand up to a lot of abuse.

His eyebrows drew together. He was perilously close to unibrow; I guess nobody had held him down and administered a good plucking to the caterpillar climbing across his forehead.

And now here he was in my kitchen. Smelling like apple pies and looking at me with a direct seriousness that made him even cuter. The bruising spreading up the side of his face had halted, and under it he was very pretty. Not jock-pretty, or the hurtful kind of pretty that tells you a guy is too busy taking care of his royal self to think about you.

There was Kir, red hair combed back and That Expression on his sharp face. Even his freckles looked serious. I'd given up wondering how a freckle-faced teenager could look so much like a disapproving granny.

What you can't run away from, you have to face