“Was he serious? Why would she be meant for a guy from Hell? If there was such a thing as destiny, she was supposed to find a quiet, smart guy, one who wasn't over six feet tall, with midnight hair and a face she couldn't stop staring at. He'd be Russian Orthodox. Or Episcopalian. He might even be Jewish. But he wouldn't be from Hell.”

“She wanted to tell him she'd never pick any of those other three billion guys, because he was all she wanted. He was her freak, and she'd love him forever.”

“After that, he couldn't be sure how it happened, but she wasn't crying anymore and he wasn't thinking. At all. His hands were underneath her sweater, touching every inch of her warm, smooth skin; they were kissing like two condemned people suddenly given a reprieve; and his feeling of calm morphed into happiness so intense, he'd swear his blood was singing.”

“She never strayed far from him though, and if she looked around and didn't see him right away, he saw a look of panic in her blue eyes.”

“Maybe he wasn't the boy next door, maybe he wasn't even a real boy, but holy smokes, did he know how to kiss.”

“He'd waited a thousand years for her, and she would know him for less than two weeks.”

“In her red dress and black boots, she stood straight and tall, blue eyes flashing with righteous fury, breasts rising and falling rapidly. Se had never looked more beautiful.”