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It’s been a crappy week, and this is just the bread that makes the whole thing a shit sandwich.
I deemed her pretty before, but I was wrong—she’s fucking gorgeous.
Ah, more granola, woo-woo, make-lemonade, salt-of-the-earth shit. Exactly what I’m in the mood for.
“Oh, tonight? Tonight is just our meet-cute. It’s the night we’ll tell our kids about one day. Remember?”
I feel like a teenager again—that hot, fluttery feeling unfurling in my chest because a cute boy just asked me for my number. But this is so much better because he’s a hot man. With big fucking hands and a deep fucking voice.
To the outside observer, it would appear that I’m staring at the guy I showed up here with. But they would be wrong. I’m staring at his dad.
the way his mom treats him is downright childlike. Like she shot him out of her vagina to songbirds chirping, a double rainbow arching across the sky, as the hospital staff erupted into a celebratory flash mob dance.
This always happens to me. I meet someone who seems great, and then they slowly start to annoy me.
“Allergic to fun these days. It’s like living with Eeyore.”
For someone who spent so many years working to find beauty in her body, I don’t need to try at all with Bash.
I’d fly around all day just to watch her gaze out the window in awe. That breathy little giggle she makes is music to my fucking ears. I’d sell my soul to hear that more often.
There’s an embroidered patch over his heart that spells out Eaton and I focus on that instead. “So glad we found you.” He smiles, and it might be the most reassuring smile in the world. Something about him screams confident and capable, and it eases the knot in my chest.
“You’re a fucking wild card. Unpredictable and never what I expect. You scare the hell out of me every damn day. But today more than any of them. Because I thought I lost you.” His voice cracks. So does my heart. “And I love you, and I hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell you.”
“You’re my limes, Bash. I’m the tequila. You and me? We’re gonna spend the rest of our lives making margaritas, okay?”
“Like I said, a fucking wild card.”
“Gwen, I’m never calling you Mom, though.”
“Does that say Wild Card?” Her voice cracks and I step up beside her. “Named it after you too.”
My wild card. My tequila. My everything.
