He closed his eyes as she put her hand on his shoulder, and in that instant, nothing else mattered. Not the song, not the place, not the other couples around him. Only this, only her. He gave himself over to the feel of her body as it pressed against him, and they moved slowly in small circles on the sawdust-strewn floor, lost in a world that felt as though it had been created for just the two of them.

I don't write romance novels.

While wounds can be inflicted easily upon those we love, it's often much more difficult to heal them.

I think our love can do anything we want it to.

His voice, even now, follows me everywhere on this longest of rides, this thing called life.

He was ordinary in a world that loved the extraordinary.

“A living poem” had always been the words that came to mind when he tried to describe her to others.