The sun was hot on my skin, too bright as it bounced off the white concrete and blinded me. I felt dangerously exposed. More fiercely than I would have dreamed I was capable of, I wished for the green, protective forest of Forks . . . of home.

Hey, Rosalie? Do you know how to drown a blonde? Stick a mirror to the bottom of a pool.

I’d noticed that his eyes were black – coal black.

Try not to trip. We don’t have time for a concussion today.

For one half second, I wondered what it would feel like to put my hand in the fire. What it would feel like when I burned.

I had the easiest publishing experience in the entire world. I sent out fifteen courier letters to agents, got five no replies, nine rejections and one I want to see it. A month later I had an agent. Another month later I had a three book deal with Little Brown.

My skin burns where it meets his. It feels better than good, but it sets off a strange aching in my chest.