I started down but Sam caught my arm and knelt down himself to look. "For crying out loud," he said. "It's a racoon." "Poor thing," I said. "It could be a rabid baby-killer," Cole told me primly. "Shut up," Sam said pleasantly.

She tapped out a beat on the edge of the piano as I tripped and plummeted through the refrain of “Spacebar,” trying to translate the synth chords into a piano bit on the fly. It had been a million years since I’d played it.But it was still catchy.Whoever had written this song had known what they were doing.

Mein Herz pumpte flüssiges Sonnenlicht.

Food," I suggested. "Sleep. That's what I need. To get the hell away from here."Cole frowned at me, as if I'd suggested "ducks" and "yoga".

Cole," I said, "Don't lose this number.

I felt a tickle on my skin; it took me a moment to realize that Cole was driving his die-cast Mustang up my arm. He was laughing to himself, hushed and infectious, as if there was still any reason to be quiet. He turned the car around at my shoulder and headed back down to my hand, the wheels skidding a bit when he laughed.I thought it was the truest thing I'd ever heard from Cole St. Clair.

It sure is ugly.”“Ugly, never hurt a thing.” I scoffed. “Oh, ugly has hurt some things. It’s just that pretty hurts more.

holding tight, denying the fact that eventually we all had to let go.

Most people had an acquired kind of beauty, they became better looking the longer you knew them and the better you loved them, but Cole had unfairly skipped to the end of the game, all jaggedly handsome and Hollywood-looking. Not needing any love to get there.