Margaret

“Trent has kept his promise. He makes me smile every day.”
― K.A. Tucker, Ten Tiny Breaths

“No, really, Noah," she said. "I'll wait until you 're dressed."
So i could miss that blush creeping across her face? No way.”
― Katie McGarry, Pushing the Limits

“The temperature jumped another ninety degrees. Why couldn't anyone see in my life how awesome Noah was? I shoved up my sleeves, welcoming the cold air on my skin.
"Echo, stop!" Ashley propelled her self out of the gliter.
I froze and then remembered Ashley was damaged. I was going on a date, not to Vegas to elope.
Noah's strong hand slipped over my wrist before he entwined his fingers with mine. The sensation of warm flesh against an area I allowed no one to see, much less touch, caused me to shiver. My eyes widened, realizing my mistake. This is what had freaked Ashley out. What had come over me? I never pulled up my sleeves. I spent all my time pulling them down. When had I become...comfortable?
He rubbed his thumb over my hand. "I planned on taking her to my house to meet some of my friends."
Noah could have told them he was getting me to the ghetto to buy us crack and they wouldn't have heard him. Ashley stood in place, staring at my exposed scars as my father stared at our combined hands. I reached over to pull down my sleeve, but Noah casually placed his hand over my forearm, preventing me fron doing it. My lungs squeezed out all the oxygen in my body. Noah Hutchins, in fact, a human being, was overtly, on purpose, touching my scars.
I'd stopped breathing moments ago, as had Ashley. Noah continued as nothing earth-shattering had happened. "What time does Echo need to be home?"
Blinking my self back to life, i answered for them, "My curfew is eleven."
"Twelve." My father stood and extended his hand. "I didn't have a chance to properly introduce myself earlier. I'm Owen Emerson.”
― Katie McGarry, Pushing the Limits

“He won’t stop staring.
“What?” I ask.
“How much do you weigh?”
“Wow. Is that how you talk to every girl you meet? That explains so much.”
“I’m about one hundred seventy-five pounds,” he says. “Of muscle.”
I stare at him. “Would you like an award?”
“Well, well, well,” he says, cocking his head, the barest hint of a smile flickering across his face. “Look who’s the smart-ass now.”
“I think you’re rubbing off on me,” I say.”
― Tahereh Mafi, Unravel Me