Nora Stephens Quotes

I read once that sunflowers always orient themselves to face the sun. That’s what being near Charlie Lastra is like for me. There could be a raging wildfire racing toward me from the west and I’d still be straining eastward toward his warmth.

Nora Roberts is cool.

You’re a fighter,” he says. “When you care about something, you won’t let anything fucking touch it. I’ve never met anyone who cares as much as you do. Do you know what most people would give to have someone like that in their life?

Charlie threads his fingers through mine and lifts the back of my hand to his lips. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I doubt I will ever like anyone else in the world as much as I like you.” I slip my arms around his neck and climb into his lap, kissing his temples, his jaw, his mouth. Love, I think, a tremor in my hands as they move into his hair, as he kisses me. The last-page ache. The deep breath in after you’ve set the book aside. When he walks me to the door sometime later, he takes my face in his hands and says, “You, Nora Stephens, will always be okay.

Until you got here,” he rasps, “all this place had ever been was a reminder of the ways I was a disappointment, and now you’re here, and—I don’t know. I feel like I’m okay. So if you’re the ‘wrong kind of woman,’ then I’m the wrong kind of man.” I can see all of the shades of him at once. Quiet, unfocused boy. Precocious, resentful preteen. Broody high schooler desperate to get out. Sharp-edged man trying to fit himself back into a place he never belonged to begin with. That’s the thing about being an adult standing beside your childhood race car bed. Time collapses, and instead of the version of you you’ve built from scratch, you’re all the hackneyed drafts that came before, all at once.

As he watches me, he murmurs, “I’ve just always wanted to see a shark attack up close. So much blood.

His golden-brown eyes slowly rise. "If it isn't the woman who 'isn't stalking me'." I grind out, "If it isn't the man who 'didn't try to ravish me in the middle of a hurricane'.

I’ll take you home whenever you want,” he says. “But if you want to stay, and you wake up screaming, it’s okay. I’ll make sure you’re okay. And if you want to stay, and then change your mind, I don’t mind driving you back at four a.m.” I read once that not everyone thinks in words. I was shocked, imagining these other people who don’t use language to make sense of everyone and everything, who don’t automatically organize the world into chapters, pages, sentences. Looking into Charlie’s face, I understand it. The way a crush of feeling and feathery impressions can move through your body, bypassing your mind. How a person can know there’s something worth saying but have no concept of what exactly that is. I’m not thinking in words.

Nora Stephens,” he says, “I’ve racked my brain and this is the best I can come up with, so I really hope you like it.” His gaze lifts, everything about it, about his face, about his posture, about him made up of sharp edges and jagged bits and shadows, all of it familiar, all of it perfect. Not for someone else, maybe, but for me. “I move back to New York,” he says. “I get another editing job, or maybe take up agenting, or try writing again. You work your way up at Loggia, and we’re both busy all the time, and down in Sunshine Falls, Libby runs the local business she saved, and my parents spoil your nieces like the grandkids they so desperately want, and Brendan probably doesn’t get much better at fishing, but he gets to relax and even take paid vacations with your sister and their kids. And you and I—we go out to dinner. “Wherever you want, whenever you want. We have a lot of fun being city people, and we’re happy. You let me love you as much as I know I can, for as long as I know I can, and you have it fucking all. That’s it. That’s the best I could come up with, and I really fucking hope you say—” I kiss him then, like there isn’t someone reading one of the Bridgerton novels five feet away, like we’ve just found each other on a deserted island after months apart. My hands in his hair, my tongue catching on his teeth, his palms sliding around behind me and squeezing me to him in the most thoroughly public groping we’ve managed yet. “I love you, Nora,” he says when we pull apart a few inches to breathe. “I think I love everything about you.

I just... I'm not stalking you." His eyebrows furrow. "Okay?" "I'm not." "More convincing every time you say it.

I had no idea it was possible,” he says, “for you to want me as much as I want you.

If anyone can negotiate a happy ending, it’s Nora Stephens.

I’m just surprised how far you’re taking this small-town-transformation thing. And just so you know, those bangs do not make you more approachable. You just look like a hot assassin in an expensive wig.” “All I just heard,” I say, “is hot and expensive.

I love you, Nora,” he says when we pull apart a few inches to breathe. “I think I love everything about you.” “Even my Peloton?” I ask. “Great piece of equipment,” he says. “The fact that I check my email after work hours?” “Just makes it easier to share Bigfoot erotica without having to walk across the room,” he says. “Sometimes I wear very impractical shoes,” I add. “Nothing impractical about looking hot,” he says. “And what about my bloodlust?” His eyes go heavy as he smiles. “That,” he says, “might be my favorite thing. Be my shark, Stephens.” “Already was,” I say. “Always have been.” “I love you,” he says again. “I love you too.” I don’t have to force it past a knot or through the vise of a tight throat. It’s simply the truth, and it breathes out of me, a wisp of smoke, a sigh, another floating blossom on a current carrying billions of them. “I know,” he says. “I can read you like a book.

Got distracted by two gin martinis and a platinum blond shark who wanted me dead." "Not dead. Lightly mauled, maybe, but I would've stayed away from your face." "Didn't realize you were such a fan.

Once again, I'm unnerved by the feeling that Charlie Lastra sees right through my carefully pressed outermost layers. "I'm perfectly happy with peace and quiet," I insist. "Maybe. Or maybe, Nora Stephens, I can read you like a book." I scoff. "Because you're so socially intelligent." "Because you're like me.

Charlie kisses like no one I’ve ever been with. Like someone who takes the time to figure out how things work.

When we finally do this, Nora,” he says, straightening away from me, his hands slipping my buttons back into buttonholes as easily as he undid them, “it’s not going to be on a library table, and it’s not going to be on a time crunch.” He smooths my hair, tucks my blouse back into my skirt, then takes my hips in his hands and guides me off the table, catching me against him. “We’re going to do this right. No shortcuts.

You could sell snake oil to a snake oil salesman." "I'm not sure that's how the saying goes." "I had to revise it to accurately reflect how good you are at your job.

What's wrong with being in control anyway?" I demand, of the universe at large. "Beats me." "And what, just because I don't want kids, I would supposedly punish a pregnant woman for making a different decision than me? My favorite person's a pregnant woman! And I'm obsessed with my nieces. Not every decision a woman makes is some grand indictment on other women's lives." "Nora," Charlie says. "It's a novel. Fiction." "You don't get it because you're... you." I wave a hand at him. "Me?" he says. "You can afford to be all surly and sharp and people will admire you for it. The rules are different for women. You have to strike that perfect balance to be taken seriously but not seen as bitchy. It's a constant effort. People don't want to work with sharky women -" "I do," he says.

I resist the urge to scroll through to the end, a tic I've had since I was a kid, when I realized there were too many books in the world and not enough time.

Sometimes he thought of a saying Nora had brought home from her AA meetings: the past is history, the future’s a mystery.

Long distance never works,” I say. “You said that yourself.” “I know,” he says. “But it’s never been us, Nora.” “So we’re the exception?” I say, skeptical. “The people it just works out for.” “Yes,” he says. “Maybe. I don’t know.

The ragged edge of his voice knocks the wind out of me. I fight the impulse to rein in my shock, and then it all clicks, the bits of Charlie I’ve been collecting like puzzle pieces becoming a full picture. Not the Darcy trope. Not the self-important, dour academic I met for one very unpleasant lunch. A man who craves complete honesty, the realist who doesn’t always understand when he’s not seeing realism. Charlie, who wants to understand the world but has learned not to trust it.

Has anyone ever told you you're a natural at customer service?" I ask. "No" he says. "Good. I know how you feel about liars.

We are either too good or too bad at fighting. We are viciously trading support for each other’s romantic lives. He one-ups me with, “Shepherd’s a great guy. Most eligible bachelor in town. He’s perfect for your list, checks all your boxes.” “What about Amaya?” I throw back. “How’s she measure up to yours?” “Doesn’t make the cut,” he says. “Must be a pretty long list.” “One item,” he replies. “Very specific.

Nora Lindell was gone. And, with Trey Stephens in jail, he was gone, too, in a way. By this time, we'd already lost Minka Dinnerman, as well (a car crash and cancer, respectively). It seemed, some days, that life was nothing more than a tally of the people who'd left us behind.

He stares at me, his eyes focused and brow furrowed as he absorbs what I said, his lips pouting. It’s his Editing Expression, and when it clears, he shakes his head and says, “No.” I laugh, surprised. “What?” He straightens, steps in close. “I said, no.” “Charlie. What’s that even mean?” “It means,” he says, eyes glinting, “you’ll have to do better than that.” I smile despite myself, hope thrashing around in my belly like a very determined baby bird with a broken wing. “I’ll expect notes by Friday,” he says.

It is what it is, right? As Nora used to say when she came home from those meetings of hers: life is what we make it and acceptance is the key to all our affairs.' Bill yawned. 'But we also change the things we can, don't we? You hold the fort.

I hated being a kid.” He folds his arm beneath his head and looks almost furtively in my direction. “I’d have no idea how to get someone else through it, and I definitely wouldn’t enjoy it. I like them, but I don’t want to be responsible for any.” “Agreed,” I say. “I love my nieces more than anything on the planet, but every time Tala falls asleep in my lap, her dad gets all teary-eyed and is like, Doesn’t it just make you want to have some of your own, Nora? But when you have kids, they count on you. Forever. Any mistake you make, any failure—and if something happens to you . . .” My throat twists. “People like to remember childhood as all magic and no responsibilities, but that’s not really how it is. You have absolutely no control over your environment. It all comes down to the adults in your life, and . . . I don’t know. Every time Libby has a new kid, it’s like there’s this magic house in my heart that rearranges to make a new room for the baby. “And it always hurts. It’s terrifying. One more person who needs you.

Charlie looks away first. He rubs the side of his jaw. “You’re right. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to accept this can’t be anything.

You don’t have to do that,” he says, amused. “Do what?” “The Shiny, Polite Nora thing,” he says. “If you’re aghast at my failure, then just be aghast. I can take it.

You know what I think?” Touching him feels so good, so strangely uncomplicated, like he’s the exception to every rule. “What?” “I think you love your job,” he says softly. “I think you work that hard because you care ten times more than the average person.” “About work,” I say. “About everything.” His arms tighten around me. “Your sister. Your clients. Their books. You don’t do anything you’re not going to do one hundred percent. You don’t start anything you can’t finish. “You’re not the person who buys the stationary bike as part of a New Year’s resolution, then uses it as a coatrack for three years. You’re not the kind of woman who only works hard when it feels good, or only shows up when it’s convenient. If someone insults one of your clients, those fancy kid gloves of yours come off, and you carry your own pen at all times, because if you’re going to have to write anything, it might as well look good. You read the last page of books first—don’t make that face, Stephens.” He cracks a smile in one corner of his mouth. “I’ve seen you—even when you’re shelving, you sometimes check the last page, like you’re constantly looking for all the information, trying to make the absolute best decisions.” “And by you’ve seen me,” I say, “you mean you’ve watched me.” “Of course I fucking do,” he says in a low, rough voice. “I can’t stop. I’m always aware of where you are, even if I don’t look, but it’s impossible not to. I want to see your face get stern when you’re emailing a client’s editor, being a hard-ass, and I want to see your legs when you’re so excited about something you just read that you can’t stop crossing and uncrossing them. And when someone pisses you off, you get these red splotches.” His fingers brush my throat. “Right here.” “You’re a fighter,” he says. “When you care about something, you won’t let anything fucking touch it. I’ve never met anyone who cares as much as you do. Do you know what most people would give to have someone like that in their life?” His eyes are dark, probing, his heartbeat fast. “Do you know how fucking lucky anyone you care about is? You know . . .

What she discovered was mostly shelves of battered paperbacks, not exactly the insulation she’d had in mind, and when the dynamite bundle exploded in the room next door, she was pelted with Nora Roberts and James Patterson novels as the wall buckled.

Tropes and cliches have to come from somewhere, right? Women like me clearly have always existed. So it's either a very specific kind of self-sabotage or an ancient curse. Come to think of it, maybe it started with Lilith. Too weird to be a coincidence.

Tonight,” I say, “can I just have you, Charlie? Even if it can’t last. Even if we already know how it ends.” He holds my jaw so gingerly. Like I’m something delicate. Or maybe like he is. Like with one wrong move we could crack each other open. My chest squeezes with that heart-crushing final-chapter feeling, only now I know the word for it. I know it even if I can’t bring myself to think it. “You do have me, Nora. I never stood a chance.” For the first time in my life, I know what the hell Cathy was talking about when she said I am Heathcliff. Not just because Charlie and I are so similar, but because he’s right: we belong. In a way I don’t understand, he’s mine, and I’m his. It doesn’t matter what the last page says. That’s the truth. Here, now. His lips brush mine, light, careful, warm. I open to him, knowing how it will feel when I turn the page but unwilling not to turn it at all.

Is it possible you don’t have any pain receptors?” he hisses. “Not only possible but probable,” I reply. “I’ve been told I feel nothing.” Charlie frowns. “Whoever said that clearly only met Professional Nora.” “Most people do.” “Poor assholes,” he says, almost affectionately. The same voice in which he said Of course you did when I told him I met my agenting goals eight months early.

A minute later, he adds, you okay? Like even from separate rooms, with multiple screens between us, he is reading my mood. The thought sends a strange hollow ache out through my limbs. Something like loneliness. Something like Ebenezer Scrooge watching his nephew Fred’s Christmas party through the frosty window. An outsideness made all the more stark by the revelation of insideness. All I really want is to go perch on the edge of Charlie’s desk and tell him everything, make him laugh, let him make me laugh until nothing feels quite so pressing.

Well, I like her. Who the fuck cares whether anyone else does, as long as they want to read about her?" "People also slow down to gawk at car wrecks, Charlie. Are you calling me a car wreck?" "I'm not talking about you at all," he says " I'm talking about Nadine Winters. My fictional crush." "Big fan of jet-black hair and Krav Maga, huh?" Charlie leans forward, face serious, voice low. "It's more about the blood dripping from her fangs.

He moves a stack of hardcovers off the sofa, then crosses the room to take the chair behind the desk. His expression seems to tease, See? I’m perfectly harmless over here. Except nothing about him looks harmless to me. He looks like a Swiss Army knife. A man with six different means to undo me. This Charlie, for making you spill your secrets. This one for making you laugh. This one can turn you on. This is the one who will convince you you’re capable of anything. Here is the Charlie who will pull you into his lap to form your human barricade at a hospital. And the one with the power to take you apart brick by brick.

My point is, being that ‘magic free spirit’ you think is this mythical perfect woman? It comes with its own problems. Just because not everyone gets you doesn’t mean you’re wrong. You’re someone people can count on. Really count on. And that doesn’t make you cold or boring. It makes you the most . . .” He trails off, shakes his head. “You and your sister might have your differences, and she might not totally understand you, but you’re never going to lose her, Nora. You don’t have to worry about that.” “How can you be so sure?” I ask. Now his eyes are all liquid caramel, his hands tender, moving back and forth over my hips, a tide that draws us together, apart, together, each brush more intense than the last. “Because,” he says quietly, “Libby’s smart enough to know what she has.

Nadine shouldn’t have given up on acting,” Charlie says. The words float there for a minute, an obvious trap. “She makes a lot of money agenting,” I reply. “She doesn’t enjoy her money,” he reminds me. I keep typing. “She likes agenting.” “She loved acting.” “I thought you were her biggest fan.” “I am,” he says. “That’s why I want her to get her happy ending.” “I don’t think it’s that kind of book, Charlie.” His shoulder shrugs in tandem with a flick of his full lips. “We’ll see.

Why is my mother texting me about how hot you are?" "Weird. Think it has anything to do with the fact I just went to the bookstore in nothing but a patent leather trench coat?" Charlie replies with a screenshot of some texts between him and his mom. "Cottage guest is very pretty", Sally writes, then separately, "No ring." Charlie replied: "Oh? Thinking of leaving Dad?" She ignored his comment and instead said, "Tall. You always liked tall girls." "What are you talking about" Charlie wrote back, no question mark. "Remember your homecoming date? Lilac Walter-Hixton? She was practically a giant" "That was the eighth-grade formal" he said "it was before my growth spurt." "Well this girl's very pretty and tall but not too tall." "Tall but not TOO tall," I tell Charlie, "can also be added to my headstone. He says "I'll make a note." I say, "She told me you would bring wood over to the cottage for me." He says "Please swear to me you didn't make a 'too late for that' joke.

Remember when you used to pretend to be polite?” “Do you miss it?” “Not at all.” He tugs his shirt over his head and discards it on the rocks. “You’re way more fun this way.

She gave up. She couldn’t help you. I have that effect, he says. Not on Dusty, I write. She’s loving you. She’s loving us, he corrects. Like I said, we’re good together.

Do you know you do that?" "Do what?" His fingers brush the right corner of my mouth "Get a divot here, when you lie.

You’re . . .” I search for the right word. It’s rare that my vocabulary fails me like this. “Organized.” His eyes crackle with light as he laughs. “Organized?” “Extremely,” I deadpan. “Not to mention thorough.” “You make me sound like a contract,” he says, amused. “And you know how I feel about a good contract,” I say. His smirk pulls higher. “Actually, I only know how you feel about a bad one, written on a damp napkin.” He lies back fully on the mattress, and I do too, leaving a healthy gap between us. “A good contract is . . .” I think for a moment. “Adorable?” Charlie supplies, teasing. “No.” “Comely?” “At bare minimum,” I say. “Charming?” “Sexy as hell,” I reply. “Irresistible. It’s a list of great traits and working compromises that watch out for all parties involved. It’s . . . satisfying, even when it’s not what you expected, because you work for it. You go back and forth until every detail is just how it needs to be.

How are you holding up?' Stephen had asked in the parking lot, and it had come as a relief. Because even if you don't know the answer, Nora thinks, leaving the foyer, it is nice to be asked.

I sort of miss the blond." "It's not natural," I announce. "Didn't think it was, but it suits you." "Because it looks vaguely evil?" I guess. He splits into a rare, full grin, but only for a second.

Birth control?” he asks. “Obviously, but—” “Got it,” he says. Of course he does. He’s just like me: even when we’re both out-of-control obsessed with each other there are still a few (dozen) threads holding reason in place. Charlie moves off me, finds his wallet, and comes back with a condom, no further questions asked, no huffing, no hint at frustration, no implied uptight, nag, or bore. He tucks his hand against my jaw and kisses me with a tenderness I feel all through my body, all these little pockets of warmth nestled between bones and muscle and cartilage: Charlie, diffused into my bloodstream

Does tomorrow work for you?” I ask. “Late morning?” He studies me. “I’ll reserve us a room.” At my expression, he laughs. “At the library, Stephens. A study room. Get your mind out of the gutter.” Believe me,I think, I’ve tried.

It needs to be in person.” I can’t take this tension between us anymore. Avoiding him is only making this worse, and I hate feeling like I’m hiding. With Libby, the way to get to the heart of things might be a slow, cautious obstacle course, but this is Charlie, and Charlie’s like me. We need to bulldoze through the awkwardness. I miss him. His teasing, his challenges, his competitiveness, his care for my overpriced shoes, his smell, and— Shit, I didn’t expect the list to be so long. I’m in deeper than I realized.

And to be clear,” I get out, “you’re okay with the fact that we’re working together?” He kisses along my collarbone, his voice all gravel. “We both know you won’t go easier on me for it.” “And what about you?” It’s completely absurd that I’m keeping up the charade of having a totally normal conversation while my palms are flattening on the table behind me and my body is lifting unsubtly, making it easier for his mouth to brush under the collar of my shirt. “I have no interest in going easy on you, Nora,” he says.

He’s a sweet guy,” Charlie says quietly. “Anyway, he let the car stuff go and started picking up paperbacks for me every time he stopped by a garage sale, or a new donation box came into Mom’s shop. He has no idea how much erotica he’s given me.” “And you actually read it.” Charlie turns his wineglass one hundred and eighty degrees, eyes boring into me. “I wanted to understand how things worked, remember?” I arch a brow. “How’d that turn out for you?” He sits forward. “I was slightly disappointed when my first serious girlfriend didn’t have three consecutive orgasms, but otherwise okay.” A torrent of laughter rips through me. “So I’ve found the key to Nora Stephens’s joy,” he says. “My sexual humiliation.” “It’s not the humiliation so much as the sheer optimism.

So you and Amaya are hanging out.” I add, almost involuntarily: “I wasn’t eavesdropping—it’s a quiet shop.” His eyebrow ticks. “ ‘Not eavesdropping,’ ” he teases in a low voice. “ ‘Not stalking.’ I’m sensing a pattern here.” “Not jealous.” I challenge, stepping closer. “Not adorable.” His eyes dip to my mouth and slightly dilate before rising. “Nora . . .” he murmurs, a heaviness in his voice, an apology or a half-hearted plea.

He rolls his eyes. “You know this doesn’t count for number six, right? Maybe in Manhattan they consider this skinny-dipping, but in Sunshine Falls we’d call that getup ‘a glorified bathing suit.’ ” Another challenge. I’m a woman possessed. I sink beneath the water, unclasp my bra, and hurl it at him. It thwacks against his chest. “Closer,” he allows, lifting the dainty black lace strap to examine it in the moonlight. “All this,” he says seriously, “wasted on Blake Carlisle.

We have to talk about this first,” he says. “Things are complicated for me right now.” And yet we’re still clamoring for each other. Charlie’s hands raze over my thighs, squeezing so hard I might bruise. My nails are in his back, urging him close. His warm mouth skims over my shoulder, his tongue and teeth finding my pulse at the base of my throat. I nod. “Then talk.” Another sharp kiss, his teeth hard against my lip, his hands hard against my ass. “It’s hard to think in words right now, Nora.

Careful, Charlie,” I say. “That sounds like jealousy.” “It’s relief,” he says. “I expected you to show up here today in Daisy Dukes and pigtails, maybe a Ford tattoo on your tailbone.” I slide my forearms onto the desk and lean forward in such a way that I really might as well have brought a silver platter out and presented my cleavage to him that way. The lack of sleep is really getting to me. I feel haunted by him, and I’m determined to haunt him right back. “I would be”—I drop my voice—“adorable in Daisy Dukes and pigtails.” His eyes snap back to my face, flashing; his mouth twitches through that grimacing pout, a pair as reliable as thunder and lightning. “Not the word I’d use.” Awareness sizzles down my backbone. I lean closer. “Charming?” His eyes stay on my face. “Not that either.” “Sweet,” I say. “No.” “Comely?” I guess. “Comely? What year is it, Stephens?” “A real girl next door,” I parry. He snorts. “Whose door?” I straighten. “It’ll come to me.” “I doubt it,” he says under his breath.

I want to be here with you and not worry about what comes next.” He steps closer, my heart whirring as he invades my space. “Nora,” he says gently. “It’s okay if you don’t want that,” I say. “But I’m thinking about you way too much. And the more space I try to put between us, the worse it is.” His lips twist; his eyes glint. “So you’re trying to get this out of your system?” “Maybe,” I admit. “But maybe I also just want something that’s easy for once.” His brow lifts, teasing. “Now I’m easy?” Yes,I think, to me, you are the easiest person in the world. But I say, “God, I hope.

Mrs. Struthers liked me because I fucking loved school,” he says. “I mean, once I figured out how to actually read. Didn’t exactly make me a hit with other kids, though. In high school, things weren’t as bad, and then eventually . . .” “You got hot,” I say somberly. His laugh grates over my skin. “I was going to say ‘I moved to New York.’ ” We’ve stopped moving. Heat corkscrews through my rib cage, coiling tighter with each spiral. I clear my throat enough to joke, “And then you got hot.” “Actually,” he says, “that only happened four or five weeks ago. There was this big meteor shower, and I made a wish and . . .” Charlie holds his arms out as he drifts closer.

They ended up in a amusement arcade on Old Compton Street, where Nora insisted Stephen join her on one of those dance-step machines, and as he stood next to her, stomping out a dance routine on the illuminated dance floor, he had a sudden anxiety that Nora might be one of those kooky, free-spirit types, the kind of irreverent life-force who, in the imaginary romantic comedy currently playing in his head, turns the hero’s narrow life upside down, etc., etc. The acid test for free-spirited kookiness is to show the subject a field of fresh snow; if they flop on their backs and make snow-angels, then the test is positive. In the absence of snow, Stephan resolved to keep an eye open for other tell-tale kookiness indicators: a propensity for wacky hats, zany mismatched socks, leaf-kicking, a disproportionate enthusiasm for karaoke, kite - flying and light-hearted shoplifting, the whole Holly Golightly act.

June is gazing at Michael with a glow about her face, a well of feeling for her husband. Leo and Stephen are also looking at their father, Leo's expression sympathetic, nearly teary. The three of them as they look at Michael are like magnets, the ties drawing each one to him nearly visible. This is what family means, Nora thinks.

And I,” he replies, “am not letting you destroy those poor, innocent shoes. I’m not that kind of man.

Four days after the lime incident, Mom’s friends came over with Cook’s champagne and an envelope of cash they’d pooled to help us out. Yes, New York is exhausting. Yes, there are millions of people all swimming upstream, but you’re also in it together. That’s why I put my career first. Not because I have no life, but because I can’t bear to let the one Mom wanted for us slip away. Because I need to know Libby and Brendan and the girls and I will all be okay no matter what, because I want to carve out a piece of the city and its magic, just for us. But carving turns you into a knife. Cold, hard, sharp, at least on the outside. Inside, my chest feels bruised, tender.

We like to think our choices are the result of the very best calculations, a reflection of who we are. But in truth some decisions are made before we even know of them. They’re part of the landscape ahead, just waiting for us to arrive. 4 Stephen’s house smelled of freshly brewed coffee when I stepped inside early the next morning, and it gave me life. “In the kitchen,” Stephen called as I came in with Merrill, who immediately padded away into the next room like he owned the place.

Here lies Nora Stephens, whose taste was often exceptional and occasionally disturbing.

Or maybe, Nora Stephens, I can read you l like a book...Because you're like me.

all of it perfect. Not for someone else, maybe, but for me. “I move back to New York,” he says. “I get another editing job, or maybe take up agenting, or try writing again. You work your way up at Loggia, and we’re both busy all the time, and down in Sunshine Falls, Libby runs the local business she saved, and my parents spoil your nieces like the grandkids they so desperately want, and Brendan probably doesn’t get much better at fishing, but he gets to relax and even take paid vacations with your sister and their kids. And you and I—we go out to dinner. “Wherever you want, whenever you want. We have a lot of fun being city people, and we’re happy. You let me love you as much as I know I can, for as long as I know I can, and you have it fucking all. That’s it. That’s the best I could come up with, and I really fucking hope you say—” I kiss him then, like there isn’t someone reading one of the Bridgerton novels five feet away, like we’ve just found each other on a deserted island after months apart. My hands in his hair, my tongue catching on his teeth, his palms sliding around behind me and squeezing me to him in the most thoroughly public groping we’ve managed yet. “I love you, Nora,” he says when we pull apart a few inches to breathe. “I think I love everything about you.” “Even my Peloton?” I ask. “Great piece of equipment,” he says. “The fact that I check my email after work hours?” “Just makes it easier to share Bigfoot erotica without having to walk across the room,” he says. “Sometimes I wear very impractical shoes,” I add. “Nothing impractical about looking hot,” he says. “And what about my bloodlust?” His eyes go heavy as he smiles. “That,” he says, “might be my favorite thing. Be my shark, Stephens.” “Already was,” I say. “Always have been.” “I love you,” he says again. “I love you too.” I don’t have to force it past a knot or through the vise of a tight throat. It’s simply the truth, and it breathes out of me, a wisp of smoke, a sigh, another floating blossom on a current carrying billions of them. “I know,” he says. “I can read you like a book.” EPILOGUE SIX MONTHS LATER THERE ARE BALLOONS in the window, a chalkboard sign out front.

Then she began to think about Stella Chase and Alden Churchill, until Gilbert offered her a penny for her thoughts. "I'm thinking seriously of trying my hand at matchmaking," retorted Anne. Gilbert looked at the others in mock despair. "I was afraid it would break out again some day. I've done my best, but you can't reform a born matchmaker. She has a positive passion for it. The number of matches she has made is incredible. I couldn't sleep o' nights if I had such responsibilities on my conscience." "But they're all happy," protested Anne. "I'm really an adept. Think of all the matches I've made … or been accused of making … Theodora Dix and Ludovic Speed … Stephen Clark and Prissie Gardner … Janet Sweet and John Douglas … Professor Carter and Esme Taylor … Nora and Jim … and Dovie and Jarvis … " "Oh, I admit it. This wife of mine, Owen, has never lost her sense of expectation. Thistles may, for her, bear figs at any time. I suppose she'll keep on trying to marry people off until she grows up.

Oh my god!” she cries. “It’s Nora Stephens fan fiction!” “Can it really be called fan fiction if the author clearly isn’t a fan?” I say. “Has she sent you more? Does it get smutty? Lots of fan fiction gets smutty.” “Again,” I say, “not fan fiction.

Nora Stephens,” he says, “I’ve racked my brain and this is the best I can come up with, so I really hope you like it.” His gaze lifts, everything about it, about his face, about his posture, about him made up of sharp edges and jagged bits and shadows, all of it familiar, all of it perfect. Not for someone else, maybe, but for me. “I move back to New York,” he says. “I get another editing job, or maybe take up agenting, or try writing again. You work your way up at Loggia, and we’re both busy all the time, and down in Sunshine Falls, Libby runs the local business she saved, and my parents spoil your nieces like the grandkids they so desperately want, and Brendan probably doesn’t get much better at fishing, but he gets to relax and even take paid vacations with your sister and their kids. And you and I—we go out to dinner. “Wherever you want, whenever you want. We have a lot of fun being city people, and we’re happy. You let me love you as much as I know I can, for as long as I know I can, and you have it fucking all. That’s it. That’s the best I could come up with, and I really fucking hope you say—” I kiss him then, like there isn’t someone reading one of the Bridgerton novels five feet away, like we’ve just found each other on a deserted island after months apart. My hands in his hair, my tongue catching on his teeth, his palms sliding around behind me and squeezing me to him in the most thoroughly public groping we’ve managed yet. “I love you, Nora,” he says when we pull apart a few inches to breathe. “I think I love everything about you.