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334 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 21, 2014






He hadn't wanted to negotiate the good-bye in the morning. Or not saying good-bye, then making every minute an excuse to spend another minute together, until the entire time they spent in the other's arms was an excuse to keep way from anything else beyond the borders of the bed.
Until leaving the bed was leaving.

He had watched her smile at the guard and remembered the freckles that had ignored the boundary of her lip line, small ones that had sifted themselves into the pink of her lips, themselves.
Her breasts had the palest freckles of all, like gold leaf shattered over porcelain. He ignored the heavy, dark pulse in his prick.
When she had looked so gorgeous like that, sitting straight with her perfect posture and her color washing through her freckles, roses on her throat, he hadn't wanted to look like that.

Her breath was warm, and she had either drank (I hope the proofreader caught that mistake coz it's "she had either drunk…") her own tea, or snuck a bit of his--his spine softened in Pavlovian response to the bergamot.

She was stripped to elements--she wore what she could move her body in, she let her own features show her intelligence without distractions.



“He would have like to play it cool, to lean back on the stoop and raise an eyebrow, cross his feet at the ankles. Instead, he was grinning like a child, stumbling off the last step in his eagerness to get to her.”
“He laughed, and the way she lit up made him realize that his laugh was giving her something she wanted.”
I just started thinking about what would happen if I really started going after what I wanted instead of being afraid I didn’t want the right thing, or that I’d lose what it was I wanted or thought I wanted, or of messin’ up.
Live is beautifully written, well done and I just fell in love with the characters. The story includes a beautifully done back story that really makes the characters feel like they belong in a community.“She was accustomed to small houses, big families, front stoops, peering neighbors, and older brother and sister who took over conversations, took over everything, and a younger brother who lived in her shadow.”
I love romances that have the characters interacting in a larger world; it gives the story context and richness. Live is like that. Mary Ann Rivers wrote about people I know or people I can imagine living and working.
I agree with some reviewers that Live is wordy but personally I loved that. There are many thoughtful inner monologues. Inner monologues are risky, depending on the author these can really fail — but in my opinion they did not fail in Live. This is where the readers get to know Hefin and Destiny. This is where we see their pain, their love — and how they grow as people. Oh yeah, importantly Live is a very sweet romance with steamy sex scenes.
The author set the book up to be a series and the sequel centers on Destiny’s brother – I am looking forward to it.
To read more of this review and others like it check out Badass Book Reviews
Don’t you cry for the lost
Smile for the living
Get what you need and give what you’re given
Life’s for the living so LIVE it
Or you better off dead


He wanted to know what it was to live beside another and still know who you were. He wanted to know who he was, and to know who his beloved was, and still weave his legs in with hers at the end of every day and make love sideways. Facing the other. He wanted the world where that was possible.
He opened up a space around her, one with only her inside it, and not only let her say whatever it was that she wanted, but took her words inside of himself and let them break against him and change him.
That kind [of] loss must move the way the ground feels under your feet, the way you look at other people when they cry or when they laugh or when they do anything. That kind of loss must change the number of breaths you're supposed to breathe in an hour until you can imagine just not breathing at all. Loss like a crater that you sit on the edge of, throwing things into it in the hopes you can hear them hit the bottom.
Privately, she called him The Woodcarver.
Which, very strictly, he was. Or at least, she had actually seen him carving wood, and talking to other people about carved wood, specifically the carved-wood panels and decorations that were under restoration in the atrium of the library.
Even more painful—if pain was a sweet ache that felt good when you worried and pressed at it—she walked by his work site every single day.
Slow.
As close as she dared without his noticing.
She took out an apple wedge and toyed with it. “But you grew up in Wales, right? In Aberaeron?”
Her pronunciation was perfect and he tried not to imagine her practicing it. “That’s right. And Aberaeron is tiny. My mum could call me home to tea from across town. I didn’t need a prospect from which to see my whole life, I could see my whole life from any point I stood in the village.”
“But you left.”
“I elected into a university training program in engineering after taking some time with prerequisites at a local college. I went to London for a year, then to Beijing for almost three.”
“Oh. Wow. I went to Toronto for a class trip in high school, and sometimes my parents took us kids to Pittsburgh to see my grandparents and the Mister Rogers exhibit at the Children’s Museum.”
“Any place can be exotic when you’re away from home.” He looked down and realized he had used the handle end of his fork to press in a design of ropes and knots into the top of his Styrofoam pancake box, his hands distracted while he talked. Des reached over and traced over it with her fingers, softly.
“That’s so pretty. I could hang it up in my house and people wouldn’t even know it was a pancake box.”
“I’ll draw you something better than a doodle on a pancake box.” He closed his eyes, willed the blush away.
“You don’t have to, but I’d like that. Your carvings are so good I can’t believe they’re even real.”
“Let’s eat.” He resisted pushing the heel of his hand over his heart to make it slow down. “Is that all you have, then?”
She shook her head, like she was saying no, but then met his eyes, and hers cleared. “I mean, yeah. PB&J, favorite of six-year-olds and the long-term unemployed everywhere.”
He started popping open his boxes. Glanced up at the whitecaps on the lake. Let himself look at her again, tried not to count the numbers of freckles in the hollow of her throat. “I guess you’d better share with me, then.”
She touched her throat, like she knew where he was looking. “Pancake me,” she said. And he laughed. Helpless.