An excellent word for a writer.
Here it is in Chapter 2 of The Laird Takes a Bride, in a scene in which my hero, Alasdair Penhallow, cheerfully reflects on the state of his existence, unaware of the fact that it’s about to be upended . . . and that my heroine, Fiona Douglass, will soon be entering it.
So now he was thirty-five. He wondered if he should feel a little different. But why would he? A birthday merely represented, in an arbitrary way, the passage of time. Here he was, in the vigorous prime of his life, healthy as a horse, strong as an ox, rich as a king — enjoying an uninterrupted spate of years in which he did exactly as he pleased, whenever and wherever he liked.
Yes, life was good.
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