I love you, Meg. I want to marry you. I want to sleep with you every night, make love with you, have kids. I want to fight together and work together and—just be together. Now are you going to keep standing there, staring at me, or could you put me out of my misery and say you still love me, at least a little?

Life sure is easier when you're rich." "And a natural born charmer. Don't forget that part." "How could I?" she retorted. "It's the only thing we have in common.

He set the suitcases in the back then tossed her the keys. "You drive." She repressed a smile as she climbed behind the wheel. "With each passing day, your reasons for wanting a wife become clearer.

There's nothing sexier in a man than intelligence.

She gave Pretty Boy a surreptitious glance. Did he honestly expect her to believe he was gay? True, there were the gay boots and those stunning good looks. But, even so, he blasted enough heterosexual mega-wattage to light up the entire female population. Which he’d undoubtedly been doing since he shot out of the birth canal, glimpsed his reflection in the obstetrician’s eyeglasses, and gave the world a high five.

Make-up? What happened? You look almost female." "Thanks. You look almost straight.

‎"There’s no such thing as mistakes – only a lack of foresight.