This was sharing office space with wacko and bordering on ludicrous.
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It took a pair of ghosts to open my eyes.
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Calm down. Ghosts don’t ring the doorbell.
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Considering Im a writer, you leave me strangely bereft of words.
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He could’ve penned a rendition of Moby Dick in Pig Latin and he wouldn’t have been the wiser.
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He bit back a weary sigh and tried to remember strangling her would solve squat.
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You are no star, Gabby. Youre the sky. The rest of us are just circling your orbit.
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Considering she’d just blown his gray matter into the ether, he was screwed.
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Urges. Mercy, the urges.
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The algorithms in his hard drive scrambled and his coding short-circuited. Like she’d downloaded a virus right into his system, he got feverishly hot.
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Damn, her mouth was a weapon.
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She held my face in her hands as if I was the treasure.
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Maybe he was going to hell. Except, he could’ve sworn that was where he’d been the past ten years.
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Yes, best friend of mine. I am the famous photographer youve admired for years, and the man whos admired you.
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Lord, but did he grow up nice.
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He could be doing quantum physics in his head or undressing her in his mind—she’d never know the difference.
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He didn’t know what was hotter, her Star Wars reference or the breathiness with which she spoke it.
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I’d tell you not to swoon, but he’d catch you, so never mind.
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We all have our handicaps. Youre not mine.
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God. He was an eye-gasm if she ever saw one.
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