Olivia Maagøe

“We eat in silence for a few minutes, and then Alexandra says, “That reminds me. Matthew, could you escort me to a charity dinner the second Saturday in December? Steven is going to be out of town.” She looks toward me. “I would ask my darling brother to do it, but we all know he spends his Saturday nights with the city slu—” she glances at her daughter “—undesirables.”

Before Matthew can answer, Mackenzie puts her two cents in. “I don’t think Uncle Matthew can come, Momma. He been too busy bein’ pussy whipped. Wha’s pussy whipped, Daddy?”

As soon as the words leave her angelic little lips, a horrendous chain reaction is set off:

Matthew chokes on the black olive in his mouth, which flies out and nails Steven right in the eye.

Steven doubles over, holding his eye and yelling, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” and then goes on about how the salt from the olive juice is eating away at his cornea.

My father starts coughing. George stands up and begins pounding on his back while asking no one in particular if he should perform the Heimlich.

Estelle knocks over her glass of red wine, which quickly seeps into my mother’s lace tablecloth. She makes no move to clean up the mess, but instead chants, “Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness.”

My mother runs around the dining room like a chicken with its head cut off, searching for non-cloth napkins to wipe up the stain, all the while assuring Estelle that everything’s fine.

And Frank…well…Frank just keeps eating.

While the chaos continues around us, Alexandra’s death-ray glare never wavers from Matthew and me. After squirming under it for about thirty seconds, Matthew caves. “It wasn’t me, Alexandra. I swear to Christ it wasn’t me.”

Chicken shit.

Thanks, Matthew. Way to leave my ass blowing in the wind. Remind me never to go to war with him as my wingman.

But as The Bitch glower is turned full force on me alone, I forgive him. I feel like at any moment I’ll be reduced to a smoking pile of Drew ash on the chair. I dig deep and give her the sweetest Baby Brother smile I can manage.

Take a look. Is it working?

I’m so fucking dead.

See, there’s one thing about Bitch Justice you should know. It’s swift and merciless. You won’t know when it’s coming; all you can be certain of is that it will come. And when it does, it will be painful. Very, very painful.”
― Emma Chase, Tangled

“I roll my eyes. “I’m not asking you to take your clothes off, baby. I just want to peek at your midterm.” “Baby? Goodbye forward, hello presumptuous.” “Would you prefer miss? Ma’am maybe? I’d use your name but I don’t know it.” “Of course you don’t.” She sighs. “It’s Hannah.” Then she pauses meaningfully. “Garrett.” Okay, I was waaaay off on the M thing. And I don’t miss the way she emphasizes my name as if to say, Ha! I know yours, asshole!”
― Elle Kennedy, The Deal

“She has the kind of smile that makes a man want to start writing very bad poetry. Dazzling and genuine and as beautiful as the rest of her.”
― Elle Kennedy, The Chase

“She studies the endless rows of titles on the bookshelf, then whirls toward me. “Okay. Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

She points an accusing finger at me. “You’re smart.”

I snort loudly. “Of course I’m smart.”

“You sure as hell don’t act like it.” Allie crosses her arms over the front of her loose striped sweater. “In fact, I feel like you go out of your way to make everyone believe you’re a dummy. With your ‘baby dolls’ and foul language and the way you throw ‘ain’t’ into a sentence every so often.”

I flash her a grin. “Nope, that’s just how I fucking talk, baby doll. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
― Elle Kennedy, The Score