“What he’d wanted before had crumbled away, leaving the truth of what Kennedy did to him. It was new, and there was a long way to go before it could be right, but that was the path he wanted to take.”

“Rogan caught her hand just before she got out of his reach, and tugged her slowly back toward him. His eyes met hers, and she realized just how good an actor he’d been for the last few days. Where before she saw mild interest, now she saw intensity. Need.Purpose.He put his hand on the back of her head and dipped down for the kiss she’d daydreamed.”

“She stepped forward into the shadows with him and took his hand. “What do you want from us, Rogan?”He shuddered with the force of his expelled breath and intertwined his fingers with hers. “I’m not sure.” He brought their hands to his lips and rested them there, not kissing or licking or being seductive, just touching. “I think I want it all. I’ve barely kissed you, but I already know it won’t be enough. Even sex won’t be enough. You’re deep in my system.”

“He propped his hands on his hips, shook his head slightly and turned his gaze from the front of the building to meet her eyes, dead on. “It sounds ridiculous, but I want you to have dinner with me. Since we have an early night.”Those truths clamored louder. She shook her head.“Why not?”“I don’t have time, Rogan.” [...]“You don’t have time to eat?” he asked.Kennedy blew out a breath. “I don’t have time for dating games.”“Good, neither do I.”“Then what’s this?”He let go of her and lifted his shoulders, hands out. “Flirtation?”Something intangible popped, and the tension faded. She smiled. “I expected you to say foreplay.”

“[Rogan] “I’ve been watching you, and you’re more confident and decisive than any woman I’ve ever known. There’s no pretense to you. No concern that what you’re doing is the wrong thing, or that you’re not doing it right.”“And you don’t like those traits in a woman?”“I do. I didn’t know that until I found them.”

“I don't think everyone wants to create the great American novel, but we all have a dream of telling our stories-of realizing what we think, feel, and see before we die. Writing is a path to meet ourselves and become intimate.”

“Before he sat down, my internal heat-seekers sensed what was coming my way: deep blue eyes that melted girls like Velveeta in a microwave. I tried to resist those microwave eyes, but sometimes there's no defense against them. I had a feeling I'd be seeing him weeping over my coffin later that night. ”