Mikayla Streiff

“Very chivalrous. Thank you, Mr. Eaton.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Mr. Eaton. That makes me feel like an old perv. Or like my dad. Which is possibly the same thing. But I don’t correct her, because the old perv part of me likes it. Instead, I open the back hatch and pull out her massive suitcase.”
― Elsie Silver, Heartless

“Or in my case, to check out Daddy Cowboy.”
― Elsie Silver, Heartless

“Lines I shouldn’t cross. Lines I shouldn’t even be spending this long staring at. She reaches forward for her beer, and as she does, she places a palm on my thigh to catch her balance, and all those lines blur in my mind. Because all I can see is how petite her hand is on my leg. And all I can feel is the roil of heat seeping into my muscles. The slow swell in my pants. Suddenly I’m not measuring time. I’m measuring inches, because her hand is mere inches away from feeling just how much I don’t dislike her. Not even one bit. Then her hand is gone and I’m stuck staring at her lips. The way her throat works as she takes a deep swallow of beer.”
― Elsie Silver, Heartless

“I’ll take a boozy brunch with my bestie and a dirty book in bed by eight for a thousand, Alex.”
― Elsie Silver, Heartless