I'll never get to hear her say, 'I love you, Mommy,' like other parents take for granted.
Just about every available female--and some unavailable--seemed to think the way to his heart was through his blood sugar levels.
Hazard of the job. That's Ode de Anal Gland you smell.
Her mother and memory lapses were BFFs.
How southern belle of her.
God. He was an eye-gasm if she ever saw one.
We all have our handicaps. You're not mine.
I’d tell you not to swoon, but he’d catch you, so never mind.
He didn’t know what was hotter, her Star Wars reference or the breathiness with which she spoke it.
He could be doing quantum physics in his head or undressing her in his mind—she’d never know the difference.
Lord, but did he grow up nice.
Yes, best friend of mine. I am the famous photographer you've admired for years, and the man who's admired you.
Maybe he was going to hell. Except, he could’ve sworn that was where he’d been the past ten years.
She held my face in her hands as if I was the treasure.
Damn, her mouth was a weapon.
The algorithms in his hard drive scrambled and his coding short-circuited. Like she’d downloaded a virus right into his system, he got feverishly hot.
Urges. Mercy, the urges.
Considering she’d just blown his gray matter into the ether, he was screwed.
You are no star, Gabby. You're the sky. The rest of us are just circling your orbit.
He bit back a weary sigh and tried to remember strangling her would solve squat.
