Quotes from Elizabeth Bevarly

Diplomacy, after all, had kept the world a reasonably peaceful place, in spite of its being ruled by men.

Really, sometimes she just wanted to round up all the Emerson parents in the gymnasium, line them up single file, and then go down the line, one by one, smacking each of them upside the head and yelling, "What the hell is the matter with you?

She stubbed out the butt on her clipboard, one marked by a variety of small black burn spots, and flicked it away heedlessly—beaning her production assistant in the side of the head in the process.

So even though, to the outside world, Claire Willoughby was Simple Pleasures, Inc., Claire knew she was actually little more than window dressing for the business. Truth be told, she was so organizationally challenged, she couldn't arrange her own underwear drawer, let alone tell people how to arrange their lives.

His faded jeans hugged his taut hindquarters and strong thighs with much affection, and his denim work shirt strained against the muscles of his broad back.

Even though he'd told himself all these things for years—over and over again, in fact, ad nauseum, in fact, world without end, amen, amen, in fact—hadn't he proved just the opposite to himself over the past month and a half?

Olive had, of course, been born with a backbone, but she didn't exercise it very often.

Really, she was going to have to learn to better organize her time. Maybe she should hire a lifestyle consultant…

And except for Francesca taking up with a rooster up the street—who knew chickens were such popular pets?—and leaving little chicks all over the backyard for a change. Last Claire heard—which was this morning—little Luigi and Sergio were learning to crow just like their papa. And doing much too fine a job of it, as Claire had been awake since daybreak.

she'd never experienced for Chandler the kind of feeling a woman should have for a man she thought about marrying, that breathless kind of wanting, that aching sort of yearning, that endless, ferocious passion, that insistent, frenzied, needy demand, that hot, sweaty, wanton arousal that made a woman just want to rip off her clothes and wrap her naked body around a man and feed herself to him whole, that... that…

It couldn't possibly be a good idea to touch him, she told herself as she eyed the proffered hand. Not when the summer night got more sultry and the red high heels started to tango and the saxophones began murmuring "I Got You Under My Skin," which sounded way too much like "I Got You In My Orifice.

After all, not even mobsters fixed their kitchen sinks with handguns. They could blow their drains out.

In spite of his name, Bob Troutman wasn't much of a catch.

old ladies who remembered when cotton briefs only cost ten cents a pair.

tidying with what a couple of the other pianists had called her obsessive-compulsive neatness. Well, could she help it if she liked the sheet music alphabetized? And then put in numerical order according to the year it was written?