The night swelled with magic; not the beneficent kind of love-magic that sweeps couples away, but the kind of magic that rips and tears, the enchantment that creeps out of the woods and pounces.

And by golly, love sure was a battlefield. Benatar was right about that.

My eyes flew open, and I pushed back against rock-hard shoulders. I let out a little squeak of horror. "It's me," said a familiar voice. ..."Eric, what are you doing here?" "Snuggling.

Hey, our hair's the same color," I said, eying us side by side in the mirror. "Sure is, girlfriend." Eric grinned at me.

If I was getting harder, it was in response to the world around me.

I was surprised to find out there was a direct line from my palm to my, my, hootchie.

Just because one of Arlene's husbands was a murderer is no reason for me to be ugly