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First published July 10, 2014

"We clean up nice, don’t we?” she said as we applied our makeup in the long bathroom mirror.
“Yeah, we’re the hottest romance novelists I know,” I said, pouting my lips at her.
“Suck it, Nora Roberts,” Raine said, adjusting her bra.


"He had an accent. A British one. There was something about a British accent that had always made me quiver deep down inside and touched me in places a regular New England accent just couldn’t reach."
"What’s he doing?” Raine asked. “He’s not talking to me.” “Grab him by the nuts and twist.” I glared at her over my laptop. To us, our characters were real, living, breathing people that sometimes didn’t cooperate. There was a famous quote that being a write was an acceptable form of schizophrenia. It was absolutely true. The voices never stopped, except when they were being jerks."
"I've told you that I like a well-read woman. Well-read woman tend to know more about a wide range of topics. And you can never be bored with a woman who reads"
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There was another saying that writers were either writing, or thinking about writing. We were always thinking and talking about it. Like a faucet you couldn't turn off. The thoughts flowed constantly.
"Sorry, I couldn't hold you up anymore," he said, pulling out, but resting his head on my shoulder.
"It's okay. I'm kind of a handful." More than that. Two handfuls.