Who ever he is, I agree with your mother," said Dad as he entered the kitchen. "Stay away from him. Stay away from them all until you're of marrying age. Once you reach a nice, mature fifty-four, gentlemen callers will be welcomed here.

I'll do a deal with you McFarlane," he said. "You can exist. And you can even have coffee. But if you raise your voice or make any sudden movements, I shall die. And that'll show you." Seb shrugged in return, hiding how pleased he was pretty badly. "Fair enough.

It is always about you for me.

I read The Hunger Games voraciously and was extremely annoyed when interrupted by such inconsequential things as 'Christmas dinner.' (God, Mom, did you not understand Katniss was being pursued by the mutts? You have several children, why does it always have to be about collecting the whole set all the time?)

If the truth didn't help anyone, and love didn't last, what was there left to struggle toward?

I do half the cooking, and by 'half' I mean three quarters," Dad pointed out. "And if you're going to turn up your nose at all my carnivorous delights, ingrate child, you can sit under the table and gnaw sadly on a raw Brussels sprout at mealtimes.

Also, vampires don't eat food. You never get to eat chocolate again. Ever. I'd rather die.