Addison Albright
📚 From Sunday: Jordan nodded, still not looking, and he completely ignored the warmth of Beckett’s fingers as they slid over his. As soon as he could, Jordan took a slight step away. Being so close to Becket was a little unnerving.
📚 From Monday: “Seriously?” asked Lloyd. “Hawtt with a capital ha?” He threw his good arm over Cabot’s shoulder. “Who are you dating, Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”
“It is kind of stupid, isn’t it?” Cabot bumped his head against Lloyd’s. “But goddamn it, man, nobody’s ever called me hot before. Not even with a lower-case ha.”
📚 From Thursday: Was that how happiness worked? Was it a quantifiable thing that could be accumulated? For all Mac’s possessions and accolades, the accomplishments he could point to, the money safely squirreled away in various profitable ventures, he couldn’t say he was happy or that he’d be happier for having more of it. Happy was a sense he got when he was with Hailey—a sort of potential. Like he could be happy with Hailey if only he deserved him.
🍷 [from Tuesday] Miller mimicked taking his photograph. “Clancy Rhodes, cover model.”
“Don’t judge. It’s a travel day.” He ducked his chin and peered over the top of his sunglasses. “How much plaid do you own?”
📚 (From Wednesday) – “What the hell is this shit? Adam poked a finger into the bag. He pulled his arm back a second later as if something had bitten him. “It’s spongy. Why is it spongy?”
📚 From Sunday:
Those colonists never forgot Ancient Earth or the lessons they’d learned from her suffering. Men became less and less a part of the new worlds rising in power and prosperity.
📚 Thursday’s snippet: It had been a long time since Jared had one of those goofy grins that stretched his face, the ones you couldn’t wipe away.
📚 From Wednesday:
He was familiar with the lotions and pastes for everyday hygiene—he used many of them himself—but what on earth was a toilet tissue? He’d quickly gathered its approximate use from a very flustered sales assistant who’d looked back at him like he was a heathen as she scurried away, but why the bewildering array of options?
📚 From Wednesday: He’d slicked his hair back in an attempt to control the curls, and Joe had to ball his hand into a fist to stop from reaching out and mussing them up again.
📚 From Sunday: Nick and Peter shared a glance, their expressions full of amused glee—like twelve-year-old boys who had just heard a fart joke.
📚 Reading The Monuments Men Murders by Josh Lanyon
👻 From Monday: When a third ghost appeared—a bit, burly guy with an intimidatingly bushy beard—and said, “Finally,” like I was the answer to all of his prayers, I broke.
❤️ From Sunday:
Nonetheless, I reply, “Sure, why not?” as if I’m doing him a favor. When he winces, I smirk. I know how to play the game, until it’s not a game anymore.
❤️ From Monday:
“You are the only person I’ve ever met who would opine thus. Everything I said is poles apart from what is purported to be ‘romantic’.” Padraic sighed.
“Only if one considers romance and Romantic to be one and the same…I do not.” Raff snorted.
📚Reading 7 short stories this week on the treadmill:
– His Steady Heart by Nell Iris
– A Leather and Tea Morning by K.L. Noone
– Forever Yours by Kassandra Lea
– Slither by T.A. Creech
– Aim Higher by JL Merrow
– Finder’s Keepers by Rob Rosen
– The Gate by A.L. Lester
💖 Something Like Peace
💖 Something Like Want
📚 From Sunday’s snippet:
“Oh, am I dreaming?” Padraic may have been musing to himself, but Raff wasn’t about to pass up the chance to learn what he now had to know. He would be asylum bound by morn, if matters progressed apace.
“Would you be dreaming about me?” Well, really. Raff was only human.
📚 From Friday’s Snippet:
It was creepy as hell. And, inexplicably, utterly arousing.
Treadmill Goals/Tracking Get on the treadmill (or equivalent exercise) daily Pace is fine at 30 min/mile, although I may up...
🌹 Monday’s Snippet:
“Now, what am I going to do with you…?” The rogue mused, lifting a forefinger to his lips in a parody of deep thought, as he drew to a halt before Padraic. The threat inherent in that phrase thrilled down the Duke’s spine, which was oh, so wrong; he should be plotting his escape or…or weaving the perfect words to ensure his prompt release. Yes, that was it.
“I-is that a rhetorical question?”
