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“Don’t be weird about it. I don’t want any sexual harassment allegations,” he says, handing me a roll of cheap one-ply bathroom tissue wrapped in white paper. “How would I be weird about it?” “Don’t linger. Don’t ask questions. Deliver the roll and get out of there.” “So I’m not allowed to wipe her ass for her?” “Christ, Ozzy. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“When you shit all over my chosen bachelor’s life, do you ever stop to look in the mirror or at your left hand? Where’s your wedding ring? Who keeps you warm at night? Nobody. But I know a guy who owns four chickens who’d love to spoon you until his rooster crows in the morning.
“He looked at me like someone who can’t turn away from a fire, watching the flames. I’m hot.” “Indeed. Nothing gets a guy horny quite like fetching toilet paper and a maxi pad for a stranger in the men’s bathroom.”
Attraction is addictive. It’s a slow dance to a favorite chorus, one note—one heartbeat—at a time.
I’m a goner. Single dads who say all the right things, pick the perfect number of wildflowers, and have the perfect hand brush before riding off into the sunset on a bicycle are officially my new favorite drug.
Men joke and brag about sex; we don’t talk about it.
I guess you can start with the sex talk that usually involves two people falling in love. Now, how you get from that to an old man on the sofa jerking off under a blanket to two strangers on television having sex . . . well, that’s a complicated bridge to build.”
“Sometimes you just have to say fuck it and kiss the girl. We’ll figure the rest out later,”
“You’re fueling my fire,” she whispers. “Every text. Every word. Every glance. Every touch.” “Should I do something to extinguish you?” I smirk. Again, she watches for Lola. “You should burn with me.” Fuck me . . .
Humans are pretty because our minds are so filthy.
“Yeah, I miss him. I miss the man he was before he fell in love with feeling numb.”
I open my mouth to protest. That’s what people do; they beg for something and then backtrack when it’s offered to them. Mind games are the demise of many relationships.
“You don’t need a car to feel like a man, but damn, I miss getting behind the wheel and driving up to Glacier. Four-wheeling in the winter. Windows down in the summer. But on the flip side, my legs are fucking fabulous.”
“Lola Winnie Laster, I promise you that your aunt and uncle wanted you to be their flower girl even after your accident. There’s a reason people say true love is blind. It’s because the people who really love you see your beauty in all its glorious forms. They saw it before the accident. You radiated a bright innocence. And now, your scars”—again, I brush my thumb under her eye—“they are reminders of your strength. When people look at you, they see everything they hope to be themselves. Strong. Brave. And beautiful.”
OMG this part had me bawling!!! It was such a sweet, compassionate thing to tell Lola.
“I love you,” he says. Tears burn my eyes in an instant. “It was supposed to be an epic moment.” “Maren,” he whispers, trailing light kisses from my lips to my ear, “there’s nothing more epic than falling in love with someone who loved my daughter first.”
When the real possibility of never seeing someone again cuts through the surface of denial, it feels like an out-of-body experience.
“When I’m a grown-up, I won’t be as scared.” I kiss her head and stand. “You will be; you’ll just learn to let love burn through those thick clouds of fear.”
“If you asked me to stop flying, I would,” she whispers. “I’d do it to be with you and Lola because I don’t think I’ll look back on the most memorable moments in life and see the sky. I think I’ll see you and Lola.”
