A man's vanity is more fragile that you might think. It's easy for us to mistake shyness for coldness, and silence for indifference.

Well, you missed out on some important protocol, Ella. You can't stand between a Texan and his power tools. We like them. Big ones that drain the national grid. We also like truck-stop breakfasts, large moving objects, Monday night football, and the missionary position. We don't drink light beer, drive Smart cars, or admit to knowing the names of more than about five or six colors. And we don't wax our chests, ever.

Justine reached for a fresh tissue and clamped it to Lucy’s nose as if she was a child. “Friends are the support bras of life. We don’t let each other down. Right?

You aristocratic ladies and your gold-plated twats. You always think it's such a honor for me to touch you." He surveyed her with mocking green eyes. "You think you're the first high-kick wench I've ever had? I used to have blue-blooded bitches like you pay me to do this. You've gotten it for free.

He never knew what hit him, and that would have comforted me, except . . . just for one second, he would have had to know, wouldn't he? There must have been a blur, a sense of the world exploding, a flashpoint of receiving more damage than a human body could endure.

But I hadn't known what love was. And I wondered how you could ever be sure, when you thought you loved someone, if you really did.

Because letting someone in close meant they could hurt you. I knew all about that kind of fear. I lived with it.