Don't mess with me, Calvin. You'll only get hurt.

I'm not living in the shadows anymore. I want to walk in the sun. But I can't do that without you.

His writer's words poured over her like poetry, and she couldn't find a single wisecrack to put up between them.

When male authors write love stories, the heroine tends to end up dead.

He settled his hat back into position. She was a rookie in her first big game, and he’d never let her see how close she’d come to unseating a champion

Kevin stopped where he was and stood there simply gazing at her. Molly sat cross-legged in the meadow with the sun shining on her bare shoulders and a pair of yellow butterflies fluttering like hair bows around her head. She was all the dreams he'd lost at dawn-dreams of everything he hadn't understood he needed until now. She was his playmate, his confidante, the lover who made his blood rush. She was the mother of his children and the companion of his old age. She was the joy of his heart.

I'll take care of my mother," he said grimly. "I love her, but she doesn't run my life." "Yeah, that's what we all say. You. Me. Lucy." She stabbed the stick into the dirt. "These are powerful women. They're sane, they're smart, they rule their worlds, and they love us ferociously. A potent combination that makes it touch to pretend they're normal mothers.