Without turning on the light, I went to my bed and lay down, my arm thrown across the mattress, my hand aching because Grace wasn't underneath it

I feel like I have so many stories basting in my mind, and they come busting out when they're ready.

...the sound of our lack of conversation amplified by the echo of our footsteps on the stone around us.

The biggest mistake you can make is assuming that creativity will hit you all at once and the muse will carry you to the end of the book on feather wings while Foster the People plays gently in the background. Storytelling is work. Pleasurable work, usually, but it is work.

There was something unbearably sexy about cars at night, Ronan thought. The way the fenders twisted the light and reflected the road, the way every driver became anonymous. The sight of them knocked his heartbeat askew.

Sam reached his hand toward mine and I automatically put my fingers in his. With a guilty little smile he pulled my hand toward his nose and took a sniff and then another one. His smile widened though it was still shy. It was absolutely adorable and my breath got caught somewhere in my throat.

He was a patient with a diagnosis that he couldn't understand.