What is this Sweet Home Alabama? You have a baby. In a bar.
But the risk of being with you is better than the agony of being without you.
She’s still sleeping. She’s warm and sweet, and snores like a lumberjack. Bless her heart.
You’re the closest to heaven I’ll ever be, Charlotte.
There were days,” I begin softly and rub my nose against her soft hair, “that I would have exchanged a year of my life just to touch you one more time. You are my biggest what if, M.
Just because you’re breathing doesn’t mean you’re alive. You’ve made me feel alive.
Holy muscled body, Batman.
Dude, you’re naked.” “I’m wearing pants.” Adam looks down and shrugs. “What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?” “Nothing at all, if you’re Christian Grey,” I reply and roll my eyes. “Bye.
Insomnia.” She nods wisely. “You should take melatonin. It works wonders.
My name starts with a ‘c’ and ends in a ‘t’. I’m hairy and round and squishy inside. What am I?
Darling, that’s what I do. I cook and I know things.” “Wasn’t that a Game of Thrones line?
The sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life, but I have no idea why he sent them because nothing good can come of it.
Yes, it’s early days, but I don’t care. I plan to have Noel in my life for as long as I’m breathing, if she’ll have me. I know it’s asking a lot because I have a child. It’s a big commitment, but I’m going to ask it of her anyway because the thought of being without her is devastating.
This is what I want,” he whispers. “You are what I want, Savannah.
I get lost in you,” I whisper, wishing I could see her face, but not wanting to move her. “Mm,” she says. “But it’s the kind of lost that’s like being found.” I blink, processing her words, and know, in this moment, that there will never be anyone else for me. “I.
That’s just it, Calliope. I’m not going anywhere. Not long-term, anyway. I’m exactly where I love to be.
He passes me an envelope, and inside are two tickets to see Seattle play football.
So, how do you feel about Alfredo sauce?” I grin at his flirty tone. “I have a long-standing love affair with Alfredo sauce.” “Really?” He chuckles and tucks a strand of my now messy hair behind my ear. “Lucky Alfredo sauce.
I love you so much I ache with it,” he whispers as if each word is painful to admit. “And I’m afraid you’ll destroy me before all is said and done.
You’re in the South. Don’t you know that we don’t do anything quickly on Sunday?