I Can See The Warmth. He's Falling

When I'm On A Break From Writing, I'll Log On To Amazon And Ebay. The Doorbell Is Constantly Being Rung By Deliverymen.

Except...i Do. Of Course I Do. Because As His Hands Gently Cup My Waist, I Don't Make A Sound. As He Swivels Me Around To Face Him, I Don't Make A Sound. I Don't Need To. We're Still Talking. Every Touch He Makes, Every Imprint Of His Skin Is Like Another Word, Another Thought, A Continuation Of Our Conversation. And We're Not Done Yet. Not Yet.

I Always Thought 'chick Lit' Meant Third-person Contemporary Funny Novels, Dealing With Issues Of The Day. I Mean, It's Not The Ideal Term; When I'm Asked To Describe What I Do, I Say I Write Romantic Comedies, Cause That's What I Feel They Are. But I'm Quite Pragmatic.

Jeez Louise. I Know Why Rich People Are So Thin: It's From Trekking Around Their Humongous Houses The Whole Time.

I'm An Impulse Buyer. I Don't Really Go Out With A List.