But now you're unhappy," he pointed out. "And?" I challenged. "That doesn't seem fair." He shrugged, but his eyes were still intense. I laughed without humour. "Hasn't anyone told you? Life isn't fair." "I believe I have heard that somewhere before," he agreed dryly.

That actually is one of my huge challenges right now because I write best at night, no question. I can focus. You know you're not getting any phone calls, I can shut everything down, and I'm just more creative at night.

Twilight, again. Another ending. No matter how perfect the day is, it always has to end.

I was just wondering why you stabbed him. Not that I object.

I'd forgotten how exuberant you are

He raised his hand, hesitant, conflict raging in his eyes, and then swiftly brushed the length of my cheekbone with his fingertips. His skin was as icy as ever, but the trail his fingers left on my skin was alarmingly warm - like I'd been burned, but didn't feel the pain of it yet.

Books have been thought of as windows to another world of imagination