No small thing, a bee's sting When it enters the heart Not so benign, the growing vine When it tears stone apart

He smiled in a way that made me want to kiss him right on the spot. Or the lips. Whichever was closer.

Will you accompany me in this dance?” he said, bowing and holding out his hand. “No, thank you.” Miri smiled. The prince frowned and looked and the chief delegate as if for assistance. Miri laughed self consciously. “I, uh, I was teasing.

It was karma, it was kismet, it was magic. It doesn't matter how it happened, just that it did.

... fantasy is not practice for what is real—fantasy is the opiate of women.

But the hoping, that's what really hurts.

I’ve always believed that as an author, I do 50% of the work of storytelling, and the reader does the other 50%. There’s no way I can control the story you tell yourself from my book. Your own experiences, preferences, prejudices, mood at the moment, current events in your life, needs and wants influence how you read my every word.