Better Than the Movies

I have a nerd-level fascination with movie soundtracks.

that soap or deodorant?”

His big hand landed on the shifter, and his eyebrows crinkled when he looked over at me. “Pardon?”

“You smell really good, but it isn’t your usual scent.”

He didn’t put the car in drive but instead just looked at me. “My usual scent?”

“Don’t act like I’m weird. Your normal cologne is kind of, like, piney, but tonight you smell more… I don’t know… spicy.” The image of him shirtless and putting on deodorant popped into my head, and I cleared my throat, sending it away.

His voice was deep and kind of rumbly as he gave a throaty chuckle. “Holy shit, Liz Buxbaum knows my scent.”

He looked at me and shrugged like that explained everything.

“But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.”

She’d always assumed I was obsessed with love because I was hopelessly romantic. I never corrected her.

And when she died, my mother bequeathed to me her unwavering belief in happily ever after. My inheritance was the knowledge that love is always in the air, always a possibility, and always worth it.

Why would Bridget give up the cuter one—the charming one—for the person who was the equivalent of one ginormous yawn? How did that even make sense?

“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.”
—Notting Hill

Buy that dress. I’m begging you.

My stomach ipped. I could hear those words being spoken in his deep voice.

Btw, I love your hair. You have to tel me what product you use in it.