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“You’ll be working long hours,” he says, “and you’ll have to do...other things as well.” I sink into my chair. “That sounds like the sort of vague thing Harvey Weinstein would suggest,”
If Hayes was actually a robot set on earth to do nothing but inject filler and fuck, this is pretty much what his life would look like.
“Why can’t I just want to be an assistant?” I ask. “Or a bartender?” “Because you seem like someone destined for more,”
Hayes: Always so sharp-tongued. Me: Yes. Like a snake. And you’re Satan, so it’s perfect for you. Hayes: Your tongue is perfect for me? Say more.
“I would not be interested in a threesome because most men are barely capable of pleasing a single woman without doubling the workload.” His eyes gleam. “Maybe you’ve been with the wrong men.” “Maybe you’ve been with women who do a lot of faking.”
“Tali,” he says, rubbing his brow as he stands, “any man sleeping with you would keep you up all night long whether it was in his best interest or not. He wouldn’t be able to help himself.”
I’d like to sustain the illusion of having my shit together a little longer.” “Have you seen the car you drive?” he asks. “I never thought you had your shit together.”
Saying you’re writing a book is like saying you want to be a rock star. You can plainly see the other person’s desire to pat you on the head and tell you not to quit your day job.
“A good sex scene is essential to any meaningful work of fiction.”
“What I hear you saying is you now crave my salads.” “There are things I’d crave from you long before salad,” he replies, and goose bumps crawl over my arms.
Two hundred people? “That’s not a ‘little get-together’. That’s a wedding. Did you finally find someone worthy of you? Just so we’re clear, I’m not sure you can legally wed your own reflection.” He climbs to his feet. “I’m still hoping that law gets changed.”
“There’s nothing like inviting over every single person you know to make you realize you don’t like any of them much.”
Under that beautiful, careless exterior of his lies a heart far larger than anyone out back realizes, and it’s been a very long time since someone has offered to take care of me, hasn’t simply assumed I’d figure it out.
“Then who here do you find attractive? Aside from me, of course. Obviously, in a perfect world, I’d be your first choice.” “Obviously,” I say, my lips humming along the lip of my glass. “It’s so hard to find a man who will buy me drinks, fuck me and never call again.”
His gaze sharpens, grows feral. “God, what a filthy little mouth you have,” he says.
“My problem isn’t your lack of style. My problem is you look sixteen. The kind of sixteen that is the definition of jailbait, and the shirt isn’t helping. I’m worried I’ll get arrested.
If he was mine, I’d have held on with everything I had.
I’ve always had a fair amount of self-control, but one lingering look from him, one low note in his voice, and I feel like I’m another kind of girl entirely.
“I wish my husband would look at me the way he looks at you,” Linda whispers. “Like he could be completely content if he never had to look at anything else.”
“Jesus,” he says, blowing out a breath. “Half the men in this room are old, Tali. And now I’m going to have to defibrillate all of them.”
“Don’t stay here,” I say. “You must have patients, and I’m fine now.” “Yes, I know. Just like you were fine earlier. You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”
“If it were an option,” he says, suddenly fierce, “I’d never be willing to share you.”
“I saw her photo on Jonathan’s desk and started looking for her all the time, because she worked at this bar I’d pass on my way home,” he says. Weirdly…it doesn’t sound like a lie. “I saw her reading while she was walking in, even though it was raining. And I thought she was the loveliest thing I’d ever seen in my life, so I followed her.”
It probably wouldn’t work anyway.” “It would work,” he says. His voice is low and raspy. I shiver at the sound of it. “I could make you come in two minutes flat.”
He buries his face between my legs and licks hard as I arch against him with my hands in his hair. Fireworks explode behind my eyes as I finally let go, crying out as the entire world falls away.
“God, yes. The, um, rumors were true.” He gives a quiet, pained laugh, and then he begins to move. Push in, slow drag out. Repeat. I want to do this for the rest of my life. This and nothing else.
“It’s not a standard thing I offer employers, oddly enough. But I guess that argument no longer applies given that I don’t usually blow my employers either.”
I’m a desperately poor twenty-five-year-old with a book she can’t finish, a family she can’t fix, and a commitment-phobic boss she might be in love with.
“He bought the house you stayed at in Laguna,” he says. “He bought it for the two of you. His somewhat inept way of telling you what you meant to him, and what he was hoping for.”
Love is handing your fragile heart to someone else because you want him to have it, no matter what he’ll do in response. You do it because you love him more than you love yourself.
