Humorous Novels

Metro Girl (Alex Barnaby 1) Read Free Buckle your seat belts. Number one New York Times bestselling author, Janet Evanovich, is moving into the fast lane with Metro Girl, a thrilling, high-octane misadventure with high stakes, hot nights, cold-blooded murder, sunken treasure, a woman with a chassis built for speed, and one very good, very sexy NASCAR driver who’s along for the ride."Wild" Bill Barnaby's dropped off the face of the earth and big sister Alex heads for Miami, Bill's last known sighting, on a harrowing hunt to save her brother ... and maybe the world. Truth is, Alex has been bailing her brother out of trouble since they were kids. Not that Bill's a bad sort. More that he acts first and thinks later. Unfortunately, this time around, Wild Bill will be Dead Bill if Alex doesn't find him in time.Alex blasts through the bars of South Beach and points her search to Key West and Cuba, laying waste to Miami hit men, dodging Palmetto bugs big enough to eat her alive, and putting the pedal to the metal with NASCAR driver Sam Hooker.Engaged in a deadly race, Wild Bill's "borrowed" Hooker's sixty-five foot Hatteras and sailed off into the sunset ... just when Hooker has plans for the boat. Hooker figures he'll attach himself to Alex and maybe run into Bill. Maybe Hooker can salvage what's left of his vacation. And maybe Hooker'll get lucky in love with Bill's sweetie pie sister. After all, Hooker is NASCAR Guy. And NASCAR Guy is good at revving a woman’s engine.The race to the finish is hot and hard, taking Alex and Hooker into international waters, exposing a plot to grab Cuban gold and a sinister relic of the Cuban missile crises.Creative cussing and sexual innuendo included. *************** ONE Just because I know how to change a guy’s oil doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life on my back, staring up his undercarriage. Been there, done that. Okay, so my dad owns a garage. And okay, I have a natural aptitude for rebuilding carburetors. There comes a time in a girl’s life when she needs to trade in her mechanic’s overalls for a pair of Manolo Blahnik stilettos. Not that I can afford a lot of Manolos, but it’s a goal, right? My name is Alexandra Barnaby, and I worked in my dad’s garage in the Canton section of Baltimore all through high school and during summer breaks when I was in college. It’s not a big fancy garage, but it holds its own, and my dad has a reputation for being an honest mechanic. When I was twelve my dad taught me how to use an acetylene torch. After I mastered welding, he gave me some spare parts and our old lawn mower, and I built myself a go-cart. When I was sixteen, I started rebuilding a ten-year-old junker Chevy. I turned it into a fast car. And I raced it in the local stocks for two years. “And here she comes, folks,” the announcer would say. “Barney Barnaby. Number sixteen, the terror of Baltimore County. She’s coming up on the eight car. She’s going to the inside. Wait a minute, I see flames coming from sixt

On Discworld, a dying wizard tries to pass on his powers to an eighth son of an eighth son, who is just at that moment being born. The fact that the son is actually a daughter is discovered just a little too late. The town witch insists on turning the baby into a perfectly normal witch, thus mending the magical damage of the wizard's mistake. But now the young girl will be forced to penetrate the inner sanctum of the Unseen University--and attempt to save the world with one well-placed kick in some enchanted shins! Reissue. I would like it to be clearly understood that this book is not wacky. Only dumb redheads in fifties' sitcoms are wacky. No, it's not zany, either. This is a story about magic and where it goes and perhaps more importantly where it comes from and why, although it doesn't pretend to answer all or any of these questions. It may, however, help to explain why Gandalf never got married and why Merlin was a man. Because this is also a story about sex, although probably not in the athletic, tumbling, count-the-legs-and-divide-by-two sense unless the characters get totally beyond the author's control. They might. However, it is primarily a story about a world. Here it comes now. Watch closely, the special effects are quite expensive. A bass note sounds. It is a deep, vibrating chord that hints that the brass section may break in at any moment with a fanfare for the cosmos, because the scene is the blackness of deep space with a few stars glittering like the dandruff on the shoulders of God. Then it comes into view overhead, bigger than the biggest, most unpleasantly armed starcruiser in the imagination of a three-ring film-maker: a turtle, ten thousand miles long. It is Great A'Tuin, one of the rare astrochelonians from a universe where things are less as they are and more like people imagine them to be, and it carries on its meteor-pocked shell four giant elephants who bear on their enormous shoulders the great round wheel of the Discworld. As the viewpoint swings around, the whole of the world can be seen by the light of its tiny orbiting sun. There are continents, archipelagos, seas, deserts, mountain ranges and even a tiny central ice cap. The inhabitants of this place, it is obvious, won't have any truck with global theories. Their world, bounded by an encircling ocean that falls forever into space in one long waterfall, is as round and flat as a geological pizza, although without the anchovies. A world like that, which exists only because the gods enjoy a joke, must be a place where magic can survive. And sex too, of course. He came walking through the thunderstorm and you could tell he was a wizard, partly because of the long cloak and careen staff but mainly because the raindrops were stopping several feet from his head, and steaming. It was good thunderstorm country, up here in the Ramtop Mountains, a country of jagged peaks, dense forests and little river valleys so deep the daylight had no sooner reached the bottom than it

Terry Pratchett's profoundly irreverent, bestselling novels have garnered him a revered position in the halls of parody next to the likes of Mark Twain, Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, and Carl Hiaasen.The Color of Magic is Terry Pratchett's maiden voyage through the now-legendary land of Discworld. This is where it all begins -- with the tourist Twoflower and his wizard guide, Rincewind.On a world supported on the back of a giant turtle (sex unknown), a gleeful, explosive, wickedly eccentric expedition sets out. There's an avaricious but inept wizard, a naive tourist whose luggage moves on hundreds of dear little legs, dragons who only exist if you believe in them, and of course THE EDGE of the planet... Prologue In a distant and second-hand set of dimensions, in an astral plane that was never meant to fly, the curling star-mists waver and part See Great A'Tuin the turtle comes, swimming slowly through the interstellar gulf, hydrogen frost on his ponderous limbs, his huge and ancient shell pocked with meteor craters. Through sea-sized eyes that are crusted with rheum and asteroid dust He stares fixedly at the Destination. In a brain bigger than a city, with geological slowness, He thinks only of the Weight. Most of the weight is of course accounted for by Berilia, Tubul, Great T'Phon and Jerakeen, the four giant elephants upon whose broad and startanned shoulders the disc of the World rests, garlanded by the long waterfall at its vast circumference and domed by the baby-blue vault of Heaven. Astropsychology has been, as yet, unable to establish what they think about. The Great Turtle was a mere hypothesis until the day the small and secretive kingdom of Krull, whose rim-most mountains project out over the Rimfall, built a gantry and pulley arrangement at the tip of the most precipitous crag and lowered several observers over the Edge in a quartzwindowed brass vessel to peer through the mist veils. The early astrozoologists, hauled back from their long dangle by enormous teams of slaves, were able to bring back much information about the shape and nature of A'Tuin and the elephants but this did not resolve fundamental questions about the nature and purpose of the universe.[1] For example, what was Atuin's actual sex? This vital question, said the Astrozoologists with mounting authority, would not be answered until a larger and more powerful gantry was constructed for a deep-space vessel. In the meantime they could only speculate about the revealed cosmos. There was, for example, the theory that A'Tuin had come from nowhere and would continue at a uniform crawl, or steady gait, into nowhere, for all time. This theory was popular among academics. An alternative, favoured by those of a religious persuasion, was that A'Tuin was crawling from the Birthplace to the Time of Mating, as were all the stars in the sky which were, obviously, also carried by giant turtles. When they arrived they would briefly and passionately mate, for the first and only time,

It's bad enough being new on the job, but Teppic hasn't a clue as to what a pharaoh is supposed to do. After all, he's been trained at Ankh-Morpork's famed assassins' school, across the sea from the Kingdom of the Sun. First, there's the monumental task of building a suitable resting place for Dad -- a pyramid to end all pyramids. Then there are the myriad administrative duties, such as dealing with mad priests, sacred crocodiles, and marching mummies. And to top it all off, the adolescent pharaoh discovers deceit, betrayal - not to mention a headstrong handmaiden - at the heart of his realm. BOOK I The Book of Going Forth Nothing but stars, scattered across the blackness as though the Creator had smashed the windscreen of his car and hadn't bothered to stop to sweep up the pieces. This is the gulf between universes, the chill deeps of space that contain nothing but the occasional random molecule, a few lost comets and ... ... but a circle of blackness shifts slightly, the eye reconsiders perspective, and what was apparently the awesome distance of interstellar wossname becomes a world under darkness, its stars the lights of what will charitably be called civilisation. For, as the world tumbles lazily, it is revealed as the Discworld - flat, circular, and carried through space on the back of four elephants who stand on the back of Great A'tuin, the only turtle ever to feature on the Hertzsprung-Russell Diagram, a turtle ten thousand miles long, dusted with the frost of dead comets, meteor-pocked, albedo-eyed. No-one knows the reason for all this, but it is probably quantum. Much that is weird could happen on a world on the back of a turtle like that. It's happening already. The stars below are campfires, out in the desert, and the lights of remote villages high in the forested mountains. Towns are smeared nebulae, cities are vast constellations; the great sprawling city of Ankh-Morpork, for example, glows like a couple of colliding galaxies. But here, away from the great centres of population, where the Circle Sea meets the desert, there is a line of cold blue fire. Flames as chilly as the slopes of Hell roar towards the sky. Ghostly light flickers across the desert. The pyramids in the ancient valley of the Djel are flaring their power into the night. The energy streaming up from their paracosmic peaks may, in chapters to come, illuminate many mysteries: why tortoises hate philosophy, why too much religion is bad for goats, and what it is that handmaidens actually do. It will certainly show what our ancestors would be thinking if they were alive today. People have often speculated about this. Would they approve of modern society, they ask, would they marvel at present-day achievements? And of course this misses a fundamental point. What our ancestors would really be thinking, if they were alive today, is: 'Why is it so dark in here?' In the cool of the river valley dawn the high priest Dios opened his eyes. He didn't sleep these days. He couldn

Take a wonderfully crazed excursion into the demented heart of a tropical paradise—a world of cargo cults, cannibals, mad scientists, ninjas, and talking fruit bats. Our bumbling hero is Tucker Case, a hopeless geek trapped in a cool guy's body, who makes a living as a pilot for the Mary Jean Cosmetics Corporation. But when he demolishes his boss's pink plane during a drunken airborne liaison, Tuck must run for his life from Mary Jean's goons. Now there's only one employment opportunity left for him: piloting shady secret missions for an unscrupulous medical missionary and a sexy blond high priestess on the remotest of Micronesian hells. Here is a brazen, ingenious, irreverent, and wickedly funny novel from a modern master of the outrageous. PART ONE The Phoenix 1 The Cannibal Tree Tucker Case awoke to find himself hanging from a breadfruit tree by a coconut fiber rope. He was suspended facedown about six feet above the sand in some sort of harness, his hands and feet tied together in front of him. He lifted his head and strained to look around. He could see a white sand beach fringed with coconut palms, a coconut husk fire, a palm frond hut, a path of white coral gravel that led into a jungle. Completing the panorama was the grinning brown face of an ancient native. The native reached up with a clawlike hand and pinched Tucker's cheek. Tucker screamed. "Yum," the native said. "Who are you?" Tucker asked. "Where am I? Where's the navigator?" The native just grinned. His eyes were yellow, his hair a wild tangle of curl and bird feathers, and his teeth were black and had been filed to points. He looked like a potbellied skeleton upholstered in distressed leather. Puckered pink scars decorated his skin; a series of small scars on his chest described the shape of a shark. His only clothing was a loincloth woven from some sort of plant fiber. Tucked in the waist cord was a vicious-looking bush knife. The native patted Tucker's cheek with an ashy callused palm, then turned and walked away, leaving him hanging. "Wait!" Tucker shouted. "Let me down. I have money. I can pay you." The native ambled down the path without looking back. Tucker struggled against the harness, but only managed to put himself into a slow spin. As he turned, he caught sight of the navigator, hanging uncon scious a few feet away. "Hey, you alive?" The navigator didn't stir, but Tucker could see that he was breathing. "Hey, Kimi, wake up!" Still no reaction. He strained against the rope around his wrists, but the bonds only seemed to tighten. After a few minutes, he gave up, exhausted. He rested and looked around for something to give this bizarre scene some meaning. Why had the native hung them in a tree? He caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned to see a large brown crab struggling at the end of a string tied to a nearby branch. There was his answer: They were hung in the tree, like the crab, to keep them fresh until they were ready to be eaten. Tucker shuddered, im

Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason (Bridget Jones 2) Read Free Lurching from the cappuccino bars of Notting Hill to the blissed-out shores of Thailand, Bridget Jones searches for The Truth in spite of pathetically unevolved men, insane dating theories, and Smug Married advice ("'I'm just calling to say in the potty! In the potty! Well, do it in Daddy's hand, then!'"). She experiences a zeitgeist-esque Spiritual Epiphany somewhere between the pages of "How to Find the Love You Want Without Seeking It" ("can self-help books really self help?"), protective custody, and a lightly chilled Chardonnay. *************** 1 Happily Ever After Monday 27 January 9st 3 (total fat groove), boyfriends 1 (hurrah!), shags 3 (hurrah!), calories 2, 100, calories used up by shags 600, so total calories 1,500 (exemplary). 7.15 a.m. Hurrah! The wilderness years are over. For four weeks and five days now have been in functional relationship with adult male thereby proving am not love pariah as previously feared. Feel marvellous, rather like Jemima Goldsmith or similar radiant newlywed opening cancer hospital in veil while everyone imagines her in bed with Imran Khan. Ooh. Mark Darcy just moved. Maybe he will wake up and talk to me about my opinions. 7.30 a.m. Mark Darcy has not woken up. I know, will get up and make him fantastic fried breakfast with sausages, scrambled eggs and mushrooms or maybe Eggs Benedict or Florentine. 7.31 a.m. Depending what Eggs Benedict or Florentine actually are. 7.32 a.m. Except do not have any mushrooms or sausages. 7.33 a.m. Or eggs. 7.34 a.m. Or - come to think of it - milk. 7.35 a.m. still has not woken up. Mmmm. He is lovely. Love looking at Him asleep. V. sexy broad shoulders and hairy chest. Not that sex object or anything. Interested in brain. Mmmm. 7.37 a.m. Still has not woken up. Must not make noise, realize, but maybe could wake Him subtly by thought vibes. 7.40 a.m. Maybe will put ... GAAAAAH! 7.50 a.m. Was Mark Darcy sitting bolt upright yelling, "Bridget, will you stop. Bloody. Staring at me when I am asleep. Go find something to do." 8.45 a.m. In Coins Caf6 having cappuccino, chocolate croissant, and cigarette. Is relief to have fag in open and not to be on best behaviour. V. complicated actually having man in house as cannot freely spend requisite amount of time in bathroom or turn into gas chamber as conscious of other person late for work, desperate for pee etc.; also disturbed by Mark folding up underpants at night, rendering it strangely embarrassing now simply to keep all own clothes in pile on floor. Also he is coming round again tonight so have to go to supermarket either before or after work. Well, do not have to but horrifying truth is want to, in bizarre possibly genetic-throwbackstyle way such as could not admit to Sharon. 8.50 a.m. Mmm. Wonder what Mark Darcy would be like as father (father to own offspring, mean. Not self. That would indeed be sick in manner of Oedipus)? 8.55 a.m. Anyway, must not obsess or fant

Just because you can't explain it, doesn't mean it's a miracle.' Religion is a controversial business in the Discworld. Everyone has their own opinion, and indeed their own gods. Who come in all shapes and sizes. In such a competitive environment, there is a pressing need to make one's presence felt. And it's certainly not remotely helpful to be reduced to be appearing in the form of a tortoise, a manifestation far below god-like status in anyone's book. In such instances, you need an acolyte, and fast. Preferably one who won't ask too many questions... NOW CONSIDER THE TORTOISE AND the eagle. The tortoise is a ground-living creature. It is impossible to live nearer the ground without being under it. Its horizons are a few inches away. It has about as good a turn of speed as you need to hunt down a lettuce. It has survived while the rest of evolution flowed past it by being, on the whole, no threat to anyone and too much trouble to eat. And then there is the eagle. A creature of the air and high places, whose horizons go all the way to the edge of the world. Eyesight keen enough to spot the rustle of some small and squeaky creature half a mile away. All power, all control. Lightning death on wings. Talons and claws enough to make a meal of anything smaller than it is and at least take a hurried snack out of anything bigger. And yet the eagle will sit for hours on the crag and survey the kingdoms of the world until it spots a distant movement and then it will focus, focus, focus on the small shell wobbling among the bushes down there on the desert. And it will leap . . . And a minute later the tortoise finds the world dropping away from it. And it sees the world for the first time, no longer one inch from the ground but five hundred feet above it, and it thinks: what a great friend I have in the eagle. And then the eagle lets go. And almost always the tortoise plunges to its death. Everyone knows why the tortoise does this. Gravity is a habit that is hard to shake off. No one knows why the eagle does this. There's good eating on a tortoise but, considering the effort involved, there's much better eating on practically anything else. It's simply the delight of eagles to torment tortoises. But of course, what the eagle does not realize is that it is participating in a very crude form of natural selection. One day a tortoise will learn how to fly. The story takes place in desert lands, in shades of umber and orange. When it begins and ends is more problematical, but at least one of its beginnings took place above the snowline, thousands of miles away in the mountains around the Hub.[1] One of the recurring philosophical questions is: "Does a falling tree in the forest make a sound when there is no one to hear?" Which says something about the nature of philosophers, because there is always someone in a forest. It may only be a badger, wondering what that cracking noise was, or a squirrel a bit puzzled by all the scenery going upwards, but someone. At

Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3) Read Free Readers back for a third round of the bestselling Cocktail series will enjoy a madcap romantic comedy about bodice ripping and chest heaving, fiery passion and love everlasting. Plus a dash of paperwork filing and horseshi—wait, what?By day, Viv Franklin designs software programs. By night, Vivian’s a secret romance-novel junkie who longs for a knight in shining armor, or a cowboy on a wild stallion, or a strapping firefighter to sweep her off her feet. And she gets to wear the bodice—don’t forget the bodice.When a phone call brings news that she’s inherited a beautiful old home in Mendocino, California from a long-forgotten aunt, she moves her entire life across the country to embark on what she sees as a great, romance-novel-worthy adventure. But romance novels always have a twist, don’t they?There’s a cowboy, one that ignites her loins. Because Cowboy Hank is totally loin-ignition worthy. But there’s also a librarian, Clark Barrow. And he calls her Vivian. Can tweed jackets and elbow patches compete with chaps and spurs? You bet your sweet cow pie.In Screwdrivered, Alice Clayton pits Superman against Clark in a hilarious and hot battle that delights a swooning Viv/Vivian. Also within this book, an answer to the question of the ages: Why ride a cowboy when you can ride a librarian? *************** Chapter one Standing atop a lonely hill, Vivian gazed out upon the turbulent sea. Voluptuous and shapely, she cut a striking silhouette. Resembling the siren she was purported to be, she looked to the west. A dark ship appeared on the horizon, and with its sighting, her pulse quickened. Was it the dark pirate captain who haunted her dreams? A tall and fierce warrior, his face was full of fury. And passion. With just a glance from him, her loins quivered. With a touch . . . implosion. Was it he? Returning from faraway lands and adventures she could only dream of, would he pillage and plunder her body as only he could? Would the pirate bestow upon her the treasure of his manhood? Or would he cast her aside as an empty booty? Would he? Would he? Would he care for another Diet Dr Pepper? Wait, what? I was torn from my pirate fantasy by the nasal, weenie voice of Richard Harrison, CPA. “Can I get another Diet Dr Pepper, please? And for the lady, another—what was it you’re having, Viv?” “Scotch. Water. Neat,” I answered, looking across the table at the latest in a long line of blind dates. Set up by my mother, which should have been my first clue to say no and run screaming into that good night. Not that she didn’t have good taste; she’d picked a looker with Richard. Strike that—he was a looker if that’s what you were into. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Brown chinos, perfectly creased. White button-down. White teeth. Blindingly white, actually; I was pretty sure when he smiled chimes went off. Every time a CPA smiled, a fairy got its wings? Jesus, Viv, get a grip. I sipped my Scotch, wincing not only at the good burn, but at t

From NEW YORK TIMES & USA TODAY bestselling author Alice Clayton, known for her “deliciously addictive” (The Book Vixen) novels, this Cocktail series novella reunites readers with Caroline and Simon from the wildly successful Wallbanger.Simon and Caroline are back for another round of baking, banging, and big life changes. Settling in, but never settling down, Caroline has finally struck a balance between the professional and the personal. As one of the top interior designers in San Francisco, she travels all over Northern California between nook time with Simon.Perpetual globetrotter Simon has cut his frequent flyer miles in half over the last year, preferring to balance his professional and personal life, as well.The next step in their lives seems preordained—toasts, veils, and the aisle of rose petals. But when an accident on a photo shoot in Southeast Asia brings Caroline the most terrifying phone call she could ever imagine, she has to ask whether “till death do us part” is a more realistic prospect than faces most couples.It’s been a grand adventure, and Caroline and Simon wouldn’t go out without the best surprise ending ever. One part sexy, one part laughter, a dash of exotic locales, and one pink nightie, mixed with passion, and you’ve got Last Call. Served with a side of Clive. - See more at: http://books.simonandschuster.com/Las... Prologue A starry night. A lady in white. A shoe full of fright. This is the beginning of the end of this love story. Where girls are beautiful and boys are handsome and cats are rock stars. Where friendships endure and relationships mature. Skirts are flippy and emotions are trippy and everyone gets a happy ending . . . don't they? Zoom in on happy couples. Zoom in on love everlasting. Zoom in on a chapel. This is the way the story ends. This is the way the story ends. This is the way the story ends. Not with a whimper, but with a bang.

Readers back for a third round of the bestselling Cocktail series will enjoy a madcap romantic comedy about bodice ripping and chest heaving, fiery passion and love everlasting. Plus a dash of paperwork filing and horseshi—wait, what?By day, Viv Franklin designs software programs. By night, Vivian’s a secret romance-novel junkie who longs for a knight in shining armor, or a cowboy on a wild stallion, or a strapping firefighter to sweep her off her feet. And she gets to wear the bodice—don’t forget the bodice.When a phone call brings news that she’s inherited a beautiful old home in Mendocino, California from a long-forgotten aunt, she moves her entire life across the country to embark on what she sees as a great, romance-novel-worthy adventure. But romance novels always have a twist, don’t they?There’s a cowboy, one that ignites her loins. Because Cowboy Hank is totally loin-ignition worthy. But there’s also a librarian, Clark Barrow. And he calls her Vivian. Can tweed jackets and elbow patches compete with chaps and spurs? You bet your sweet cow pie.In Screwdrivered, Alice Clayton pits Superman against Clark in a hilarious and hot battle that delights a swooning Viv/Vivian. Also within this book, an answer to the question of the ages: Why ride a cowboy when you can ride a librarian? Chapter one Standing atop a lonely hill, Vivian gazed out upon the turbulent sea. Voluptuous and shapely, she cut a striking silhouette. Resembling the siren she was purported to be, she looked to the west. A dark ship appeared on the horizon, and with its sighting, her pulse quickened. Was it the dark pirate captain who haunted her dreams? A tall and fierce warrior, his face was full of fury. And passion. With just a glance from him, her loins quivered. With a touch . . . implosion. Was it he? Returning from faraway lands and adventures she could only dream of, would he pillage and plunder her body as only he could? Would the pirate bestow upon her the treasure of his manhood? Or would he cast her aside as an empty booty? Would he? Would he? Would he care for another Diet Dr Pepper? Wait, what? I was torn from my pirate fantasy by the nasal, weenie voice of Richard Harrison, CPA. "Can I get another Diet Dr Pepper, please? And for the lady, another - what was it you're having, Viv?" "Scotch. Water. Neat," I answered, looking across the table at the latest in a long line of blind dates. Set up by my mother, which should have been my first clue to say no and run screaming into that good night. Not that she didn't have good taste; she'd picked a looker with Richard. Strike that - he was a looker if that's what you were into.

First Betsy Taylor loses her job, then she's killed in a car accident.  But what really bites is that she can't seem to stay dead.  And now her new friends have the ridiculous idea that Betsy is the prophesied vampire queen, and they want her help in overthrowing the most obnoxious power-hungry vampire in five centuries.

Bridget Jones's Diary (Bridget Jones 1) Read Free Meet Bridget Jones—a 30-something Singleton who is certain she would have all the answers if she could:a. lose 7 poundsb. stop smokingc. develop Inner Poise"123 lbs. (how is it possible to put on 4 pounds in the middle of the night? Could flesh have somehow solidified becoming denser and heavier? Repulsive, horrifying notion), alcohol units 4 (excellent), cigarettes 21 (poor but will give up totally tomorrow), number of correct lottery numbers 2 (better, but nevertheless useless)..."Bridget Jones' Diary is the devastatingly self-aware, laugh-out-loud daily chronicle of Bridget's permanent, doomed quest for self-improvement — a year in which she resolves to: reduce the circumference of each thigh by 1.5 inches, visit the gym three times a week not just to buy a sandwich, form a functional relationship with a responsible adult, and learn to program the VCR.Over the course of the year, Bridget loses a total of 72 pounds but gains a total of 74. She remains, however, optimistic. Through it all, Bridget will have you helpless with laughter, and — like millions of readers the world round — you'll find yourself shouting, "Bridget Jones is me!" *************** New Year's Resolutions I WILL NOT Drink more than fourteen alcohol units a week. Smoke. Waste money on: pasta-makers, ice-cream machines or other culinary devices which will never use; books by unreadable literary authors to put impressively on shelves; exotic underwear, since pointless as have no boyfriend. Behave sluttishly around the house, but instead imagine others are watching. Spend more than earn. Allow in-tray to rage out of control. Fall for any of following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment phobics, people with girlfriends or wives, misogynists, megalomaniacs, chauvinists, emotional fuckwits or freeloaders, perverts. Get annoyed with Mum, Una Alconbury or Perpetua. Get upset over men, but instead be poised and cool ice-queen. Have crushes on men, but instead form relationships based on mature assessment of character. Bitch about anyone behind their backs, but be positive about everyone. Obsess about Daniel Cleaver as pathetic to have a crush on boss in manner of Miss Moneypenny or similar. Sulk about having no boyfriend, but develop inner poise and authority and sense of self as woman of substance, complete without boyfriend, as best way to obtain boyfriend. I WILL Stop smoking. Drink no more than fourteen alcohol units a week. Reduce circumference of thighs by 3 inches (i.e. 1? inches each), using anti-cellulite diet. Purge flat of all extraneous matter Give all clothes which have not worn for two years or more to homeless. Improve career and find new job with potential. Save up money in form of savings. Poss start pension-also.

Wallbanger (Cocktail 1) Read Free The first night after Caroline moves into her fantastic new San Francisco apartment, she realizes she's gaining an intimate knowledge of her new neighbor's nocturnal adventures. Thanks to paper-thin walls and the guy's athletic prowess, she can hear not just his bed banging against the wall but the ecstatic response of what seems (as loud night after loud night goes by) like an endless parade of women. And since Caroline is currently on a self-imposed dating hiatus, and her neighbor is clearly lethally attractive to women, she finds her fantasies keep her awake even longer than the noise. So when the wallbanging threatens to literally bounce her out of bed, Caroline, clad in sexual frustration and a pink baby-doll nightie, confronts Simon Parker, her heard-but-never-seen neighbor. The tension between them is as thick as the walls are thin, and the results just as mixed. Suddenly, Caroline is finding she may have discovered a whole new definition of neighborly...In a delicious mix of silly and steamy, Alice Clayton dishes out a hot and hilarious tale of exasperation at first sight... *************** Chapter One “OH, GOD.” Thump. “Oh, God.” Thump thump. What the… “Oh, God, that’s so good!” I scrambled up out of sleep, confused as I looked around the strange room. Boxes on the floor. Pictures propped against the wall. My new bedroom, in my new apartment, I reminded myself, placing both hands on the duvet, grounding myself with the luxurious thread count. Even half asleep, I was aware of my thread count. “Mmmm…Yeah, baby. Right there. Just like that…Don’t stop, don’t stop!” Oh boy… I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and turned to look at the wall behind me, beginning to understand what had woken me up. My hands still stroked the duvet absently, catching the attention of Clive, my wonder cat. Butting his head under my hand, Clive demanded to be soothed. I stroked him as I looked around and oriented myself in my new space. I’d moved in earlier that day. It was a gorgeous apartment: spacious rooms, wood floors, arched doorways—it even had a fireplace! I had no clue how to actually build a fire, but that was neither here nor there. I was aching to put things on the mantel. As an interior designer, I had a habit of mentally placing things in almost every space, whether it belonged to me or not. It drove my friends a wee bit mad at times, as I was constantly restaging their knickknacks. I’d spent the day moving in, and after soaking in the incredibly deep, claw-foot tub until well past prune, I settled myself into bed and enjoyed the creaks and squeaks of a new home: light traffic outside, some quiet music, and the comforting click-click of Clive exploring. The click-click came from his hangnail, you see… My new home, I’d thought contentedly as I slipped into an easy sleep, which is why I was so surprised to be woken at…let’s see…two thirty-seven a.m. I found myself gazing stupidly at the ceiling, trying to return to a relaxed stat

Now a Netflix animated film, starring Ricky Gervais, Maya Rudolph, Terry Crews, Martin Short, Jane Krakowski, Will Forte, Alessia Cara, and Séan Cullen! From the New York Times Bestselling and two-time Newbery Medal-winning author of The Giver and Number the Stars, comes a delightfully tongue-in-cheek story about parents trying to get rid of their four children and the children who are all too happy to lose their beastly parents and be on their own.  The Willoughby children—Timothy, twins Barnaby A and Barnaby B, and their sister Jane—are fond all old-fashioned things, but especially old-fashioned adventures. What they aren't fond of, however, are their parents. Truth be told, their parents aren't the fondest of them, either, and they're concocting an evil plan to get rid of their children once and for all!   Both parents and children have plenty of dastardly ideas and tricks up their sleeves. The only thing they don't have is any idea of what lies between them and a happily-ever-after.   Complete with a cheeky glossary and bibliography, this hilarious and wonderfully old-fashioned parody pays playful homage to classic works of children’s literature like Mary Poppins and A Christmas Carol. 1. The Old-Fashioned Family and the Beastly Baby Once upon a time there was a family named Willoughby: an old-fashioned type of family, with four children. The eldest was a boy named Timothy; he was twelve. Barnaby and Barnaby were ten-year-old twins. No one could tell them apart, and it was even more confusing because they had the same name; so they were known as Barnaby A and Barnaby B. Most people, including their parents, shortened this to A and B, and many were unaware that the twins even had names. There was also a girl, a timid, pretty little thing with eyeglasses and bangs. She was the youngest, just six and a half, and her name was Jane. They lived in a tall, thin house in an ordinary city and they did the kinds of things that children in old-fashioned stories do. They went to school and to the seashore. They had birthday parties. Occasionally they were taken to the circus or the zoo, although they did not care much for either, excepting the elephants. Their father, an impatient and irascible man, went to work at a bank each day, carrying a briefcase and an umbrella even if it was not raining. Their mother, who was indolent and ill-tempered, did not go to work. Wearing a pearl necklace, she grudgingly prepared the meals. Once she read a book but found it distasteful because it contained adjectives. Occasionally she glanced at a magazine. The Willoughby parents frequently forgot that they had children and became quite irritable when they were reminded of it. Tim, the eldest, had a heart of gold, as many old-fashioned boys do, but he hid it behind a somewhat bossy exterior. It was Tim who decided what the children would do: what games they would play ("We'll have a game of chess now," he occasionally said, "and the rules are that only boys can play, and

The birth of Jesus has been well chronicled, as have his glorious teachings, acts, and divine sacrifice after his thirtieth birthday. But no one knows about the early life of the Son of God, the missing years—except Biff, the Messiah's best bud, who has been resurrected to tell the story in the divinely hilarious yet heartfelt work "reminiscent of Vonnegut and Douglas Adams" (Philadelphia Inquirer).Verily, the story Biff has to tell is a miraculous one, filled with remarkable journeys, magic, healings, kung fu, corpse reanimations, demons, and hot babes. Even the considerable wiles and devotion of the Savior's pal may not be enough to divert Joshua from his tragic destiny. But there's no one who loves Josh more—except maybe "Maggie," Mary of Magdala—and Biff isn't about to let his extraordinary pal suffer and ascend without a fight. Prologue The angel was cleaning out his closets when the call came. Halos and moonbeams were sorted into piles according to brightness, satchels of wrath and scabbards of lightning hung on hooks waiting to be dusted. A wineskin of glory had leaked in the corner and the angel blotted it with a wad of fabric. Each time he turned the cloth a muted chorus rang from the closet, as if he'd clamped the lid down on a pickle jar full of Hallelujah Chorus. "Raziel, what in heaven's name are you doing?" The archangel Stephan was standing over him, brandishing a scroll like a rolled-up magazine over a piddling puppy. "Orders?" the angel asked. "Dirt-side." "I was just there." "Two millennia ago." "Really?" Raziel checked his watch, then tapped the crystal. "Are you sure?" "What do you think?" Stephan held out the scroll so Raziel could see the Burning Bush seal. "When do I leave? I was almost finished here." "Now. Pack the gift of tongues and some minor miracles. No weapons, it's not a wrath job. You'll be undercover. Very low profile, but important. It's all in the orders." Stephan handed him the scroll. "Why me?" "I asked that too." "And?" "I was reminded why angels are cast out." "Whoa! That big?" Stephan coughed, clearly an affectation, since angels didn't breathe. "I'm not sure I'm supposed to know, but the rumor is that it's a new book." "You're kidding. A sequel? Revelations 2, just when you thought it was safe to sin?" "It's a Gospel." "A Gospel, after all this time? Who?" "Levi who is called Biff." Raziel dropped his rag and stood. "This has to be a mistake." "It comes directly from the Son." "There's a reason Biff isn't mentioned in the other books, you know? He's a total - " "Don't say it." "But he's such an asshole." "You talk like that and you wonder why you get dirt-duty." "Why now, after so long, the four Gospels have been fine so far, and why him?" "Because it's some kind of anniversary in dirt-dweller time of the Son's birth, and he feels it's time the whole story is told." Raziel hung his head. "I'd better pack." "Gift of tongues," Stephan reminded. "Of course, so I can take crap in a thousand languages." "Go

The town psychiatrist has decided to switch everybody in Pine Cove, California, from their normal antidepressants to placebos, so naturally—well, to be accurate, artificially—business is booming at the local blues bar. Trouble is, those lonely slide-guitar notes have also attracted a colossal sea beast named Steve with, shall we say, a thing for explosive oil tanker trucks. Suddenly, morose Pine Cove turns libidinous and is hit by a mysterious crime wave, and a beleaguered constable has to fight off his own gonzo appetites to find out what's wrong and what, if anything, to do about it. This one's for Mom Prologue September in Pine Cove is a sigh of relief, a nightcap, a long-deserved nap. Soft autumn light filters through the trees, the tourists go back to Los Angeles and San Francisco, and Pine Cove's five thousand residents wake up to discover that they can once again find a parking place, get a table in a restaurant, and walk the beaches without being conked by an errant Frisbee. September is a promise. Rain will come at last and turn the golden pastures around Pine Cove green, the tall Monterey pines that cover the hills will stop dropping their needles, the forests of Big Sur will stop burning, the grim smile developed over the summer by the waitresses and clerks will bloom into something resembling real human expression, children will return to school and the joy of old friends, drugs, and weapons that they missed over the summer, and everyone, at last, will get some rest. Come September, Theophilus Crowe, the town constable, lovingly clips the sticky purple buds from his sensimilla plants. Mavis, down at the Head of the Slug Saloon, funnels her top-shelf liquors back into the well from whence they came. The tree service guys, with their chain saws, take down the dead and dying pines lest they crash through someone's roof with the winter storms. Woodpiles grow tall and wide around Pine Cove homes and the chimney sweep goes to a twelve-hour workday. The sunscreen and needless souvenir shit shelf at Brine's Bait, Tackle, and Fine Wines is cleared and restocked with candles, flashlight batteries, and lamp oil. (Monterey pine trees have notoriously shallow root systems and an affinity for falling on power lines.) At the Pine Cove Boutique, the hideous reindeer sweater is marked up for winter to await being marked back down for the tenth consecutive spring. In Pine Cove, where nothing happens (or at least nothing has happened for a long time), September is an event: a quiet celebration. The people like their events quiet. The reason they came here from the cities in the first place was to get away from things happening. September is a celebration of sameness. Each September is like the last. Except for this year. This year three things happened. Not big things, by city standards, but three things that coldcocked the beloved status quo nonetheless: forty miles to the south, a tiny and not very dangerous leak opened in a cooling pipe at the Diab

Two-time Newbery Medalist Lois Lowry introduces a new girl in class who loves being the center of attention and tells the most entertaining “absolutely true” stories. There’s never been anyone like Gooney Bird Greene at Watertower Elementary School. What other new kid comes to school wearing pajamas and cowboy boots one day and a polka-dot t-shirt and tutu on another? Gooney Bird has to sit right smack in the middle of the class because she likes to be in the middle of everything. She is the star of story time and keeps her teacher and classmates on the edge of their seats with her “absolutely true” stories. But what about her classmates? Do they have stories good enough to share? 1. There was a new student in the Watertower Elementary School. She arrived in October, after the first month of school had already passed. She opened the second grade classroom door at ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning and appeared there all alone, without even a mother to introduce her. She was wearing pajamas and cowboy boots and was holding a dictionary and a lunch box. "Hello," Mrs. Pidgeon, the second grade teacher, said. "We're in the middle of our spelling lesson." "Good," said the girl in pajamas. "I brought my dictionary. Where's my desk?" "Who are you?" Mrs. Pidgeon asked politely. "I'm your new student. My name is Gooney Bird Greene - that's Greene with a silent 'e' at the end - and I just moved here from China. I want a desk right smack in the middle of the room, because I like to be right smack in the middle of everything." The class stared at the new girl with admiration. They had never met anyone like Gooney Bird Greene. She was a good student. She sat down at the desk Mrs. Pidgeon provided, right smack in the middle of everything, and began doing second grade spelling. She did all her work neatly and quickly, and she followed instructions. But soon it was clear that Gooney Bird was mysterious and interesting. Her clothes were unusual. Her hairstyles were unusual. Even her lunches were very unusual. At lunchtime on Wednesday, her first day in the school, she opened her lunch box and brought out sushi and a pair of bright green chopsticks. On Thursday, her second day at Watertower Elementary School, Gooney Bird Greene was wearing a pink ballet tutu over green stretch pants, and she had three small red grapes, an avocado, and an oatmeal cookie for lunch. On Thursday afternoon, after lunch, Mrs. Pidgeon stood in front of the class with a piece of chalk in her hand. "Today," she said, "we are going to continue talking about stories." "Yay!" the second-graders said in very loud voices, all but Felicia Ann, who never spoke, and Malcolm, who wasn't paying attention. He was under his desk, as usual. "Gooney Bird, you weren't here for the first month of school. But our class has been learning about what makes good stories, haven't we?" Mrs. Pidgeon said. Everyone nodded. All but Malcolm, who was under his desk doing something with scissors. "Class? What does a

Sugar Rush (Friend-Zoned 3) Read Free Max Leokov has watched the people around him find love.At one point in life, he not only wanted that, but lived for it.He loved once. He loved with all his heart.His heart broken, he was left to care for his young daughter.He deserves a second chance.Helena Kovac has spent years studying.She has worked her ass off to get her degree.She doesn't have time for love. Hell, she doesn't have time to mess around, even.Books and work are her life. Everything else comes second.When Max and Helena join forces to help his daughter, Ceecee, they are shocked at the spark between them.A cynic.A workaholic.When love hits, it hits hard.And sometimes, love hurts. *************** Prologue Helena I weep openly. A high-pitched whimper leaves my mouth that is so high I think I hear a dog howl somewhere in the distance. I alternate whimpering and bawling, snorting every now and again. Tears drench my cheeks. Boogers almost run into my mouth. I’m a hot mess. When the celebrant smiles happily and utters, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride,” my sister, Natalie, throws her bouquet behind her. Without flinching, Mimi snatches up the flowers mid-air before winking to the crowd. Nat stands on her tiptoes and kisses her husband, Asher, through a smile. He gently hooks a hand around the back of her neck and holds her close, deepening the kiss and refusing to let her end it. They smile lip-to-lip. It’s beautiful. And so I howl. I look across to the middle-aged man sitting next to me. He watches me with a mixture of concern and fear, backing up just a little. I try to speak through my hitching breaths and sobbing, “Izz juzz so beautafoo.” Hitch. “So beautafoo.” I break down again, louder this time. Sinking down into my chair in the most unladylike way, I let out a long, keening cry. I hear someone say an annoyed, “Will someone please get her out of here?” Wet mascara makes my eyelashes stick together. When I realize the annoyed person is my sister, I lift my face heavenward and cry harder. Nat glares at me and hisses only loud enough for me to hear, “Seriously, shut the eff up and stop with the crying. You’re bringing everyone down, skank!” I weakly reach a hand out to her, body shaking with silent sobs and try to speak. “I lubb ewe. Ewe look beautafoo. So beautafoo.” I sit up and wail, “I’m juzz happy. So happy.” My sister. She speaks my language. So when I see her eyes fill with tears and her lip quivers, I know it’s not long before this solo turns into a duet. She looks at me and whispers, “Aww.” The first of her tears fall, and before I know it, we’re clutching each other and sobbing openly, wailing, sounding something like a couple of chimps fighting in a turf war. If you couldn’t tell, I don’t do weddings well. They get me. They always get me. It’s the same thing every time. I give myself a firm pep-talk. I don’t bother packing tissues, as if somehow that’ll stop the tears, and usually, before the cake is even cu

Discworld's only demonology hacker, Eric, is about to make life very difficult for the rest of Ankh-Morpork's denizens. This would-be Faust is very bad...at his work, that is. All he wants is to fulfill three little wishes:to live forever, to be master of the universe, and to have a stylin' hot babe.But Eric isn't even good at getting his own way. Instead of a powerful demon, he conjures, well, Rincewind, a wizard whose incompetence is matched only by Eric's. And as if that wasn't bad enough, that lovable travel accessory the Luggage has arrived, too. Accompanied by his best friends, there's only one thing Eric wishes now -- that he'd never been born! The bees of Death are big and black, they buzz low and sombre, they keep their honey in combs of wax as white as alter candles. The honey is black as night, thick as sin and sweet as treacle. It is well known the eight colours make up white. But there are also eight colours of blackness, for those that have the seeing of them, and the hives of Death are among the black grass in the black orchard under the black-blossomed, ancient boughs of trees that will, eventually, produce apples that... put it like this... probably won't be red. The grass was short now. The scythe that had done the work leaned against the gnarled bole of a pear tree. Now Death was inspecting his bees, gently lifting the combs in his skeletal fingers. A few bees buzzed around him. Like all beekeepers, Death wore a veil. It wasn't that he had anything to sting, but sometimes a bee would get inside his skull and buzz around and give him a headache. As he held a comb up to the grey light of his little world between the realities there was the faintest of tremors. A hum went up from the hive, a leaf floated down. A wisp of wind blew for a moment through the orchard, and that was the most uncanny thing, because the air in the land of Death is always warm and still. Death fancied that he heard, very briefly, the sound of running feet and a voice saying, no, a voice thinking oshitoshitoshit, I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna DIE! Death is almost the oldest creature in the universe, with habits and modes of thought that mortal man cannot begin to understand, but because he was also a good beekeeper he carefully replaced the comb in its rack and put the lid on the hive before reacting. He strode back through the dark garden to his cottage, removed his veil, carefully dislodged a few bees who had got lost in the depths of his cranium, and retired to his study. As he sat down at his desk there was another gust of wind, which rattled the hourglasses on the shelves and made the big pendulum clock in the hall pause briefly in its interminable task of slicing time into manageable bits. Death sighed, and focused his gaze. There is nowhere Death will not go, no matter how distant and dangerous. In fact the more dangerous it is, the more likely he is to be there already. Now he stared through the mists of time and space. OH, he said. IT'S HIM

Motor Mouth (Alex Barnaby 2) Read Free This is a Women's Fiction/Chick-Lit/Humor, and this is the second book in the Alex Barnaby series. I really enjoy just read. It has mystery and it is funny at times. It was a quick read. I always love the characters in Janet's book, and this one was no different. (*) *************** ONE Sometimes there’s a decision to be made between winning fairly and cheating for a good cause. And sometimes, in the heat of competition, I’ve slipped south of fair. So I understand the temptation. But here’s the thing about cheating…don’t cheat me. I take it personally. And I was pretty sure I had my eye on a guy who was cheating at my expense. He was wearing a red suit. He was driving a flashy car with a big 69 painted on the side. And he was going too fast. I had my binoculars trained on him as he took a turn, his left-front tire tight to the curve. I was standing on the flat roof of the Homestead-Miami Speedway grandstand, getting a bird’s-eye view of the scrubby Florida landscape. Heat waves shimmered on the track below me, and the air was thick with fumes from scorched rubber, high-octane gas, and the euphoria NASCAR brings to a race. I was with forty-two guys on the roof. I was the only one on the roof wearing a pink lace thong. At least I was almost certain I was the only one in a thong since I was the only female, but hell, what do I know? I was wearing tight black jeans and a Stiller Racing shirt. The shirt had short sleeves, was white with black and gold trim, and the Stiller Racing logo was embroidered on the front. The embroidered name on the back was a garage joke: Motor Mouth. I’m Sam Hooker’s race-day spotter. I’m the lip-glossed, bleached blonde who whispers into Hooker’s ear while he sweats his brains out in a black-and-gold fire-resistant jumpsuit each week. This week Hooker was running his black Metro-sponsored car around and around the Homestead 1.5-mile oval. It was the last race of the season and I was looking forward to a change of pace. I love my job, but there comes a time when a girl just wants to shimmy into a sexy little dress and sip a cosmo at a restaurant that doesn’t feature barbecue. Not that I don’t like barbecue, but I’d had a lot of it lately. Hooker’s voice was loud and clear in my headset. “Earth to Motor Mouth. Talk to me.” “I’m thinking thoughts that can’t go public.” “Are these thoughts about getting naked?” Hooker asked. “No, they’re about getting even.” “Listen, it was an accident, I swear. I was drunk and I don’t remember a thing. I don’t know how I ended up in bed with that salesclerk. Darlin’, you know I love you.” Mental head slap. “Not that, you moron. I’m talking about the race.” Hooker got his start on Texas dirt tracks. He’s raced open-wheel karts, trucks, and everything in between. He’s my age but he looks like a college kid. Sun-bleached blond hair, and a nice body that’s got some muscle and stands a couple inches taller than me. The difference between Hooker and the colleg

Charlie Asher is a pretty normal guy with a normal life, married to a bright and pretty woman who actually loves him for his normalcy. They're even about to have their first child. Yes, Charlie's doing okay—until people start dropping dead around him, and everywhere he goes a dark presence whispers to him from under the streets. Charlie Asher, it seems, has been recruited for a new position: as Death.It's a dirty job. But, hey! Somebody's got to do it. This book is dedicated to Patricia Moss, who was as generous in sharing her death as she was in sharing her life. AND To hospice workers and volunteers all over the world. PART ONE THE SORRY BUSINESS What you seek, you shall never find. For when the Gods made man, They kept immortality for themselves. Fill your belly. Day and night make merry, Let Days be full of joy. Love the child that holds your hand. Let your wife delight in your embrace. For these alone are the concerns of man. -The Epic of Gilgamesh 1 BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP FOR DEATH - HE KINDLY STOPPED FOR ME - Charlie Asher walked the earth like an ant walks on the surface of water, as if the slightest misstep might send him plummeting through the surface to be sucked to the depths below. Blessed with the Beta Male imagination, he spent much of his life squinting into the future so he might spot ways in which the world was conspiring to kill him - him; his wife, Rachel; and now, newborn Sophie. But despite his attention, his paranoia, his ceaseless fretting from the moment Rachel peed a blue stripe on the pregnancy stick to the time they wheeled her into recovery at St. Francis Memorial, Death slipped in. "She's not breathing," Charlie said. "She's breathing fine," Rachel said, patting the baby's back. "Do you want to hold her?" Charlie had held baby Sophie for a few seconds earlier in the day, and had handed her quickly to a nurse insisting that someone more qualified than he do some finger and toe counting. He'd done it twice and kept coming up with twenty-one. "They act like that's all there is to it. Like if the kid has the minimum ten fingers and ten toes it's all going to be fine. What if there are extras? Huh? Extra-credit fingers? What if the kid has a tail?" (Charlie was sure he'd spotted a tail in the six-month sonogram. Umbilical indeed! He'd kept a hard copy.) "She doesn't have a tail, Mr. Asher," the nurse explained. "And it's ten and ten, we've all checked. Perhaps you should go home and get some rest." "I'll still love her, even with her extra finger." "She's perfectly normal." "Or toe." "We really do know what we're doing, Mr. Asher. She's a beautiful, healthy baby girl." "Or a tail." The nurse sighed. She was short, wide, and had a tattoo of a snake up her right calf that showed through her white nurse stockings. She spent four hours of every workday massaging preemie babies, her hands threaded through ports in a Lucite incubator, like she was handling a radioactive spark in there. She talked to them, coaxed them, told

Tattoos and Tatas (Chocoholics 2.5) Read Free During the month of October, 100% of the proceeds from Tattoos and Tatas will be donated to breast cancer awareness.Claire and Liz have always had a friendship that defied the test of time, but when one of them is diagnosed with a disease that every woman fears, their bond is put through the wringer. How do you cope knowing your soul mate could be taken from you?Filled with memories of their life long friendship, inappropriate behavior, bad tattoos and shaving cats, the two friends will realize that laughter really is the best medicine.Tattoos and TaTas is not your typical love story; it's a story of friendship and learning how to let go when something is beyond your control. *************** “Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.” —Bill Cosby HAVE YOU EVER met someone who you instantly knew was meant to be in your life forever? I’m not talking about the guy you took home from the bar one night after eleventy-seven rum and Cokes. You know, the one who disappeared after making your vagina sing a lovely melody. I’m not even talking about the person you’re dating, engaged to or that you married. Sure, some people find that one person they know they want to spend the rest of their life with, making babies and growing old together with, but I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about your soul mate. Your REAL soul mate. The person who was put on this earth just to get you, not to breed with you. I met the love of my life, Jim, in college and I did all those things that you’re supposed to do with him. We fell in love, got married, had babies and lived happily ever after, but I found my soul mate much earlier than that. I met her in high school. Oh, shut up, I’m not a lesbian. I’m talking about my best friend. My person. You might want to sit down for this next part because when I tell you how we met, I’m sure you’ll fall over laughing your ass off. There will be no judging how Claire and I met or I will cut all of your mothers. We met during cheerleading tryouts. Shut up, I told you this is a judgment-free zone. Commiserating over our fellow female students bouncing around and squealing exactly like cracked-out puppies brought us together, but our bond kept us together. We shared so many commonalities that it even freaked us out. Our parents shared the same wedding anniversary, somewhere in our ancient family tree we shared the same last name and family crest, my first name is her middle name and her first dog and I shared a name (I never met Liz the beagle, but I heard she was an asshole who licked her twat all the time. Sounds about right). We liked all the same movies and books and we finished each other’s sentences. Claire and I met in the back of our high school gym, the only two girls in a group of thirty standing off on the sidelines with our arms crossed in front of us

Friend-Zoned (Friend-Zoned 1) Read Free *************** Chapter One My name is Tina Rawr Raaawr. Damn, forgot to replace the batteries on the doorbell sensor again, I think Now, instead of the regular Ding Dong most doorbells have mine sounds like a cat in heat. “Good Morning, Ladies. ” I smile and look over to greet my first customers of the day. “My name is Tina. If you need any help with anything, just holler. ” When I see them smile and nod back at me I go to my table of sweaters which have become a bit of a mess from the day before and commence re-folding. Most people wouldn’t do this with a huge smile on their face but, what can I say? I take pride in my work. Rawr Raaawr. I start speaking cheerfully before I see who comes through the door, “Good Morn…Oh, it’s just you! How’s it going?” I see my not so cheerful worker girl Mimi walk through the studio and straight to the staff room without so much as a nod. Ooookay then. This is not unusual for Mimi. She is super surly in the best way. You can ask her anything, anything at all and she’ll only give you a straight answer. Everyone needs a friend like her. She emerges from the staff room, walks across the studio and straight out the door again. I see her turn left and smile to myself. I know she’ll only be a few minutes but will come back with the best Good Morning greeting anyone can get. Re-commence sweater folding. Five minutes later I hear the god awful doorbell again and Mimi walks over to me carrying the elixir of life in her dainty hands. I take the cup from her and sip. Mmmmmm, Caramel Latte. I love you, Meems. She takes her place behind the counter and logs into the register. She looks over at me and asks, “What are you smiling at, Atomic?” Surly as ever. She calls me Atomic because of my surname. I laugh and shake my head at her. I see her lip twitch as she looks over her day’s to-do list. I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Tina Tomic. Actually, my name is Valentina Tomic. But the only time I ever get called Valentina is when I’m in trouble. I manage Safira Boutique. Actually, scratch that, I own Safira Boutique. None of my workers know this. They all believe I’m the store manager because this is what I have led them to believe. Safira Boutique is my pride and joy. I bought it two years ago. The building was in pretty good shape but I put some money into renovating. I made all the fixings more modern and added a small kitchenette in the back which holds a fridge, microwave, small two-burner stove, and a sink to wash our dirty dishes. I also had new signs put up and a brand spanking new front counter put in. It’s very modern, shiny black with a high back; this hides our register and computer. There is also a super tiny change room at the back of the store. The store room was in good condition but the overall wiring needed to be re-done. This cost me a packet, but it was totally worth it. Safira’s is a narrow building but is long; it looks small from the front but is surpri

This is where the dragons went. They lie ... not dead, not asleep, but ... dormant. And although the space they occupy isn't like normal space, nevertheless they are packed in tightly. They could put you in mind of a can of sardines, if you thought sardines were huge and scaly. And presumably, somewhere, there's a key...GUARDS! GUARDS! is the eighth Discworld novel - and after this, dragons will never be the same again! This is where the dragons went. They lie ... Not dead, not asleep. Not waiting, because waiting implies expectation. Possibly the word we're looking for here is... . . . dormant. And although the space they occupy isn't like normal space, nevertheless they are packed in tightly. Not a cubic inch there but is filled by a claw, a talon, a scale, the tip of a tail, so the effect is like one of those trick drawings and your eyeballs eventually realise that the space between each dragon is, in fact, another dragon: They could put you in mind of a can of sardines, if you thought sardines were huge and scaly and proud and arrogant. And presumably, somewhere, there's the key. In another space entirely, it was early morning in Ankh-Morpork, oldest and greatest and grubbiest of cities. A thin drizzle dripped from the grey sky and punctuated the river mist that coiled among the streets. Rats of various species went about their nocturnal occasions. Under night's damp cloak assassins assassinated, thieves thieved, hussies hustled. And so on. And drunken Captain Vimes of the Night Watch staggered slowly down the street, folded gently into the gutter outside the Watch House and lay there while, above him, strange letters made of light sizzled in the damp and changed colour . . . The city wasa, wasa, wasa wossname. Thing. Woman. Thass what it was. Woman. Roaring, ancient, centuries old. Strung you along, let you fall in thingy, love, with her, then kicked you inna, inna, thingy. Thingy, in your mouth. Tongue. Tonsils. Teeth. That's what it, she, did. She wasa . . . thing, you know, lady dog. Puppy. Hen. Bitch. And then you hated her and, and just when you thought you'd got her, it, out of your, your, whatever, then she opened her great booming rotten heart to you, caught you off bal, bal, bal, thing. Ance. Yeah. Thassit. Never knew where where you stood. Lay. Only thing you were sure of, you couldn't let her go. Because, because she was yours, all you had, even in her gutters . . . Damp darkness shrouded the venerable buildings of Unseen University, premier college of wizardry. The only light was a faint octarine flicker from the tiny windows of the new High Energy Magic building, where keen-edged minds were probing the very fabric of the universe, whether it liked it or not. And there was light, of course, in the Library. The Library was the greatest assemblage of magical texts anywhere in the multiverse. Thousands of volumes of occult lore weighted its shelves. It was said that, since vast amounts of magic can seriously distort the mundane wor

Love Thy Neighbour (Friend-Zoned 2) Read Free Asher 'Ghost' Collins and Natalie Kovac shared a passionate night together. One neither of them can forget.So why is it so hard for them to be around each other?With no hope of the two getting along they decide to go their separate ways. And somehow end up closer than they've ever been.Will friendship ever be enough for the pair? *************** Prologue The wedding The White Rabbit is packed with wedding guests. I look to the bride and groom. So happy. I smile and watch my very pregnant best friend, Valentina, dance with her brand spanking new husband, Nikolai. The song Tina chose for their first dance as man and wife is ‘Amazing’ by Cassie Davis. It’s perfect. Nik holds Tina close, rubs his nose gently up the length of hers and whispers something against her lips. Tina smiles and responds with closed eyes. I roll my eyes. What dorks. Love sure does funny things to people. Tina met Nik just over a year ago and spent the beginning of their friendship denying her feelings for him. They remained friends for a while, but anyone with a brain could see the sexual tension between them was so thick you could slice it with a knife. To cut a long story short, my sweet best friend watched Nik for two weeks through the windows of her store, Safira. Nik would come outside of the club he owns, The White Rabbit, for a cigarette break. Tina would watch his scowling face and become sad. Tina doesn’t like to be sad. So she decided to anonymously send Nik some candy with a note attached. Talking about this now makes Tina laugh. Truth is, she was mortified when Nik sent his brother, Max, over to the store to fetch whoever wrote the note. You see, Tina wrote the note unknowingly on Safira stationary. And the rest is history. Together, they make a whole. You would never guess from looking at Tina the sorrow and tragedy she has gone through in her short life. Losing her mom and daughter in the same accident left her hollow for a long time. It left me hollow too. See, we lived in Cali. We grew up together. Our parents are Croatian and friends which somehow meant we were automatically friends, too. So, I spent most of my childhood looking out for sweet little Tina who doesn’t have a nasty bone in her body. I love her more than anything. She believes I saved her life when I moved in with her after her daughter and mom passed away, but the truth is, she saved mine. There is nothing more heart-wrenching than watching your dearest friend deteriorate before your eyes. Tina became a hollow shell, and living in Cali was only making her worse, so she moved to New York. I lasted two years before I packed my shit and followed her down. Living without Tina close by is something I never want to experience again. My heart was shrinking by the day. I’m not what you would call a ‘nice person’. I tolerate people on the best of days. Don’t get me wrong, once you pass the friendship barrier I’ve got up around me, you’re in. But Tina is a part

Love and Lists (Chocoholics 1) Read Free Love and Lists is the first book in the Chocolate Lovers spinoff - Chocoholics: The foul-mouthed offspring tell their stories.Twenty-five-year-old Gavin Ellis has always had the love and support of his family ever since he was a little boy and couldn't stop talking about his penis. He's also always had their unsolicited advice and uncanny knack of embarrassing him at all costs. Now that he's an adult and trying to convince the love of his life to love him back, things haven't changed very much from when he was younger. When Gavin's best friend Tyler suggests he make a to-do list of items that will ensure he wins the girl, Gavin is one-hundred-percent on board: after a few six packs.After puking in the shrubs, a bad experience with Viagra, a Sex-Ed course gone wrong, and a slew of other mishaps courtesy of his family and friends, Gavin is pretty sure this list will be the death of him.Sometimes, trying to make someone love you with a list isn't always the best idea. Especially when "Show her your penis" is the first "to-do" item... *************** Gavin Chapter 1 – The List Can someone die from a severe case of blue balls? Yep, that just happened. I just typed that exact phrase into the Google search engine. My mother always warned me to stay away from Google. She told me it was the devil. I’m twenty-five years old and I still don’t listen to my mother. According to Wiki, the answer is NO. Just, no. Period. The end. No explanation whatsoever. You would think the person answering these questions could have elaborated just a little bit. Like, “No. You cannot die from blue balls, you f**king moron. Why the hell are you even asking this question? You do realize your internet history can and will be seen by everyone you know at some point in your life, right?” Note to self: delete internet history. I need to consult my mom on this. I believe I came across a contract between her and my Aunt Liz a few years ago … You’re probably wondering why I’m curious if someone can die from blue balls. You’re probably also wondering how in the hell I can possibly be twenty-five years old when just yesterday I was four. I know, it’s a tough pill to swallow. I’m not a foul-mouthed, cute little kid anymore. I’m now a foul-mouthed, cute adult. I take after my parents, so obviously I’m good looking. That might sound conceited to you, but oh well. I’m not one of those guys who are all “Awwwww, shucks. You really think I’m good looking? Naaaaah, I’m just me.” Fuck that. I walked around for most of my childhood talking about my penis to anyone who would listen. Owning it when people say I’m hot isn’t conceited. It’s me being comfortable with who I am. So anyway, where were we? Oh, right. Penis. Blue balls. Death by blue balls. There’s only one reason for my earlier Google question: Charlotte Gilmore. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and my best friend. She’s the oldest daughter of my parents’ best friends, Liz and Jim Gilmore. S

Rusty Nailed (Cocktail 2) Read Free In this sequel to Wallbanger, the second book in the Cocktail series, fan favorites Caroline and Simon negotiate the rollercoaster of their new relationship while house-sitting in San Francisco.Playing house was never so much fun—or so confusing. With her boss on her honeymoon, Caroline’s working crazy long hours to keep the interior design company running—especially since she’s also the lead designer for the renovation of a gorgeous old hotel on Sausalito. So with her hotshot photographer boyfriend gallivanting all over the world for his job, she and Simon are heavy-duty into “absence makes the heart grow fonder” mode. Neither has any complaints about the great reunion sex, though! Then Simon decides he’s tired of so much travelling, and he’s suddenly home more. A lot more. And wanting Caroline home more, too. Though their friends’ romantic lives provide plenty of welcome distraction, eventually Caroline and Simon have to sort their relationship out. Neither wants “out of sight, out of mind,” but can they create their own happy mid-ground cliché? *************** prologue It was the best of times, it was the na**dest of times . . . December I’d never spent a Christmas away from my family. Christmas to me is family: immediate, extended, and later, created. My family and friends gather, trees are trimmed, presents are wrapped, nog is made and most certainly consumed. It’s Norman Rockwell, with a drunk uncle. I wouldn’t change it for the world. Except this year. This Christmas was entirely different. This was Rockwellian with a Wallbanger twist. As a freelance photographer, Simon had a seriously cool job. He traveled the world on assignment for National Geographic and Discovery Channel, or whoever needed a photographer to go to the farthest-flung places on earth. This Christmas he was photographing European cities in their holiday best, and he’d be gone nearly the entire month of December. Since officially becoming a we, we’d settled into our own normal. He’d continued to travel for work, booking trips all over the world: Peru, Chile, England, even a long weekend in LA to do a study at the Playboy Mansion . . . Hardship. But when my globe-trotting Wallbanger’s home, he’s home. Home with me, either in my apartment or in his. Home with me for the dinners out with Jillian and Benjamin, or playing poker with the other two couples that make up our best friends. Home with me, in my bed or his, my kitchen or his, on my counter or his—home. Yet apparently Simon was always away on Christmas. He’d taken jobs in Rome, covering the mass in St. Peter’s Square. The Vanuatu Islands in the South Pacific, the first time zone to celebrate the holiday. He’d even traveled to the North Pole one year and made a snow angel at midnight. Strange, you say? Not really. His parents were killed in a car accident when he was a senior in high school. Eighteen years old, and his entire world was turned upside down. With no other family, he left

This four-story collection includes:Gooney Bird GreeneThere’s never been anyone like Gooney Bird Greene at Watertower Elementary School. She is the star of story time and keeps her class on the edge of their seats with her “absolutely true” stories. But do her classmates have stories good enough to share?Gooney Bird and the Room MotherGooney Bird wants to have the lead role of Squanto in her class Thanksgiving pageant. But that role will go to whoever finds someone to be the room mother. Gooney Bird finds a room mother alright, but promises not to tell who it is until the day of the play. But will the mystery room mother really show up?Gooney the FabulousGooney Bird has a fabulous idea after her teacher reads fables to the class. Her fabulous idea is that each student create their own fable and tell it to the class! Everyone but Nicholas is excited about their stories and costumes. Can Gooney Bird find out why Nicholas is unhappy and get him to join in the fun?Gooney Bird Is So AbsurdOn the day that Gooney Bird wears her special brain-warming hat to school, Mrs. Pidgeon is teaching her class about poetry. But just when things are going well, the kids get some terrible news. And Gooney Bird will need all the inspiration her brain can muster to organize the most important poem the class has ever written. 1. "And so," Mrs. Pidgeon said, reading the final page of the book she was holding, "because the ant had worked very hard, he and his friends had food all winter. But the grasshopper had none, and found itself dying of hunger." "Oh, no!" Keiko wailed. "I hate stories where people die!" Malcolm, who had been rolling paper into balls while he listened to the story, tossed a little paper pellet at Keiko. "It's not people," he pointed out. "It's a dumb grasshopper! It's only a grasshopper! Just a grasshopper!" "Nobody cares if a grasshopper dies!" Tyrone said. "I do," Keiko murmured sadly. She folded her arms on her desk and then laid her head down on her arms. "It's only a fable," Mrs. Pidgeon said. She held up the book. "Aesop's Fables is the title. Aesop was a man who lived a very long time ago. He was the creator of all of these fables. Tomorrow I'll read you another." "Not about anybody dying!" Keiko implored, raising her head. "No," Mrs. Pidgeon agreed. She leafed through the book. "I won't read 'The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing,' then, because I believe that one ends with the wolf eating the lamb - " "Oh, noooo!" Keiko put her head back down and groaned. "But I could read 'The Fox and the Grapes.' I think you'll enjoy that one, Keiko. You had some nice grapes in your lunch last week. I remember that you passed them around. That was very generous." Keiko looked up and nodded. "Red seedless," she reminded everyone, "from my parents' grocery store. But Malcolm started a squishing contest, so I'm not bringing grapes ever again." It was true. And unfortunately some of Mrs. Pidgeon's second-graders had joined in Malcolm's grape-squishing contest enthusia