“When you get back, we'll just do nothing but stare at each other until we're sick." He gave her a real smile followed by a chuckle. "I would like that, Rosie," he whispered, touching his nose to hers. "I would win." She laughed. "You'd get sick first." "Never." "You say that now," she assured. "I'll say that when you're two hundred thousand." "I'll be dead," she laughed.”
―
Mason Sabre,
Cuts Like An Angel Book 2
