“What is the politically correct term for ‘retarded’?”“I think the words you’re fishing for are ‘mentally disabled.’ And no. I’m not mentally disabled.”

“You’re a complication I don’t need.” He followed, placed his hands on each side of her head, and planted his knee between her thighs. “But you’re a complication I want. One I’m going to have.”

“I don’t think you know what you want.”“Yes. I do. I want you, and being with you feels a hell of a lot better than being without you. I’m not going to fight it anymore.”

“You’re beautiful.” His words warmed her skin and tugged at her heart, and this time she believed he meant what he said. He rested his forehead against her, his dark hair in stark contrast to her white flesh. “I knew you would be. I’ve always known. Always.”

“You’re not some woman I picked up in a bar, Chelsea. You’re not a one-night stand. Don’t sneak out on me.”

“Do you know what else I think? I think I like the idea of Lola Carlyle worrying about me." He slid his knuckle along her jaw to her chin and she held her breath.”

“Have you ever been married?""Nope. I was close once.""You were engaged?""No, but I came close to thinking about it."She didn't believe close to thinking about it counted. "What happened?""I got a good look at her mother and ran like hell.”