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He puffed out a laugh, thinking about the raised bed he’d bought two years ago to grow herbs for the kitchen, the one he’d never gotten around to putting together. In fact, it was still packed in the garage. Had been there for so long, Maya had given it a name. Fucking Herbert.

— Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“Oh my god—is this a party?” “It’s a dinner,” Minami said while hugging Maya. “Which is what passes for a party among people in their thirties.” “Must be hard, being so millennial.” The last word was clearly an insult.

— Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

He was a square, stocky man who looked like he’d last smiled in the early 2000s. Not quite rude, but stone faced and glaringly uninterested in exchanging pleasantries. My first impression of him was probably highly similar to others’ first impressions of me — with the caveat that serious, unsmiling men tended to be considered consummate professionals, while serious, unsmiling women were often written off as haughty shrews. Oh well.

— Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“Eli Killgore,” she read. “This is not a reassuring name, Eli.” He frowned. “It’s Scottish.”

— Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood