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Emily Henry
“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?”
Emily Henry, Book Lovers

Emily Henry
“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.”
Emily Henry, Book Lovers

Emily Henry
“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.”
Emily Henry, Book Lovers

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

Emily Henry
“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.”
Emily Henry, Book Lovers

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