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Not beautiful men with dimpled smiles who dressed like the old man from Up!
It was logical to avoid things that caused uncontrollable and potentially hazardous reactions. I already had a list of those. Shellfish. Cocaine. Explosives. And now, Sydney Ward.
Magic Mike himself would have to step out of the pages of each physical copy, give the reader a lap dance,
yk what. heck yeah
“Reading is good for the brain. It increases knowledge, expands vocabulary, strengthens cognitive skills—did you know that reading can reduce stress by up to sixty-eight percent? It works faster than listening to music or drinking a cup of hot tea.”
No matter how smart I was, I wasn’t smart enough to stop the effect Sydney Ward had on me… or to figure out if she felt the same.
Achilles had his heel. Samson had his hair. Superman had kryptonite. And I… I had Sydney.
“It was my favorite because it was the first time Sasha was vulnerable with Jason. She was covered in blood and called him, knowing how it could look. But she took a risk to trust him, and he proved to be there for her at her worst. He took care of her. Washed the blood from her…” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, clasping his hands tight in front of him. “The scene was both physical and emotional intimacy, and I found that very moving.”
And romance readers didn’t give up on their happy ending.
“Did you know the average person will spend six months of their entire life waiting for a red light to turn green?”
And though I wasn’t up on my old-school country, I was pretty sure Johnny Cash played through the speakers.
You can drag as many clouds as you want in front of the sun, honey, but that doesn’t stop it from shining.”
“I mean that I’m… weird. Smart, but weird. I carry a handkerchief. My social life consists of senior trivia nights. My vests are always flour stained. Or sauce stained.” I motioned to the spot she’d pointed out earlier. “And I live in my mom’s basement. I’m not the kind of guy who gets to ask the girl to stay.”
“You see, the brain does this incredible thing when it experiences trauma. It isolates the details—the memories. It hides them—buries them under scar tissue until, with time, all that’s left is a fossil of the pain that once existed. At
“According to Einstein, time is relative—a measurement affected by gravity. And in the eleven weeks, six days, nineteen hours and thirty-six minutes since I met you, I’ve never fallen so hard, yet my feet haven’t left the ground. The only conclusion is that gravity has changed because you’re around, and therefore time has, too.”
One day, I’d explain that happy endings were only for books. In real life, love was only ever the start of happy beginnings.
“Because love isn’t something you look for,” Mom corrected, both of them halting to let the matriarch speak. “Love finds you whether you’re ready for it or not.”
