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“Scarlett lived by the (thankfully) ancient medical creed: If it tastes awful and smells worse, it’s probably good for you.
Julia wasn’t so sure about that. She lived by the edict: If it tastes awful and smells worse, leave it the hell alone. On the other hand, if it tasted good and smelled better, you either ate it, squirted it on your neck or fucked it.
It hadn’t led her wrong so far.”
― Amy Andrews, Numbered

“I bet if cancer of the penis was more prevalent there’d be a cure for this fucker. I bet if dicks were being amputated or dropping off left, right and centre there’d have been a cure decades ago. There’d be a whole fucking government dick department dedicated to it.”
― Amy Andrews, Numbered

“He kissed her then. Not tentative. Not polite.
This was no first-kiss kiss. It was demanding. Dirty. And it went on and on. Deep, open-mouthed, head-twisting, tongue-fucking, rock’n’roll kissing.”
― Amy Andrews, Numbered

“Julia had been angry most of her life. She may have grown up in wealth and privilege but she’d had to fight to be heard and seen. To be validated. To be something other than a piece to be moved around her parentsâ€� Monopoly board. Rage had given her a voice against their manipulations and the guts to walk away. But it had also become ingrained.
There were times when she’d contemplated therapy for it. Right now, she was pleased she hadn’t.
If anything could kill this cancer it would be the weight of Julia’s wrath.”
― Amy Andrews, Numbered

“Look,â€� she said, sidling a little closer to him in the lift. ‘I understand this wasn’t what you bargained for when some cute girl at the café dared you to jump out of a plane with her. You were in it for thrills and sex and you got breast-cancer girl, her terrifying friend and her flaky mother. That’s above and beyond. And I totally get you’re here because you’d feel like some louse if you left her now, but it’s okay, she’s going to be fine, I’m going to take good care of her.”
― Amy Andrews

“We’ll make a wellness altar, I think â€� have some incense burn¬ing, fresh flowers every day and string some lights around it …â€�
Poppy rolled her head to the side. ‘Still think it’s a good idea?�
Julia blanched at the tackiness of a wellness altar with fairy lights and a water feature, but what the hell, she already had a three-metre girly snake ruining the ambience. ‘Sure,� she said. If it made Scarlett happy.
Poppy laughed. ‘I’m going to remind you of this conversation when your apartment looks like a Chinese brothel.”
― Amy Andrews

“She’d never met someone so young who was so damn cocky. Most twenty-year-old guys she knew were either gauche or monosyllabic in her presence, but not Spike. There was a directness, a confidence in his inky-blue eyes that a lot of men never mastered.
Cleary Spike was getting laid far too easily.”
― Amy Andrews, Numbered

“Oh I bet you’re sweet as under all that posh.â€�
And he looked at her in a way that left her in no doubt that he wasn’t talking about the way she might move on the dance floor. If he mentioned honey pots she was going to pour her vodka shot over him. ‘You’ll never know,”
― Amy Andrews, Numbered

“Poppy Devine did not deserve cancer. Poppy was sweet and industrious and careful and measured and always, always did the right thing. If anyone deserved cancer it was Julia. Julia was loud and opinionated and disagreeable. Rude, some might even say. She went out with bad men, took unnecessary risks, pushed people to their limits, swore like a sailor and flipped the bird more than any female in the history of the world.
It should be her number coming up in the cancer lottery.”
― Amy Andrews, Numbered

“Quentin flicked a quick glance back at her again. Poppy. This girl had the wrong name. She should have been Rose. Great face, lots of prickles.”
― Ros Baxter

“Why this girl? Why had this girl crawled right under his skin and made an uncomfortable home there? Why did he want to make things good for her, to see her smile, to make her face
and her voice make all those interesting shapes and noises? Why did he want to stay up late with her when he knew she should be sleeping, just to hear her talk about maths and politics and the
state of the world?
This was not Quentin. Quentin did not like skinny girls. He didn’t like serious girls. And he really hated bossy girls.
Quentin loved curvy, fun, uncomplicated girls; girls who laughed at his jokes and took off their bras when they danced on tables. If they wore bras at all. Yet here he was, washing up and mopping and feeling like five kinds of an arsehole over hurting the feelings of some skinny, serious, bossy girl.”
― Ros Baxter, Numbered

“Quentin wasn’t stupid, despite living what his father called ‘a lifestyle unworthy of yourselfâ€�.”
― Ros Baxter, Numbered

“It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a sure-fire way to impress this girl, who was as cute as hell but wound tighter than one of his father’s antique clocks.”
― Ros Baxter, Numbered

“As an ex-footballer, sometimes surfer and wannabe rock star, Quentin had been fucked by cheerleaders, surfer girls and groupies, but he had never, ever been fucked like that.”
― Ros Baxter, Numbered

“Ten looked confounded that anyone would consider the world’s most slavishly adored hot beverage in such a way. Julia felt momentarily sorry for him. He seemed like a guy who’d had it all figured out â€� join a band and get himself laid every night of the week. Living the dream.
He had no fucking clue what was ahead of him.”
― Amy Andrews, Ros Baxter

“Quentin Carmody didn’t do early mornings, heights or bossy women.”
― Ros Baxter, Numbered

“Quentin had told Spike that inking ‘percussionâ€� across your
knuckles was kind of lame. It takes more than ten letters to make
a badass knuckle tattoo. That was the problem with drummers.
They didn’t listen. But they always seemed to get laid anyway.”
― Ros Baxter, Numbered

“He shook his head at her question. Did women really think men cared about that stuff? Did he care if she did this all the time? Definitely, definitely not. He could honestly say he did not give a flying fuck whether this girl dragged guys home every other day to have her way with them for seven hours. He was just glad as hell she’d decided to do it with him. Today. And hopefully maybe again. Sometime.”
― Ros Baxter, Numbered

“She frowned, and the effect was so pretty he wondered if he was going mad. Why did he find this cranky, kooky woman so damned appealing? He knew for a fact he could go out tonight and drag home some hot, willing chick who would stroke his ego and never argue with him about anything. He closed his eyes and remembered just how good that felt. Willing women; god bless them.”
― Ros Baxter, Numbered