Shaw...has a woman ever asked you to write a poem for her?" "Good God, no," Gideon replied with a snicker. "Shaws don't write poetry. They pay others to write it for them and then take the credit for it.

Those blue eyes glinted with uncivilized suggestion. A faint smile was tucked in the corner of his wide mouth. Definitely wouldn't want to be alone in a room with that guy, I thought. His gaze moved downward in lazy inspection, returned to my face, and he gave me one of those respectful nods that Texan men had raised to an art form.

And then another letter had come from Christopher, so devastating that Amelia wondered how mere scratches of ink on paper could rip someone's soul to shreds. She had wondered how she could feel so much pain and still survive.

I closed my eyes, thinking, Let me love you, Hardy, just let me.

I've never known anyone more ill equipped for happiness. He wouldn't know what to do with it.

He was my confidant, the person who was always on my side even when he wasn't taking my side.

The sight of a sullen teenager is common no matter where you go. Teenagers want things so powerfully and can never seen to get them, and to add insult to injury, people make light of your feelings because you are a teenager. They say time will mend a broken heart and they're often right. But not where my feelings for Hardy were concerned.