“Dude. Hot Bozo. Best nickname ever.”

“Are you any good at it?""Pulling idiots out of the snow? I'm the best.”

“Okay,” I say again. It seems that I’ve been reduced to single syllables by a single touch. Maybe Angela’s right. Maybe the swoony hand-holding in my vision means that part of my purpose means getting this really hot guy as my boyfriend. That wouldn’t suck.”

“Crap. No one's ever called me dorkina before. Derivative of dork. Not good.”

“My hair is my best feature, long and wavy, bright gold with a hint of red, trailing behind me wherever I go like an afterthought.”

“Have you ever been to a place you're supposed to love, but all you can think about is home?”

“Hot is really not an adequate enough word for this guy. He is crazy beautiful. And it’s more than his looks—the intentionally messy waves of his dark hair; the strong eyebrows that make his expression a bit serious, even when he smiles; his eyes, which I notice can look emerald in one light and hazel in another; the sweetly sculpted angles of his face; the curve of his full lips.”