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It was almost true. True enough. True adjacent.
never had the application of a beloved topical counterirritant felt so pornographic, like they’d unlocked some secret level of old people foreplay.
“Fifty-four seems so much older than fifty-three somehow. Like sixty is right around the corner.”
Did he think he’d have a thousand more chances to feel this thread tugging him toward another person so tightly it spanned six hundred miles without snapping?
He’d told her he understood, but that didn’t mean he agreed with her. Because he didn’t. At all. He was already a proud resident of Emotionland. He’d popped a tent after Madigan’s wedding, built a house when she’d sent him tarts, and dug out a football field–sized bunker when she’d led him into her bedroom. And now? Fuck it. He was running for mayor.
Becks flipped the screen again so he could see how serious she was, bordering on dire. “I’m not sure if you know this or not, but your Instagram appears to be deeply, deeply in love. Have you spoken with it recently? Done a welfare check?”
“Friends?” Becks guessed. “Tell that to your story yesterday of the sun setting over Bluebird with the song ‘Lips Like Sugar’ playing in the background. Felt like I was watching the end of an elder-emo rom-com.”
You know that saying, don’t count your chickens until the cake is on the table.”
“Jesus, I’m just like my mother.” “Whoa,” Paul said, his eyes comically wide. “I did not say that.”
Romance readers age up, so romance stories should age up too.
Word.
