He went through the cupboards, found the olive oil, and started upstairs again. He glanced down at the green and gold label and had to bite back a laugh at the words Extra Virgin. That about summed it up.

He scooped up Victoria practically before she hit the ground, well within the five-second rule. If she'd been a potato chip, he could have still eaten her. Not something I particularly wanted to contemplate.

He looked okay. No, to be honest. He looked a lot better than okay. He looked...fine. Fine, as in get the Chiffons over here to sing a chorus.

He never lied to me. I just didn't ask the questions I didn't want to know the answers to.

Everything a gay man does makes a political statement. Everything matters: where you bank, where you shop, where you eat. When you hold your lover’s hand in public

I want people to react to my work, to think, to question, to challenge, to cry and laugh and feel.

Then, like a born and bred asshole, he added to the sheriff, "He writes murder mysteries.