Because you know, I’m your best friend, but you’re just not that badass, man.

Shane looked…pale. Pale and shaken and—how predictable was this?—pissed.

I wrestled futilely, then relaxed as a vine wrapped three times around my throat and squeezed. Right," I choked out, and shut my eyes. "I'll wait here, then.

Want me to warm up the sauce?” “Do we do that? I mean, it’s in a jar, right? Can’t you just dump it over the pasta?” “Well, you can, but it tastes better if you warm it up.” “Oh.” Eve sighed. “This is complicated. No wonder I never cook.

Yes," he said. "I am sure. I double-checked everything after you went home yesterday. I even made a few improvements, just in case." The first part of that reassured her. The second part... not so much. "What kind of improvements?" "Oh, nothing, really. Mostly just streamlining. You really did very well; I certainly don't want you to think that I am one of those people who has to be in control all the- Oh, well, I suppose that's actually true- I do have to be in control all the time. But only because I am in charge, of course.

Eve took me to teach me how to fence," Claire said. "Not so much how to fence as how to hold a sword and not drop it," Eve said. "And then I fought Oliver to a draw." Shane fluttered his hands. "Oh, and then we were all elected as ice princesses and asked to go to Disneyland!" "Laugh all you want. I'm going to look way better in full skirts than you," Eve said.

Maybe I should, I don't know leave? Because this is starting to sound like one of those reality shows I don't want to be in. Maybe you guys want to take turns in the confessional booth.