Sydney had been horrified to discover my home library consisted of a bartending dictionary and an old copy of Esquire, and at her pleading, I'd promised to read something more substantial. I was trying to think deep thoughts as I read Gatsby, but mostly I wanted to throw some parties.
Richelle MeadWhen I talked to him earlier, he said he had to work tonight,” Peter explained, “but that we should go ahead and draw for him.” “Draw?” I asked uneasily. “Oh Lord. Tell me it’s not Pictionary night too.” Peter sighed wearily. “Draw for secret Santas. Do you even read the e-mails I send?” “Secret Santas? Seems like we just did that,” I said. “Yeah, a year ago,” said Peter. “Just like we do very Christmas.
Richelle MeadDon't cut it," he said gruffly. "But no one'll see my tattoos if I don't." "Wear it up." -Dimitri, Rose, Dimitri
Richelle MeadI wasn't fooled. He was avoiding looking at me. "There's nothing to talk about." "I knew you'd say that. Actually, it was a toss-up between that and 'I don't know what you're talking about.'" Dimitri sighed.
Richelle MeadWe’re suckers for this, Sydney. Men. You’ve got me completely helpless right now. You’re so beautiful and alluring, and we guys can’t help ourselves. We fight wars for you, cajole you . . . and you put up with us. We have it easy here in bed.” She turned my face toward hers. “This wasn’t exactly difficult for me.” “But we still have it easy. You’re the strength, the pillars . . . our defenders, our children’s defenders.
Richelle Mead