“I have observations.”
Thessa picked up a pink note. Read it. Her face did a complicated series of expressions that I couldn’t interpret. “You wrote ‘verify with Thessa if human females actually enjoy this.’”
“Well? Do they?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“It’s a legitimate question. The anatomy seems-”
“I’m not answering that.”
I finally looked up. My eyes were probably wild, my hair disheveled from running my hands through it repeatedly, and I was fairly certain I forgot to eat dinner. And breakfast. Possibly lunch, I didn’t know.
“I need to understand her, Thessa. I need to understand how she thinks, what she wants, what makes her happy. This book is a window into her mind. She wrote every word in here. It’s filled with her desires, her fantasies.” I gestured at the book with reverence. “This is the most intimate thing anyone has ever shared with me.”
Thessa stared at me for a long moment. Then she sat down across from me, pulled the book toward her, and started flipping through.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “I see what you’re doing. It’s completely unhinged, but I see it.” She paused on a page with three green sticky notes. “This scene has a note that just says ‘YES’ in capital letters.”
“It’s a good scene.”
“It’s a sex scene.”
“It’s averygood scene.”
Thessa closed the book and slid it back to me. “You need to actually talk to her, Ky. Reading her book isn’t the same as knowing her.”
“I know.” I pulled out my phone and showed her the screen. “That’s why I found her book club.”
On the screen was a social media page: Tipsy Pages & Midnight Kisses. There was a post announcing Thursday’s meeting at a wine bar. The theme was morally gray love interests who would commit murder for you.
I would absolutely commit murder for Riley. I was already planning several.
“You’re going to crash her book club,” Thessa said flatly.
“I’m going toattendher book club. Legally. It’s open to the public.”
“You’re going to show up with your annotated copy and your obsessive energy and she’s going to call the police.”
“I’ll bring wine. Humans like that.”
Thessa looked at me. Then at the sticky-note-covered book. Then back at me.
“Fine,” she sighed. “But I’m coming with you. Someone has to keep you from doing something insane.”
“I appreciate the support.”
“That wasn’t support. That was damage control.” She pointed at me with a stern finger. “You are not allowed to propose marriage during a discussion about fictional murder. Do you understand?”
“That seems like an oddly specific restriction.”
“Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“And no growling at other men who talk to her.”
I didn’t have a good response to that, so I just turned back to my book.
