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“You’re saying your mother engaged in unprotected sex outside her primary relationship?’ ‘With some other student,’ replied Rosie. ‘While she was dating my’ – at this point Rosie raised her hands and made a downwards movement, twice, with the index and middle fingers of both hands – ‘father. My real dad’s a doctor. I just don’t know which one. Really, really pisses me off.’ I was fascinated by the hand movements and silent for a while as I tried to work them out. Were they a sign of distress at not knowing who her father was? If so, it was not one I was familiar with. And why had she chosen to punctuate her speech at that point … of course! Punctuation! ‘Quotation marks,’ I said aloud as the idea hit me. ‘What?’ ‘You made quotation marks around “father” to draw attention to the fact that the word should not be interpreted in the usual way. Very clever.’ ‘Well, there you go,’ she said. ‘And there I was thinking you were reflecting on my minor problem with my whole fucking life. And might have something intelligent to say.’ I corrected her. ‘It’s not a minor problem at all!’ I pointed my finger in the air to indicate an exclamation mark. ‘You should insist on being informed.’ I stabbed the same finger to indicate a full stop. This was quite fun.”

“You're screwed when you start to notice the details, It's when you begin to notice the curve of his lips when he smiles. It's when you can't help but stare at him and the way he talks. It's when you get to admire the shape of his eyes and even the length of his brow. And even crazier, when you get to see the flash of his face in your mind on a random day or it's when you have his favorite facial expression stuck in your memory. . . And worse when you start to have it all in your mind, then you start to miss him.”

“You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?" Seeing someone else? How on earth could that explain any of this? Why would seeing someone else necessitate bringing home a middle­-aged woman, a teenaged punk and an American with a leather jacket and a Rod Stewart haircut? What would the story have been? But then, after reflection, I realised that Penny had probably been here before, and therefore knew that infidelity can usually provide the answer to any domestic mystery. If I had walked in with Sheena Easton and Donald Rumsfeld, Penny would probably have scratched her head for a few seconds before saying exactly the same thing. In other circumstances, on other evenings, it would have been the right conclusion, too; I used to be pretty resourceful when I was being unfaithful to Cindy, even if I do say so myself. I once drove a new BMW into a wall, simply because I needed to explain a four­-hour delay in getting home from work. Cindy came out into the street to inspect the crumpled bonnet, looked at me, and said, “You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?” I denied it, of course. But then, anything – smashing up a new car, persuading Donald Rumsfeld to come to an Islington flat in the early hours of New Year’s Day – is easier than actually telling the truth. That look you get, the look which lets you see right through the eyes and down into the place where she keeps all the hurt and the rage and the loathing... Who wouldn’t go that extra yard to avoid it?”

“You're sensational. You were born sensational. The Devil can't take that away from you, and you shouldn't let him. I vow to protect you. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I'll be there to watch over you. I'm your guardian angel, from here on out, forevermore." We breathe in sync, our bodies entwined, his chest beating against mine. His vow of protection seeps into my heart, and I don't fight it. I'm too tired. And so, I say, "Take me away from here, angel.”

“You're serious." "As serious as an accountant at an IRS audit." His face closed off, reminding her of the ruthlessness she had first noticed about him on the front steps. "You have no business opening a restaurant." "Says who?" "Says the guy who watched you try to extricate yourself from a burger suit with a knife." Her mouth fell open. "Burger suits and restaurants are two different kettles of fish." "Kettles of fish? Now there's great business terminology." "Yep, Texas style." "You're in New York, sweetheart." "I am not your sweetheart, thank my lucky stars." "Another of your quaint Texas sayings? What was the last one I heard you use? 'Bless your heart'?" She sliced him a tooth-grinding smile. "While you might not like them, you can bet your backside that a cafe that serves the kind of fare we create in Texas would have people lined up around the corner. Or, as we say in Texas, till the cows come home.”

“you're Shane, right?' He inched away from her and managed a quick nod as he twisted the rag he held in his fingers. 'Heidi sad you were willing to teach me how to ride.' Her expression shifted from entertained to confused, as if she was wondering why no one had mentioned he was a can or two shy of a six-pack. 'A horse,' he clarified, then wanted to kick himself. What else but a horse? Did he think she was here to learn to ride his mother's elephant? One corner of Annabelle's perfect, full mouth twitched. 'A horse would be good. You seem to have several.' He wanted to remind himself that he was usually fine around women. Smooth even. He was intelligent, funny and could, on occasion, be charming. Just not now, with his blood pumping and his brain doing nothing more than shouting "it's her, it's her" over and over again. Chemistry, he thought grimly. It could turn the smartest man into a drooling idiot. Here he was, proving the theory true.”

“You're shivering so hard the bed is shaking,' he said. 'My hair is wet,' I said. It wasn't a lie. Rhys went silent, then the mattress groaned, sinking directly behind me as his warmth poured over me. 'No expectations,' he said. 'Just body heat.' I scowled at the laughter in his voice. But his broad hands slid under and over me: one flattening against my stomach and tugging me against the hard warmth of him, the other sliding under my ribs and arms to band around my chest, pressing his front into me. He tangled his legs with mine, and then a heavier, warmer darkness settled over us, smelling of citrus and sea. I lifted a hand toward that darkness, and met with a soft, silky material- his wing, cocooning and warming me. I traced my finger along it, and he shuddered, his arms tightening around me. 'Your finger... is very cold,' he gritted out, the words hot on my neck. I tried not to smile, even as I tilted my neck a bit more, hoping the heat of his breath might caress it again. I dragged my finger along his wing, the nail scraping gently against the smooth surface. Rhys tensed, his hand splaying across his stomach. 'You cruel, wicked thing,' he purred, his nose grazing the exposed bit of neck I'd arched beneath him. 'Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?' 'I never knew Illyrians were such sensitive babies,' I said, sliding another finger down the inside of his wing.”

“You're sinfully handsome, women everywhere fall at your feet, you have a beautiful house, friends, companions, anything you might desire. Surely you could be happy...?" For a moment there was real humor in his dark green eyes. "Sinfully handsome, Emma? Women fall at my feet? Then why, pray tell, aren't you there?" "I'm not interested in being one of your conquests." "I don't conquer women, Emma," he said in a low, sinuous voice. "I seduce them. Charm them into doing exactly what I want them to do. Does that surprise you, that I would hold that much charm?" She looked up at him. Indeed, she had no choice- he was still holding her close against his body, and she could either look at him or close her eyes. She wasn't sure which was more dangerous. "No," she said. "It doesn't surprise me." "Then why haven't you succumbed yet?" "I'm stronger than most women." "So you are," he agreed. "But you're no match for me." She hadn't realized he'd been moving her slowly, carefully, backward, until her body came up against the side of the high bed. She halted in sudden panic, but it was too late. He carried her down onto it, his body covering hers, his weight warm and solid.”

“You're sitting in the harbour waiting! The ship you were waiting for did not come, the boat you expected did not come, the things you expected did not come and you are still in the harbour, you are still waiting! Don't you understand, the whole problem is waiting! The universe doesn't want you to wait, the universe is waiting for action from you, so don't wait, go somewhere else because waiting rots you!”

“You’re so calm,” I said out loud. “It’s like you don’t need it.” Need me, I didn’t say. But I could tell by the way his delinquent smile softened that he knew what I meant. Noah moved forward, toward me, next to me then, the slender muscles in his arms flexing with the movement. “I’m not sure you can appreciate how much I want to lay you out before me and make you scream my name.”

“You’re so cute when you’re jealous,” I say. She looks at me, her resolve melting with my words. I take her face in my hands and gently press my lips to hers. She sighs a quiet, defeated sigh into my mouth and relents, parting her lips for me. I run my hands down her arms and to her waist, then pull her out of the chair and on top of me as I lean back onto the bed. I place one hand on the small of her back, pressing her into me, and my other hand I run through her hair, grabbing the back of her head. I kiss her hard as I roll her onto her back, proving to her that she has absolutely nothing to be jealous of. As soon as I’m on top of her, she places her hands on my cheeks and forces my face apart from hers. “So your lips touched someone else’s lips? After our first kiss?” I fall back onto the bed beside her. “Lake, stop it. Stop thinking about it,” I say. “I can’t, Will.” She turns to me and makes that damn pouty face she knows I can’t refuse. “I need to know. In my head all I can picture is you taking some girl out on this perfect date and making her grilled cheese sandwiches and playing “would you rather” with her and sharing seriously intense moments with her, then kissing the hell out of her at the end of the night.” Her description of our first date causes me to laugh. I lean over and press my lips to her ear and whisper, “Is that what I did to you? I kissed the hell out of you?” She pulls her neck away and shoots me a glare, letting me know she isn’t backing down until she gets her way. “Fine,” I say, pulling back. “If I tell you all about it will you promise to let me kiss the hell out of you again?” “Promise,” she says.”

“You're so cynical," Tiny says, waving his hand at me. "I'm not cynical, Tiny," I answer. "I'm practical." "You're a robot," he says. Tiny thinks that I am incapable of what humans call emotion because I have not cried since my seventh birthday, when I saw the movie All Dogs Go to Heaven. I suppose I should have known from the title that it wouldn't end merrily, but in my defense, I was seven. Anyway, I haven't cried since then. I don't really understand the point of crying. Also, I feel that crying is almost--like, aside from deaths of relatives or whatever-- totally avoidable if you follow two very simple rules: 1. Don't care too much. 2. Shut up. Everything unfortunate that has ever happened to me has stemmed from failure to follow one of the rules.”