(Another) Reader’s Choice

Here’s mine:

She was a goddamn sorceress, converting acres upon acres of emotional wasteland into sheer paradise. Transforming fifty-foot walls into wide open doors by way of pure magic. Providing me shelter from the storm of my own creation. My own stubbornness. My own self-sabotage.


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Reader’s choice

Here’s mine:

I am such an asshole. And Jesus Christ, I had my head shoved so far up my ass that I was actually beginning to taste my own bullshit.


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Here’s mine:

I didn’t know if we would make it. I wasn’t even sure if we could make it. But I did know one thing.

This girl.

Even though it might never be enough to keep us together…

I love this girl.

It was the only thing I needed to know.


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Feel the feels

Here’s mine:

“What’s gotten into you?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I muttered, “Marvin.”


“It’s classified.”

“What?” she laughed.

I didn’t. It wasn’t funny.

Getting everything I wanted made me uneasy. Hell, it made me nervous. She was my once-in-a-lifetime. My too-good-to-be-true. And making her officially mine induced an irrational, crippling sense of paranoia. Marrying her was like entering Area 51 blindfolded and completely buck-naked. With my wrists bound and a bright red target painted on my back. So, yeah, I was scared shitless of being tied down and probed by Marvin the fucking Martian.

Who wouldn’t be?


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The Silent Treatment

Here’s mine:

“I really am sorry, Mickey.”


“I was wrong.”

Absolutely nothing.

God, she’s so damn stubborn.

It was impossible to keep track of whom the hell I was supposed to be more annoyed at. Our score sheets looked pretty damn even from where I was sitting.

I gave a loud sigh out of sheer frustration and grumbled, “Do you plan on ignoring me all night long?”

Her hands stilled, fingers remaining tangled in my hair. Then she suddenly seized a couple of fistfuls – none-too-gently, might I add – and nearly jerked me clean off the damn shower chair.

Yeah, she did that. I kid you not, she actually fucking did that.


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Brownie points

Here’s mine:

When any normal human being invites you out for grub in the middle of the night, it typically involves a greasy spoon of some sort.

Burgers. Fries. Milkshakes.

Poorly scrambled eggs. Burnt toast.

That type of thing.

But when Cale Windermere makes a late-night “reservation”?

It involves a private cabin on a giant Ferris wheel overlooking bright city lights, and a spread of the best sushi Vegas has to offer.

Touching the glass, I whispered, “It’s too much.”

“It’s never too much for my girl.”


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