All She Wrote (Holmes & Moriarity #2)

Anyone who wasn't half-stoned on pain meds would have instantly realized what a really bad idea this plan was, but since that didn't include me, I didn't worry about it.

Eyes closed, I murmured, "Are you kissing it better?"

"Am I?"

"I think so. My lips hurt too.

First of all, ideas aren’t the hard part. Secondly, there are no new ideas, only the author’s unique execution.

He scooped up Victoria practically before she hit the ground, well within the five-second rule. If she'd been a potato chip, he could have still eaten her. Not something I particularly wanted to contemplate.

I determinedly weaved my way through the crowd, hauling my medical apparatus behind me like my little red wagon.

I got some peculiar looks from staff and visitors alike, but no one challenged me, which is a statement as to what an air of confidence will do. Or how truly scary crazy people are.

I guess it was no secret I’d been unpleasantly startled to find myself suddenly hitting the big 4-0. You’d have thought the previous thirty-nine years were sufficient warning.

I want to fuck you in those glasses.

Kit, you're forty. You look thirty. You act...well, never mind. You're carrying on like you think you're seventy

Like fine wine, I do not travel well. Sure, when I was young, fresh, low in acidity and not so tannic, I was a more adventurous spririt.

No one was in better position than I to know how easily shyness gets misread for arrogance or coldness or indifference.

Not as intolerable as being dead, in my opinion, but I'm very fond of me. I would miss me a lot.

The best fiction captures the truth of real life.

To find them all in one package...well, perhaps better not to dwell on his package in my fragile state.

We all have our methods for coping and they usually happen behind closed doors.

When I get back to L.A. I'm going to buy myself a Blackberry and a slew of French-cuffed shirts. Possibly a nipple ring.

You look thirty. You act…well, never mind. You’re carrying on like you think you’re seventy.” Was I? I guess it was no secret I’d been unpleasantly startled to find myself suddenly hitting the big 4-0. You’d have thought the previous thirty-nine years were sufficient warning. I glanced at his profile. “Okay. Maybe I’m a little hung up on the age thing. You have to admit gay culture is youth-oriented.

You say potato, I say potahto.” “I say rice pilaf. I say you’re trying to distract me with talk of side dishes.