Nora Stephens Quotes

“I read once that sunflowers always orient themselves to face the sun. That’s what being near Charlie Lastra is like for me. There could be a raging wildfire racing toward me from the west and I’d still be straining eastward toward his warmth.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“Until you got here,” he rasps, “all this place had ever been was a reminder of the ways I was a disappointment, and now you’re here, and—I don’t know. I feel like I’m okay. So if you’re the ‘wrong kind of woman,’ then I’m the wrong kind of man.”

I can see all of the shades of him at once. Quiet, unfocused boy. Precocious, resentful preteen. Broody high schooler desperate to get out. Sharp-edged man trying to fit himself back into a place he never belonged to begin with.

That’s the thing about being an adult standing beside your childhood race car bed. Time collapses, and instead of the version of you you’ve built from scratch, you’re all the hackneyed drafts that came before, all at once.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“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

“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

“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

“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

“What's wrong with being in control anyway?" I demand, of the universe at large.

"Beats me."

"And what, just because I don't want kids, I would supposedly punish a pregnant woman for making a different decision than me? My favorite person's a pregnant woman! And I'm obsessed with my nieces. Not every decision a woman makes is some grand indictment on other women's lives."

"Nora," Charlie says. "It's a novel. Fiction."

"You don't get it because you're... you." I wave a hand at him.

"Me?" he says.

"You can afford to be all surly and sharp and people will admire you for it. The rules are different for women. You have to strike that perfect balance to be taken seriously but not seen as bitchy. It's a constant effort. People don't want to work with sharky women -"

"I do," he says.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“His golden-brown eyes slowly rise. "If it isn't the woman who 'isn't stalking me'."

I grind out, "If it isn't the man who 'didn't try to ravish me in the middle of a hurricane'.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“You know what I think?”

Touching him feels so good, so strangely uncomplicated, like he’s the exception to every rule. “What?”

“I think you love your job,” he says softly. “I think you work that hard because you care ten times more than the average person.”

“About work,” I say.

“About everything.” His arms tighten around me. “Your sister. Your clients. Their books. You don’t do anything you’re not going to do one hundred percent. You don’t start anything you can’t finish.

“You’re not the person who buys the stationary bike as part of a New Year’s resolution, then uses it as a coatrack for three years. You’re not the kind of woman who only works hard when it feels good, or only shows up when it’s convenient. If someone insults one of your clients, those fancy kid gloves of yours come off, and you carry your own pen at all times, because if you’re going to have to write anything, it might as well look good. You read the last page of books first—don’t make that face, Stephens.” He cracks a smile in one corner of his mouth. “I’ve seen you—even when you’re shelving, you sometimes check the last page, like you’re constantly looking for all the information, trying to make the absolute best decisions.”

“And by you’ve seen me,” I say, “you mean you’ve watched me.”

“Of course I fucking do,” he says in a low, rough voice. “I can’t stop. I’m always aware of where you are, even if I don’t look, but it’s impossible not to. I want to see your face get stern when you’re emailing a client’s editor, being a hard-ass, and I want to see your legs when you’re so excited about something you just read that you can’t stop crossing and uncrossing them. And when someone pisses you off, you get these red splotches.” His fingers brush my throat. “Right here.”

“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?” His eyes are dark, probing, his heartbeat fast. “Do you know how fucking lucky anyone you care about is? You know . . .”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“When we finally do this, Nora,” he says, straightening away from me, his hands slipping my buttons back into buttonholes as easily as he undid them, “it’s not going to be on a library table, and it’s not going to be on a time crunch.” He smooths my hair, tucks my blouse back into my skirt, then takes my hips in his hands and guides me off the table, catching me against him. “We’re going to do this right. No shortcuts.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“I had no idea it was possible,” he says, “for you to want me as much as I want you.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“I hated being a kid.” He folds his arm beneath his head and looks almost furtively in my direction. “I’d have no idea how to get someone else through it, and I definitely wouldn’t enjoy it. I like them, but I don’t want to be responsible for any.”

“Agreed,” I say. “I love my nieces more than anything on the planet, but every time Tala falls asleep in my lap, her dad gets all teary-eyed and is like, Doesn’t it just make you want to have some of your own, Nora? But when you have kids, they count on you. Forever. Any mistake you make, any failure—and if something happens to you . . .”

My throat twists.

“People like to remember childhood as all magic and no responsibilities, but that’s not really how it is. You have absolutely no control over your environment. It all comes down to the adults in your life, and . . . I don’t know. Every time Libby has a new kid, it’s like there’s this magic house in my heart that rearranges to make a new room for the baby.

“And it always hurts. It’s terrifying. One more person who needs you.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“The ragged edge of his voice knocks the wind out of me. I fight the impulse to rein in my shock, and then it all clicks, the bits of Charlie I’ve been collecting like puzzle pieces becoming a full picture. Not the Darcy trope. Not the self-important, dour academic I met for one very unpleasant lunch. A man who craves complete honesty, the realist who doesn’t always understand when he’s not seeing realism. Charlie, who wants to understand the world but has learned not to trust it.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“We are either too good or too bad at fighting. We are viciously trading support for each other’s romantic lives.

He one-ups me with, “Shepherd’s a great guy. Most eligible bachelor in town. He’s perfect for your list, checks all your boxes.”

“What about Amaya?” I throw back. “How’s she measure up to yours?”

“Doesn’t make the cut,” he says.

“Must be a pretty long list.”

“One item,” he replies. “Very specific.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“He stares at me, his eyes focused and brow furrowed as he absorbs what I said, his lips pouting. It’s his Editing Expression, and when it clears, he shakes his head and says, “No.”

I laugh, surprised. “What?”

He straightens, steps in close. “I said, no.”

“Charlie. What’s that even mean?”

“It means,” he says, eyes glinting, “you’ll have to do better than that.”

I smile despite myself, hope thrashing around in my belly like a very determined baby bird with a broken wing.

“I’ll expect notes by Friday,” he says.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“My point is, being that ‘magic free spirit’ you think is this mythical perfect woman? It comes with its own problems. Just because not everyone gets you doesn’t mean you’re wrong. You’re someone people can count on. Really count on. And that doesn’t make you cold or boring. It makes you the most . . .” He trails off, shakes his head. “You and your sister might have your differences, and she might not totally understand you, but you’re never going to lose her, Nora. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“How can you be so sure?” I ask.

Now his eyes are all liquid caramel, his hands tender, moving back and forth over my hips, a tide that draws us together, apart, together, each brush more intense than the last.

“Because,” he says quietly, “Libby’s smart enough to know what she has.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“You’re . . .” I search for the right word. It’s rare that my vocabulary fails me like this. “Organized.”

His eyes crackle with light as he laughs. “Organized?”

“Extremely,” I deadpan. “Not to mention thorough.”

“You make me sound like a contract,” he says, amused.

“And you know how I feel about a good contract,” I say.

His smirk pulls higher. “Actually, I only know how you feel about a bad one, written on a damp napkin.” He lies back fully on the mattress, and I do too, leaving a healthy gap between us.

“A good contract is . . .” I think for a moment.

“Adorable?” Charlie supplies, teasing.

“No.”

“Comely?”

“At bare minimum,” I say.

“Charming?”

“Sexy as hell,” I reply. “Irresistible. It’s a list of great traits and working compromises that watch out for all parties involved. It’s . . . satisfying, even when it’s not what you expected, because you work for it. You go back and forth until every detail is just how it needs to be.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“Tonight,” I say, “can I just have you, Charlie? Even if it can’t last. Even if we already know how it ends.”

He holds my jaw so gingerly. Like I’m something delicate. Or maybe like he is. Like with one wrong move we could crack each other open. My chest squeezes with that heart-crushing final-chapter feeling, only now I know the word for it. I know it even if I can’t bring myself to think it. “You do have me, Nora. I never stood a chance.”

For the first time in my life, I know what the hell Cathy was talking about when she said I am Heathcliff. Not just because Charlie and I are so similar, but because he’s right: we belong. In a way I don’t understand, he’s mine, and I’m his. It doesn’t matter what the last page says. That’s the truth. Here, now.

His lips brush mine, light, careful, warm. I open to him, knowing how it will feel when I turn the page but unwilling not to turn it at all.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“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

“A minute later, he adds, you okay? Like even from separate rooms, with multiple screens between us, he is reading my mood. The thought sends a strange hollow ache out through my limbs. Something like loneliness. Something like Ebenezer Scrooge watching his nephew Fred’s Christmas party through the frosty window. An outsideness made all the more stark by the revelation of insideness.

All I really want is to go perch on the edge of Charlie’s desk and tell him everything, make him laugh, let him make me laugh until nothing feels quite so pressing.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“He moves a stack of hardcovers off the sofa, then crosses the room to take the chair behind the desk. His expression seems to tease, See? I’m perfectly harmless over here.

Except nothing about him looks harmless to me. He looks like a Swiss Army knife. A man with six different means to undo me.

This Charlie, for making you spill your secrets.

This one for making you laugh.

This one can turn you on.

This is the one who will convince you you’re capable of anything.

Here is the Charlie who will pull you into his lap to form your human barricade at a hospital.

And the one with the power to take you apart brick by brick.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“Nadine shouldn’t have given up on acting,” Charlie says.

The words float there for a minute, an obvious trap. “She makes a lot of money agenting,” I reply.

“She doesn’t enjoy her money,” he reminds me.

I keep typing. “She likes agenting.”

“She loved acting.”

“I thought you were her biggest fan.”

“I am,” he says. “That’s why I want her to get her happy ending.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of book, Charlie.”

His shoulder shrugs in tandem with a flick of his full lips. “We’ll see.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“Birth control?” he asks.

“Obviously, but—”

“Got it,” he says. Of course he does. He’s just like me: even when we’re both out-of-control obsessed with each other there are still a few (dozen) threads holding reason in place. Charlie moves off me, finds his wallet, and comes back with a condom, no further questions asked, no huffing, no hint at frustration, no implied uptight, nag, or bore. He tucks his hand against my jaw and kisses me with a tenderness I feel all through my body, all these little pockets of warmth nestled between bones and muscle and cartilage: Charlie, diffused into my bloodstream”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“Careful, Charlie,” I say. “That sounds like jealousy.”

“It’s relief,” he says. “I expected you to show up here today in Daisy Dukes and pigtails, maybe a Ford tattoo on your tailbone.”

I slide my forearms onto the desk and lean forward in such a way that I really might as well have brought a silver platter out and presented my cleavage to him that way. The lack of sleep is really getting to me. I feel haunted by him, and I’m determined to haunt him right back.

“I would be”—I drop my voice—“adorable in Daisy Dukes and pigtails.”

His eyes snap back to my face, flashing; his mouth twitches through that grimacing pout, a pair as reliable as thunder and lightning. “Not the word I’d use.”

Awareness sizzles down my backbone. I lean closer. “Charming?”

His eyes stay on my face. “Not that either.”

“Sweet,” I say.

“No.”

“Comely?” I guess.

“Comely? What year is it, Stephens?”

“A real girl next door,” I parry.

He snorts. “Whose door?”

I straighten. “It’ll come to me.”

“I doubt it,” he says under his breath.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“It needs to be in person.” I can’t take this tension between us anymore. Avoiding him is only making this worse, and I hate feeling like I’m hiding. With Libby, the way to get to the heart of things might be a slow, cautious obstacle course, but this is Charlie, and Charlie’s like me. We need to bulldoze through the awkwardness. I miss him. His teasing, his challenges, his competitiveness, his care for my overpriced shoes, his smell, and—

Shit, I didn’t expect the list to be so long. I’m in deeper than I realized.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“And to be clear,” I get out, “you’re okay with the fact that we’re working together?”

He kisses along my collarbone, his voice all gravel. “We both know you won’t go easier on me for it.”

“And what about you?” It’s completely absurd that I’m keeping up the charade of having a totally normal conversation while my palms are flattening on the table behind me and my body is lifting unsubtly, making it easier for his mouth to brush under the collar of my shirt.

“I have no interest in going easy on you, Nora,” he says.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“So you and Amaya are hanging out.” I add, almost involuntarily: “I wasn’t eavesdropping—it’s a quiet shop.”

His eyebrow ticks. “ ‘Not eavesdropping,’ ” he teases in a low voice. “ ‘Not stalking.’ I’m sensing a pattern here.”

“Not jealous.” I challenge, stepping closer. “Not adorable.”

His eyes dip to my mouth and slightly dilate before rising. “Nora . . .” he murmurs, a heaviness in his voice, an apology or a half-hearted plea.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“Does tomorrow work for you?” I ask. “Late morning?”

He studies me. “I’ll reserve us a room.” At my expression, he laughs. “At the library, Stephens. A study room. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Believe me,I think, I’ve tried.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“I want to be here with you and not worry about what comes next.”

He steps closer, my heart whirring as he invades my space. “Nora,” he says gently.

“It’s okay if you don’t want that,” I say. “But I’m thinking about you way too much. And the more space I try to put between us, the worse it is.”

His lips twist; his eyes glint. “So you’re trying to get this out of your system?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But maybe I also just want something that’s easy for once.”

His brow lifts, teasing. “Now I’m easy?”

Yes,I think, to me, you are the easiest person in the world. But I say, “God, I hope.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers

“And I,” he replies, “am not letting you destroy those poor, innocent
shoes. I’m not that kind of man.”
― Emily Henry, Book Lovers