“More bungalow-type setups. Rent by the week. Artsy places,” Zaneexplained. “It’s different.”“Do I look like an artsy type to you?” Ty asked, bristling on principle.It didn’t even faze Zane. “You look like sex on legs to me. You’llblend in, no problem.”

“My breath caught in my chest. Misunderstood artsy types weren't supposed to smile like that. They were supposed to glance at others condescendingly and ooze sarcastic witticisms. I felt like this guy was going to wiggle his eyebrows and ask me to "wrassle”

“Do I look like the flower type of guy?”

“I’ve never been very keen on women who hang their sex round their neck like baubles. I think it should be discovered. It’s more interesting to discover the sex in a woman than it is to have it thrown at you, like a Marilyn Monroe or those types. To me they are rather vulgar and obvious.”

“I don’t want to date her; I just want to be around her. She’s…different.”“Different how?” America asked, sounding irritated.“She doesn’t put up with my bullshit, it’s refreshing. You said it yourself, Mare. I’m not her type. It’s just not…like that with us.”“You’re closer to her type than you know,” America said.”

“Feet pue tan!” she shouted. Ty cleared his throat, looking at Zane wryly. “She just called me a goddamned son of a bitch.” “I like her,” Zane responded.”