All the Little Houses by May Cobb

I get enough mean-girl drama teaching middle school. I don't need to read about it recreationally. 

All the Little Houses was the pick for the ManiScripts Book Club for August. I tried to be open-minded because this is not the type of book I normally read. Apparently there is a good reason for that.

I struggled a little with my rating. At first, I was wavering between two and three stars because the book isn't badly written. In fact, I think Cobb accomplished exactly what she set out to do. Unfortunately, what she set out to do involved a whole lot of mean-girl drama, and I get enough of that teaching middle school. I don't need to read about it recreationally.

The story is told from multiple points of view, and that part worked very well. I never had trouble keeping track of the characters or figuring out whose story I was following.

First, we have Nellie, a spoiled, wealthy mean girl who isn't particularly nice to anyone, including her own parents. Her mother, Charleigh, isn't much better. She's wealthy, judgmental, manipulative, and apparently thinks paying people to spend time with her daughter is preferable to teaching Nellie how to be a decent human being.

Then there's Jane, whose family is the complete opposite. They live off the land and don't have much money, but Jane prides herself on her ability to make people like her. She even calls it her superpower. Her parents, Ethan and Abigail, have their own highly questionable ways of making money, involving sex and manipulation.

Jackson, Charleigh's best friend, was actually the one character I liked. He's gay but isn't out to anyone except Charleigh, and even he is getting tired of her behavior. I could have done without the graphic sex scene, but that's just me. Other players include Blair, who befriends Jane despite Nellie's objections, and Luke, Jane's secret boyfriend, neither of whom is particularly likable.

So when things start going very wrong, part of my brain was saying, Well, what did you expect?

Blair has an accident that leaves her in a coma. Charleigh is murdered. Her body inconveniently refuses to sink. Luke is set up to take the fall for the murder.

And then...

The End.

I turned a few more pages because I honestly thought there had to be more. There was, but it was a preview of the next book. I don't mind a cliffhanger when I'm invested enough in a story to immediately think, Give me the next book! Unfortunately, my reaction here was more along the lines of, Wait. That's IT?

Part of the problem was that I simply didn't care enough about these characters. I didn't particularly care what happened to Blair. I knew who killed Charleigh and who was responsible for setting up Luke. With the exception of Jackson, I didn't like anyone enough to become invested in what happened to them next.

And that's ultimately what pushed this down to two stars for me.

Cobb did a good job with the multiple POVs, and the characters were distinct and easy to follow. She also wrote the toxic friendships, manipulation, jealousy, wealth, and mean-girl behavior convincingly. If you love books about wealthy people behaving badly and interpersonal drama where nearly everyone has an agenda, you may have a completely different reaction to this one.

For me, though, it was too much drama, too few people I cared about, and not nearly enough payoff at the end. A cliffhanger should leave me desperate for the next book.

This one left me checking to make sure I hadn't accidentally skipped a chapter.

Daggermouth by H.M. Wolfe (Hearts Duology #1)

Murder is not a personality trait. Moving on...

Every month, the Rusty Book Club picks a book for us to read together. Sometimes I discover a new favorite. Sometimes I read something I probably never would have picked up on my own. And sometimes I make it to 35%, close the book, and happily move on with my life. Daggermouth was that book.

Let's start with Greyson. Our hero. Or at least I think he's the hero. He spent so much time letting other people make decisions that I wasn't entirely sure. I kept waiting for him to take charge of...well...anything.

Then there's Shadera. I understand she's supposed to be intimidating, but "likes murder" isn't a personality trait. It's a hobby. I wanted layers, motivation, complexity, something that made her feel like a person instead of a walking crime scene.

And then we have Maximus. Maximus creates a law requiring everyone to wear masks. Fine. Interesting premise. Then his own son gets around it because...loophole.

Oh.

So the law is absolute unless it's inconvenient for the plot. Got it.

The more I read, the more I found myself questioning the logic behind the world instead of getting lost in it. Fantasy asks readers to accept dragons, magic, impossible kingdoms, and all sorts of wonderfully ridiculous things. I'll happily do that. But once the people stop behaving like believable people, you've lost me.

And because apparently I hadn't suffered quite enough, there were sweaty sex scenes that felt about as convincing as everything else. They didn't deepen the characters. They didn't make me care more about the relationships. They mostly made me wonder if everyone involved needed a glass of water and a better editor.

By the 35% mark, I realized I wasn't having fun. I wasn't curious. I wasn't emotionally invested. I was just reading because I felt like I should.

Nope.

One of the best reading lessons I've learned over the years is that life is too short to finish books you're actively avoiding. There are literally thousands of incredible stories waiting on my shelves and my Kindle. Why spend days forcing my way through one that's making me sigh every few pages?

So I DNF'd it. No guilt. No regrets. Just relief.

I wouldn't recommend it. If inconsistent world-building, passive characters, and inexplicable sweaty romance are your thing, you may have a completely different experience. As for me, I'm off to find a book where the characters make sense. And preferably keep their shirts on.

Tourist Season by Brynne Weaver (Cape Carnage #1)

 Cape Carnage: Population is tourists, serial killers, and questionable life choices

I picked up Tourist Season by Brynne Weaver because it was the selection for one of my book clubs. The premise sounded delightfully unhinged: Harper Starling is a serial killer who disposes of bad people with a woodchipper. I'm not saying that's a healthy coping mechanism, but as thriller hooks go, it certainly grabbed my attention.

At first, I thought I was settling in for a darkly humorous thriller. Harper was interesting, the setting was quirky, and Cape Carnage seemed like the kind of place where everyone knows their neighbors and several of those neighbors probably have bodies buried in the backyard. Then Nolan Rhodes arrived.

Nolan is another serial killer who comes to town intending to kill Harper after mistaking her for someone else. Instead of a cat-and-mouse thriller, the story quickly became a dark romance centered on the attraction between two serial killers. If dark romance is your genre, you'll probably understand the appeal much better than I did. Unfortunately, that's where the book started to lose me.

I'm not much of a romance reader, and I'm definitely not the target audience for pages and pages of sweaty bondage sex. Once the clothes started coming off, I found myself skipping ahead. That's never a good sign. By about two-thirds of the way through the book, I realized I wasn't particularly invested in the story anymore.

The biggest issue wasn't that the book was bad. It was that it wasn't the book I expected. I came looking for a thriller and found a romance that happened to feature multiple serial killers. The murders, investigations, and vigilante justice all felt secondary to the relationship.

And speaking of serial killers ... there are a lot of them. Harper and Nolan are only the beginning. By the time additional killers started appearing, I found myself wondering whether Cape Carnage has a larger serial killer population than most major cities.

That said, I can see why this series has found an audience. The writing is engaging, the concept is memorable, and readers who enjoy dark romance will likely have a completely different experience than I did. Harper herself is a fun character, and the opening chapters genuinely hooked me.

In the end, though, this wasn't my kind of thriller because it really wasn't a thriller at all. It was a dark romance wearing a thriller costume.

If you're looking for morally questionable characters, over-the-top situations, and a romance between serial killers, you may have a great time. If you're hoping for a traditional thriller, you might find yourself staring at the final page asking the same question I did:

"What on earth did I just read?"

The Midnight Library by Matt Haig

Woman auditions infinite alternate lives. I wanted her to get a hobby.

First, let me say that this book is so far outside my usual reading habits that I had to create a book journal category called "Wild Card" just to shelve it somewhere. My comfort zone is thrillers, mysteries, serial killers, and people making terrible decisions while being chased by dangerous people. This book is about one woman making terrible decisions while being chased by her own regrets.

Close enough, I suppose.

The story follows Nora Seed, who has reached the point where she believes she has no purpose, no value, and no meaningful place in the world. Her job is gone. Relationships have fallen apart. Even the elderly gentleman she used to help no longer needs her assistance. Then her cat dies. Honestly, it reads like the opening verse of the saddest country song ever written.

After deciding she no longer wants to live, Nora finds herself in the Midnight Library, a strange place between life and death. There she encounters the Book of Regrets, a massive volume containing every choice she wishes she had made differently. It nearly suffocates her.

From there, Nora gets the opportunity to explore alternate versions of her life. What if she had stayed with the boyfriend? What if she had pursued competitive swimming? What if she had become a famous musician? Each life presents a different possibility, and if she finds one she truly loves, she can stay.

Now, this is where my reading experience may have differed from many other readers. A lot of people describe this book as inspiring. Hopeful. Life-affirming. Meanwhile, I spent a large portion of the novel wanting to grab Nora by the shoulders and say:

"Would you please stop doing this to yourself?"

I wasn't discovering the lesson alongside Nora. I felt like I had already figured it out and was waiting for her to catch up. 

The entire book is built around regret. Every road not taken. Every opportunity missed. Every alternate version of success she imagines she should have achieved. But I kept coming back to the same thought: Whose success are we talking about? Her father's? Her mother's? Her friend's? Society's? 

What about Nora's?

The more alternate lives she visited, the more I found myself thinking that she was searching for the wrong answer. She wasn't looking for her purpose. She was looking for proof that someone else's version of success would have made her happy.

Life doesn't work that way. Life is messy. And it's certainly not linear. Everyone has ups and downs. Sometimes those downs are devastating. Sometimes they knock us flat. Sometimes they last far longer than we'd like. But we keep going. That's not because every day is wonderful. It's because our lives matter whether we can see that fact clearly or not.

One of the things I did appreciate was Nora reconnecting with her old school librarian. That felt fitting. Out of all the fantastical elements in the novel, that relationship felt grounded and genuine. It reminded me that sometimes the people who influence our lives most aren't the loudest voices or the biggest successes. Sometimes they're simply the people who showed up when we needed them.

By the end of the book, Nora learns that her life has value and that no alternate existence is perfect. It's a good message. I just arrived there a few hundred pages before she did.

In the end, I didn't dislike The Midnight Library. I appreciated what it was trying to say. I understand why so many readers connect deeply with it. But while Nora spent the novel auditioning alternate universes, I kept wanting to hand her a cup of chamomile and say: "Your cat died. Your job fell apart. You're disappointed in yourself. Fair enough. Now stop shopping for different realities and figure out what you want to do tomorrow."

Maybe that's the thriller reader in me.

Or maybe it's just life experience talking.

The One by John Marrs

Nothing says modern romance quite like mailing your DNA to strangers and hoping for emotional stability.

I just finished The One, and forget about needles ... my new fear is science-sponsored soulmates.

The premise is simple, which is exactly why it is so creepy. A company discovers that your DNA can identify your perfect romantic match. Your soulmate. Your one true love. Your happily ever after, conveniently delivered through a cheek swab and a database.

This book takes the modern obsession with dating apps, compatibility algorithms, personality quizzes, and “the universe meant for us to be together” energy and shoves it straight off a cliff. Because once society decides DNA matching is scientifically accurate, people stop questioning anything. Marriages implode. Relationships disintegrate. People abandon perfectly decent partners because “the science says otherwise.” Entire lives get rearranged because a lab report basically said, “Congratulations, this stranger is now your destiny.”

The crazy thing is it feels believable. Not futuristic-flying-cars believable. More like “I could absolutely see people doing this by next Tuesday” believable.

The real genius of the book is the mind games. Nobody here is a cartoon villain cackling in the shadows. They are regular people with regular insecurities making increasingly horrifying choices because they are desperate to protect their secrets. And EVERYBODY has secrets. Every single character is carrying emotional baggage like the airline stopped charging baggage fees entirely.

Take the serial killer storyline. This book looked at “DNA soulmates” and decided it still needed MORE nightmare fuel. One character is literally running around murdering women because he wants to reach a personal goal number. Not revenge. Not rage. Just… statistics. Like he turned homicide into a fitness tracker achievement. The scariest part is how calm and matter-of-fact he is about it.

The whole book has this unsettling undercurrent about people handing over responsibility for their choices to systems. The DNA company turns love into data. Society worships the results unquestioningly. Characters ignore giant red flags because “The One” is supposedly fate. Meanwhile, basic common sense packs a suitcase and quietly leaves the building.

It raises some genuinely uncomfortable questions:

If science proved someone was your soulmate, would you leave your spouse?
Would people mistake certainty for love?
Do we actually want truth, or do we just want reassurance?

And maybe most importantly:

Should we really be trusting strangers with our DNA when some of us still use “password123”?

By the end, I was equal parts fascinated, horrified, and deeply suspicious of every ancestry test commercial I have ever seen.

This novel had a slow start for me, but I'm giving it four stars for emotional damage. 

In Her Own League by Liz Tomforde

Yes yes, congratulations on the sweating. Anyway, back to the baseball franchise politics.

I am not usually a romance reader. At all. My reading habits generally involve serial killers, conspiracies, missing persons, corrupt officials, or at minimum somebody uncovering dark family secrets in a creepy small town. Romance novels and I tend to look at each other across the room with mutual suspicion. But I actually enjoyed this one. Part of that is because the book has an actual storyline beyond two attractive people staring aggressively at each other for 400 pages.

Reese is the new female owner of the Windy City Warriors MLB team, which means she spends most of the book trying to survive in a world where everyone assumes she is unqualified before she even opens her mouth. She has to constantly prove herself while dealing with players, management, media pressure, and all the lovely sexism that comes with being a woman in charge of a professional baseball franchise.

That immediately gave the story something real to work with.

Then there is Emmett Montgomery, the team’s field manager. Naturally, they hate each other at first because apparently romance novels run on a strict federal enemies-to-lovers requirement. But in this case, the conflict actually made sense. They both care deeply about the team, they clash over leadership and control, and as they slowly start understanding each other, the relationship develops naturally instead of feeling forced. The romance grew out of the story instead of replacing the story.

I also appreciated that Reese felt like an actual competent adult with real pressure on her shoulders rather than a female character whose entire personality is “tiny but stubborn.” She was ambitious, frustrated, determined, and exhausted from constantly having to fight for credibility. Honestly, half the time I was more invested in whether she could survive baseball politics than whether the romance worked out.

Now. We do need to discuss the sweaty elephant in the room.

My opinion on explicit romance scenes remains unchanged. They still do absolutely nothing for me. I skimmed them with the speed and efficiency of someone escaping a burning building. Congratulations to everybody involved, but I would personally like to return to the baseball franchise drama immediately.

That said, even with the scenes I could have done without, I still genuinely liked this book.

I think sports romance works better for me than a lot of romance subgenres because there are actual external stakes involved. There is competition, pressure, career conflict, public image, leadership struggles, and team dynamics. Things are happening besides longing eye contact and emotional spiraling in artisanal coffee shops.

So while I probably will not suddenly transform into a full-time romance reader, In Her Own League definitely proved that if you give me a strong storyline, a capable female lead, and enough workplace chaos, I can be persuaded. Briefly.

The Love Trials by Claire Fraise (Phantom Minds #1)

 Love is pain...but this is ridiculous!

I picked up The Love Trials for my book club reading thinking I was getting a thriller with a paranormal twist. What I got instead was emotional damage, psychological chaos, and a man out here turning relationships into horror games that make therapy look like a luxury spa day.

The setup is simple enough on paper (which is hilarious, because nothing about this book is simple). Serial killers don’t just die and stay gone. Instead, their ghosts come back, possess random everyday people, and keep right on killing until a specialist team can figure out what’s anchoring them to the world.

This particular case involves Morrow, a serial killer who died but clearly did not take “rest in peace” as a suggestion. He had been engaged, got dumped, and apparently decided that was not just a personal tragedy but a full-scale indictment of love itself. So naturally, he starts kidnapping couples and forcing them into “love trials.” And when I say trials, I do not mean trust falls or communication exercises. I mean things like: whichever of you pulls out the most of your own teeth with pliers gets to live. Romance is not dead. It’s just deeply unwell. And yes, it is as horrifying as it sounds.

The thing about this book is that it lives in that very specific space where you know you should probably stop reading, but your brain refuses to cooperate. I kept thinking, okay, I should take a break from this, and then immediately did not take a break from this. It’s a full “one more chapter” situation that somehow turns into half the book disappearing. I read it in two sittings and lost more sleep than I should have.

Strip away the romance, and what you’re left with is a genuinely mind-bending paranormal thriller. The idea that the “killer” is technically a possessed victim adds this uncomfortable moral layer where you’re not just chasing a monster, you’re also trying to save the person trapped by it. The possession element isn’t just a gimmick; it forces you to constantly question what’s real, who’s in control, and how far the team has to go to stop something that keeps changing hosts.

Morrow himself is particularly unsettling because his logic is so human at the core. Rejection, bitterness, and ego twisted into something absolute. His “love trials” aren’t random acts of violence. They’re structured, intentional, and designed to prove that love will fail under pressure. Which makes Nico and Eden’s storyline, once they start being honest with themselves and each other, feel like a long rebuttal to his entire worldview. He says love is fragile; they keep proving it’s stubborn.

And yes, I knew they were going to make it. This is book one in a series (Phantom Minds #1), so I wasn’t exactly clutching my pearls over their survival. But that didn’t make the journey any less intense. The question was never if they would get through it, but what it would cost them to do so.

I’ll admit, I could have done without the steamy scenes. They make sense in the context of targeting couples, but tonally it’s a bit like switching from “existential paranormal horror” to “romance montage” and then back again without warning. Slight whiplash.

Still, I couldn’t put it down. I didn’t want to stop. I just kept reading faster and faster, which is probably not the most rational response to a book involving ghost serial killers and pliers-based relationship tests, but here we are. So yes, it’s a train wreck. A brilliant, horrifying, slightly unhinged train wreck. And I absolutely loved it.

Now I just need book two. Immediately. 

Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir

 A reluctant hero, an unlikely friendship, smart science, and a perfect ending. 

I went into Project Hail Mary fully expecting to love it. I’ve watched The Martian more times than I can count, so I already knew Andy Weir could turn science, survival, and sarcasm into something special. I was not disappointed.

The book opens with Ryland Grace waking up alone, weak, and confused. A computer is taking care of him, and two crewmates lie nearby, both deceased. He has no memory of who he is, where he is, or how he got there. That hooked me immediately.

From there, the story unfolds gradually as his memory returns. First, he remembers being a science teacher. Then a researcher. Then… oh-holy-cow… he’s not even in his own solar system anymore.

The amnesia structure worked incredibly well. Each recovered memory raised the stakes and pulled me deeper into the story. And when Grace finally remembers why he’s there and how he got there, his anger is completely understandable. I was right there with him, thinking some very uncharitable thoughts about the project leadership.

Ryland Grace isn’t your typical hero. He’s a normal guy. He teaches science. He grades papers. He’s reluctant, scared, and honestly not thrilled about saving humanity under those conditions. That made him incredibly relatable. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have volunteered either.

But then we meet Rocky. And suddenly, this story becomes something even better.

Watching Grace and Rocky learn to communicate was fascinating. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t quick, but once they figured it out, they became partners in the truest sense. They weren’t just trying to save one world; they were trying to save two.

Their friendship became the emotional core of the story. They respected each other’s cultures, adapted to each other’s environments, and worked together to solve problem after problem. Grace couldn’t have done this alone. Neither could Rocky.

I also loved the science in this book. It was understandable, engaging, and rooted in problem solving. Define the problem. Try a solution. Reflect. Try again. Watching that process play out made the story feel smart and satisfying rather than overwhelming.

The emotional moments sneak up on you, especially as their friendship grows. They look out for each other, rescue each other, and genuinely care about each other’s survival. I didn’t expect to be so invested, but I absolutely was.

The flashbacks to Earth were just as interesting as the space storyline. They were essential to understanding both the stakes and Grace’s character. Without them, the story wouldn’t have had the same depth. 

And the ending was Perfect.

It surprised me, but in a good way. It didn’t make me emotional, but it left me smiling. Grace has time to figure things out. And after everything he accomplished, I have no doubt that he will.

This was a smart, engaging, and unexpectedly heartfelt science fiction story about friendship, cooperation, and problem solving. I loved every minute of it and I completely understand why it’s being turned into a movie. 

Which I plan to see as soon as possible. 

According to my rather snarky rating system, I am giving this book four out of five stars. It didn't keep me up at night or make me lose sleep, but it was a good, solid read that kept me engaged ... and sometimes even laughing. 

Anatomy of an Alibi by Ashley Elston

 Even the secrets have secrets. 

When I started reading Anatomy of an Alibi by Ashley Elston, I knew pretty quickly that something much deeper was going on. Aubrey says something in the opening chapter that immediately struck me as odd. When someone asks why she orders gin, she says, “I can't order anything else,” like she's not permitted to. That line stuck with me because it felt…off. Not wrong exactly, but like there was more underneath it. Turns out, that instinct was correct.

I realized this was going to be a twisty one when the chapters started moving back and forth between Before the Alibi, The Alibi, and After the Alibi. Timeline jumps always make my brain pause for a moment (or ten), so I actually made notes while reading to keep track of who was doing what and why. It slowed me down a little, but it helped me keep the growing pile of secrets organized. And there were a lot of secrets.

Aubrey and Camille make a deal that benefits them both. Aubrey wants to find out who really killed her parents, and Camille wants out of her marriage. On the surface, their arrangement seems mutually beneficial. But of course, both women have their own private motives they’re not sharing. And it’s all fun and games until somebody gets killed and the secrets start tripping over each other.

I’ll admit, I didn’t trust Aubrey at first. She’s perfectly comfortable pretending to be someone else for a day and then uses part of that time to visit someone in prison. That felt shadier than an old oak tree to me.

As the story unfolds, each timeline reveals another piece of the puzzle but not enough to give away the answer. I spent a good portion of the book arguing with myself:

She couldn’t have done it because…
But he couldn’t have because…
Unless they did it together…?
No, that doesn’t work either…

You get the picture. The mystery kept shifting just enough that I was never confident in any theory for very long. When the truth finally came out, the rug was successfully pulled out from under me.

And the ending was very satisfying. Let’s just say there’s a bit of justice outside the system, which is always something I appreciate in a thriller.

One lingering thought I had through all of this: Isn’t divorce easier? Sure, it’s expensive, you will exit with less than you entered, but compared to all the planning, manipulation, and general subversion happening here, it feels like the more time-efficient option.

Why should you read this book? Because it raises a question that sits quietly underneath the entire story:

Do we ever really know the people we think we know?

Readers who strongly dislike timeline jumps or multiple points of view might struggle with this one. But honestly, the effort was worth it. All those moving pieces eventually come together in a way that makes the whole puzzle snap into place. Or at least… it seems like it does. Because with this story, you can’t help wondering if there might still be one more secret hiding somewhere.

The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides

 "I may never see a therapist again." - Me, after reading this book

I just finished The Silent Patient, and I have one thing to say: Rude. Not the writing. Not the plot. Not even the twist. Just… rude. Because I did not see that coming. Not even a little bit. Not a whisper. Not a suspicious eyebrow twitch. Completely blindsided.

Here’s the thing: I’ve read a decent number of psychological thrillers. I know the tricks. I look for the unreliable narrator. I question timelines. I am suspicious of everyone. And this book still managed to calmly rearrange my brain furniture while I stood there holding a throw pillow.

The structure is what makes it so effective. We’ve got Theo, the therapist, guiding us through sessions with Alicia, the woman who shot her husband (five times!) and then stopped speaking. We also get Alicia’s diary entries, which feel intimate and revealing. Between the two perspectives, you feel grounded. You feel informed. You feel smart.

You are being played.

The book plays fair, which is what makes it even more impressive. The clues are there. Subtle. Quiet. Hiding in plain sight while we’re busy analyzing Alicia, trying to “solve” her. Meanwhile, the real story is unfolding right in front of us.

Theo goes from calm, analytical, compassionate professional to… well. Let’s just say my trust issues have been activated. I spent the whole book sitting comfortably in those therapy sessions, nodding along like, “Yes, very insightful.” Sir. You were not insightful. You were spiraling. You said, "Trust the process," and then weaponized the process.

What I appreciate most is that the twist doesn’t feel random or desperate. It recontextualizes everything. It’s the kind of ending that makes you mentally flip back through earlier chapters, realizing you were expertly manipulated. 

This is one of those rare thrillers that makes you question not just the characters, but your own reading instincts. It reminds you that sometimes the most dangerous perspective is the one you trust the most.

Real-life therapists are safe.
Fictional narrators? I will now be evaluating all of them.

Blue Smoke by Nora Roberts

 Turns out when Nora Roberts dials down the spice and lights a fire, I’m all in.

I don’t usually reach for Nora Roberts. Too much spice and not enough plot, at least for me. Truth be told, I reached for it because the Rusty Book Club is having a January challenge: To read a book with a blue cover. I figure a title with the word blue in it has to have a blue cover. 

Blue Smoke surprised me, and I genuinely enjoyed it. Catarina Hale (Reena, if you’re family or friend) is a cop, a firefighter, and an arson investigator, and she’s tops at all three. Fire isn’t just part of her job; it’s practically a character in her life. Her family's pizzeria burned when she was a child, two former boyfriends died in fires, and danger seems to circle her whether she wants it to or not. Still, Reena doesn’t need rescuing. She’s competent, tough, and emotionally grounded, exactly the kind of strong female lead I’m always rooting for.

Then there’s Bowen Goodnight. Bo had a wild streak once, but the death of a friend forced him to grow up. Now he’s built a solid life and runs his own business. He’s not whiny, not needy, and not looking for someone to fix him. He is searching for “Dream Girl,” a woman he glimpsed for seconds at a party and never forgot. It takes a while, but when these two finally collide, it feels earned. (That part of the story created suspense on its own.)

As Reena investigates a series of fires, anonymous calls begin, and it becomes clear that someone is targeting her and the people she loves. That’s where the book really hooked me. I’ll admit I skimmed the sex scenes to get back to the mystery, careful not to skip too far and miss something important. The suspense and character work were what kept me turning pages.

Blue Smoke is a romantic suspense that actually leans into the suspense. If all of Nora Roberts books were like this, I'd read more of them! Strong characters, a solid mystery, and just enough romance (scannable if needed) to keep the story moving. Strip away the extra heat, and what’s left is a smart, suspenseful story that kept me reading for the right reasons.

The Women by Kristen Hannah

Vietnam was never forgotten. History just forgot 

The Women.

I had no idea The Women was going to make me cry like it did. I expected emotion, this is about Vietnam, after all, but I did not expect the kind of deep, bone-level grief that sneaks up on you and refuses to let go.

I have family who served in various wars, including Vietnam. My Steven is a veteran who fought in Grenada, an often forgotten conflict. He has scars, both physical and mental. My surviving uncle served in Vietnam and is still not healthy, mentally or physically. He won’t talk about it. He drinks until he’s black-out drunk. The Fourth of July has never been a happy day for him, even after all these years. So yes, I knew this book would hit close to home. I just didn’t know how relentlessly it would do so.

Frankie begins the story young, naïve, and idealistic, just like so many of the men and women who volunteered to serve. They wanted to make a difference. They wanted to do something meaningful. And none of them had any idea what they were walking into. Frankie is baptized by fire the moment she hits the ground, immediately thrown into a mass-casualty situation with no real preparation and no idea what to expect, having already been lied to by recruiters before she ever arrived. 

I knew women were there in Vietnam. Women were permitted (yes, permitted) to serve in non-combat roles. Nursing, though, looks an awful lot like combat when you’re surrounded by blood, trauma, and constant loss. Hannah pulls no punches in depicting what combat nurses saw, what they treated, and what they carried home with them long after the war ended.

Frankie’s homecoming hit me the hardest. Being spit on. Ridiculed. Screamed at. Isolated even by her own father. All because she was an idealistic young woman who followed orders and served her country. The most unsettling part is that none of this felt exaggerated. The entire book could have been non-fiction, because everything depicted actually happened. What’s even more disturbing is how few effective treatments existed for those young men and women when they came home. They self-medicated and spiraled. They were told to forget about it and move on. My uncle still lives that reality.

The book reinforced what I already know to be true: PTSD is real, and dismissing it doesn’t make it go away. Frankie endures trauma from every direction: Losing her brother, losing her idealism, losing love, witnessing unimaginable suffering, losing a pregnancy. And yet she survives. Not because she’s untouched, but because strength often shows up when people feel the most broken.

The friendships between the women were lifelines. They were the only ones who truly understood what the others had seen, and sometimes survival depends entirely on being believed. The emotional weight of this book is overwhelming at times but that’s the point. Women were there. And when they came home, they were ignored, erased, and told to get over it.

But trauma doesn’t work that way. You don’t “get over it.” You learn how to live with it so it hopefully doesn’t rule your life.

I would absolutely recommend The Women, but with a warning label. If you’re a trauma survivor, this book will hit triggers. Even if you’re not, have a box of Kleenex nearby. There is a hopeful ending, you just have to walk through the hurt to get there.

And honestly, that's about as true to life as it gets. 

Dire Bound by Sable Sorensen

Equal parts ‘what did I just read?’ and ‘fine, one more chapter'.

Dire Bound by Sable Sorensen is one of those books that makes you pause mid-chapter and think, I can’t believe this exists… and then immediately keep reading. Hands down, this is the strangest book I've ever read. It’s like Disney collided with Greek and Roman mythology, took a sharp turn into adult-only territory, and never looked back. We’ve got a rigid social hierarchy (Alphas, Betas, Gammas), a desperate, down-on-her-luck heroine, a prince who rides in looking heroic and turns out to be… complicated, and forest animals with magical powers just wandering around. All of this like it's totally normal.

I rolled my eyes more than once and freely skipped the steamy scenes, but I’ll admit the story worked. It had that irresistible train-wreck quality. I didn’t want to keep watching, but I absolutely couldn’t look away. Every time I thought, okay, this is too much, something else happened that dragged me further in.

By the end, it felt less like Disney and more like Alice in Wonderland. I fell down the rabbit hole and had to keep going just to see how strange it would get. Not a favorite, not something I’d usually pick up, not something I'd recommend, but undeniably compelling in a what on earth did I just read kind of way. And with that, January's Rusty Book Club pick is now in the books. No pun intended.

The Lion Women of Tehran by Marjan Kamali

Becoming a lion woman means risking everything. Staying quiet costs more than we admit.

Some books tell a story; others hold up a mirror and ask uncomfortable questions. The Lion Women of Tehran by Marjan Kamali does both, weaving real historical events into the lives of fictional women who feel anything but imagined. At its heart, this is a story about friendship, specifically Ellie and Homa, but it’s also about class, politics, womanhood, and the long shadow of the choices we make when we’re young.

The novel opens with Ellie in 1980s New York City, where she is keenly aware of appearances. The city feels like a place where you must look like you belong, and Ellie believes that means looking wealthy. That instinct doesn’t come out of nowhere. Her mother raised her to believe that appearances matter above almost everything else. In New York, that lesson sticks. Ellie doesn’t just want to fit in. She feels she must 'perform' belonging.

Kamali’s portrayal of Tehran during Ellie and Homa’s childhood resists romanticizing the city. Tehran is shown as a real place, with wealthy neighborhoods and poor ones, privilege and hardship existing side by side. Ellie grows up in affluence until her father’s death; Homa grows up with less material comfort. And yet Homa’s upbringing feels warmer, steadier, and more grounded. Ellie’s mother is perpetually dissatisfied: Complaining, posturing, and confiding her bitterness to her daughter far too early. Homa’s home, by contrast, feels lived-in and emotionally secure. The irony is hard to miss.

Ellie’s mother’s obsession with the evil eye is another way she explains the inexplicable. Humans have always invented systems (gods, myths, superstitions, etc.) to explain suffering. For Ellie’s mother, the evil eye becomes a convenient explanation for misfortune and, perhaps more importantly, a way to avoid responsibility. Bad things didn’t happen because of bad choices; they happened because someone wished them harm. That belief shapes Ellie in quieter but lasting ways, instilling in her an anxiety that good actions might somehow invite punishment.

Ellie spends much of her childhood idealizing her late father, placing him safely on a pedestal. Later, when her mother reveals his infidelity, that image cracks. Ellie is forced to reconcile the loving father she knew with a deeply flawed man. With that knowledge comes understanding. Her mother’s bitterness, her unhappiness, and even her willingness to marry her husband’s brother after his death begin to make sense. Divorce was not an option. Survival was. The revelation doesn’t absolve anyone, but it reframes everything.

As Ellie grows older, class consciousness tightens its grip. By the time she attends an upscale school in a wealthier neighborhood, she begins acting as though she belongs to that world and distancing herself from Homa. It’s painful to watch. Ellie is embarrassed by her oldest friend, and once again, her mother’s influence looms large. Respectability, status, and safety matter more than loyalty.

Politics, however, refuse to stay in the background. They are everywhere in this book, shaping choices, limiting futures, and determining who gets to speak and who must stay silent. In many ways, politics function as a character themselves. This is not just the story of two girls; it’s the story of Iranian women fighting, then and now, for autonomy, rights, and visibility. Homa engages with politics head-on. Ellie, cushioned by privilege, is more inclined not to rock the boat. And as the novel shows, fortune often favors those who already have it.

The idea of becoming “lion women” runs through the book like a quiet dare. To me, lion women are the ones who roar: The activists, the risk-takers, the women who refuse to shrink themselves to survive. Homa understands this instinctively. Ellie understands it intellectually, but struggles to live it. That tension feels painfully real because the truth is, women everywhere are still expected to be lion women. There is still a glass ceiling. It still needs to shatter. And stories like this remind us what it costs, personally and politically, when we choose silence over courage.

The Lion Women of Tehran is thoughtful, layered, and quietly powerful. It lingers not because of what it says loudly, but because of what it asks us to examine about ourselves.

The ManiScripts Book Club pick for the January meeting.

Ready for the New Year

I started setting up my book journal for next year. So far, I have my rating system and genre pages all set. 

The Houseguest by L. H. Stacey

Enjoyable enough, but the secret tunnels deserved more screen time.

 

After finishing The Houseguest by L. H. Stacey, I had to do a little internet research to figure out exactly who the “house guest” was supposed to be. Honestly, it could apply to multiple people. The title wasn’t as obvious to me as it probably should’ve been.

From page one, I admit I was judging Madelaine’s decisions. She’s worried about moving into Liam’s house with her little girl, her gut is screaming don’t do it, and… she does it anyway. Predictably, it turns into an almost fatal mistake. Liam gave me psychopath vibes from the start, so even after Maddie finally left, I knew he’d be back.

One thing I really liked was the house itself. Secret tunnels, hidden doors, all the classic Gothic suspense décor. I kept waiting for Liam to start creeping through the walls like some deranged Scooby-Doo villain, but nope. Since this is book one in Stacey’s “House of Secrets” series, maybe she’s saving that for the sequel.

Where the book lost me a little was in its formula: bad guy shows up, girl lands in danger, girl runs for help, good guy swoops in, cue the happily-ever-after. It’s basically the skeleton of a Harlequin Intrigue novel, complete with unnecessary sex scenes. (Yes, I skipped them. Zero contribution to the plot.) The romance was flat-out predictable, but the suspense at least kept me turning the pages.

My final verdict is four out of five stars. It didn’t break the mold, but I still liked it. And I might even check out book two if only to see those secret tunnels finally get the screen time they deserve, ideally without Captain Obvious holding the flashlight.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

A master class in ambition…taught by someone you’d never want as a friend

 

This novel is the next ManiScripts book club read. We're meeting in September to discuss the book, so I found some book club questions to answer ahead of time. If you've been following my blog at all, you know I am more murder and mayhem than romance and flowers, putting this novel outside my usual genres. I did enjoy it however. Even though I didn’t like Evelyn Hugo. At all. 

Evelyn Hugo glamorous and fascinating, but peel back the glitter, and you’ve got a woman who manipulates everyone within a ten-mile radius until the very last breath. That includes journalist Monique, who thought she was getting the scoop of a lifetime and ended up with a one-way ticket to Trauma Town.

The husbands are introduced with little monikers: Poor Ernie Diaz, Goddamn Don Adler, Disappointing Max Girard. Honestly, they read like Evelyn’s Yelp reviews of her own marriages. Ernie was a stepping stone out of poverty. Don was the charming abuser. She set Max up to be a disappointment and he didn’t bother proving her wrong. The only one who came out looking decent was Agreeable Robert Jamison, who was willing to do anything to protect his sister’s happiness. He was a rare honorable character in this novel, and frankly, too good for Evelyn. And so was Harry.

Harry Cameron was my favorite. Brilliant, kindhearted, and tortured Harry. He loved Evelyn as much as anyone could possibly love Evelyn, which is to say, with compromise and quiet suffering. A gay man in a time when being himself could have destroyed his career, Harry broke my heart. He was her true partner, and she still found ways to use him when it suited her.

Monique, meanwhile, started off as a drifter, letting life push her in whichever direction it wanted. Then along comes Evelyn with her “let me teach you how to bulldoze your way through life” routine. By the end, Monique is sharper, bolder, and a little more manipulative, because if Evelyn Hugo left you with anything, it was a lesson in how to play people. I’m still not sure that qualifies as personal growth, but it definitely counts as a crash course in ambition.

And let’s not forget the phrase Monique coins: to “Evelyn Hugo” someone. It should be in the dictionary. Definition: to manipulate people like pawns on a chessboard while acting like you’re doing them a favor. Ugh.

Surprisingly, I did trust Evelyn as a narrator. She was blunt about her worst moments, sometimes almost bragging about them. She didn’t sugarcoat her ruthlessness, and she didn’t seem to see much point in lying at that stage of her life. If anything, her candor made her even less likable, but at least she was consistent.

The fake news clippings sprinkled throughout were a fun touch, and they drove home just how much Evelyn controlled her own image. Every scandal was staged, every headline manipulated. She would have been a TikTok queen today, and I’d still roll my eyes at her.

Evelyn’s attitude toward love and sex was shaped early on, when she learned that sex was currency. She spent it like Monopoly money, and it left her with a warped sense of intimacy. As for her moral compass, it basically boiled down to “if you’re fine in the end, then I don’t have to feel guilty.” By that logic, she probably thought Ernie should send her a thank-you note.

I did not like Evelyn Hugo even a little. She’s selfish, manipulative, and exhausting. By the time I closed the book, I was less dazzled by her gowns and more impressed that anyone stayed friends with her at all. The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo is juicy historical fiction wrapped in sequins and scandal, but Evelyn herself is a cautionary tale in high heels.

The Lost Bookshop by Evie Woods

Books have always been my way of both learning about the world and escaping from it. When I was young, they were a lifeline from an unbearable reality; now they’re my stress relief, the way others might turn to movies or TV. This made me connect immediately with Opaline, whose love of books guided every choice she made.

The story surprised me more than once. I half‑expected Armand to be behind the worst of it, so I was shocked to see just how cruel Lyndon turned out to be. Having Opaline committed, and then lying about her baby, was unconscionable. The asylum scenes were the hardest to read, not because they were unrealistic, but because they rang so true to how women have been treated throughout history.

The book blends magical realism with a strong feminist undercurrent. The enchanted bookshop felt like a quiet promise that anything was possible, that these women could overcome abuse, control, and societal expectations to find their own way. Opaline’s trousers may seem like a small act of rebellion, but in her time it was a bold statement of agency.

The male characters are a mixed bag. Armand dripping with contempt, Lyndon a tyrant, Henry casually undermining Martha (though I’m certain she’d set him straight). It underscores how little has truly changed: women now have legal rights our grandmothers could only dream of, but we still fight for equal pay, equal power, and simple respect.

Some lines lingered long after I closed the book:

• “What is something you create, even if you do nothing? The answer was a choice.”

• “Being a woman was akin to a performance… I knew how I was supposed to act and what I was supposed to say, but I wasn’t exactly sure if I wanted to.”

The author handled heavy topics like domestic violence, war, addiction with honesty, and I admit I was perfectly fine watching Shane take a tumble down the stairs. (Women have been coached forever to say, “I fell,” right?)

Even the cracks spreading across the basement walls of 12 Ha’Penny Lane felt purposeful, like Martha herself, growing, branching out, refusing to be contained.

This is a book about belief, resilience, and refusing to be silenced. The magical bookshop doesn’t appear to everyone, only to those open to change and willing to grow. I loved that.

This book left me hoping that someday our society will move further toward true equality, that women will finally have the full autonomy we deserve as thoughtful, intelligent human beings. The Lost Bookshop may be fiction, but its themes are painfully real, and its magic is a reminder that change begins with believing it’s possible.

The Boyfriend by Freida McFadden

 

The latest pick for my book club (The Mani-Scripts—we bonded over manicures and manic reading habits), The Boyfriend by Freida McFadden was an absolute win. I’ve read The Teacher, so I already knew McFadden could spin a thriller like nobody’s business, but this one had me second-guessing myself all the way to 2 a.m.

What I love about McFadden is that she doesn’t throw in fifty characters and expect me to keep track of them like some twisted literary Sudoku. She keeps the cast manageable and just shady enough to make everyone seem guilty.

Sydney, our main character, is single and bravely online dating, which is kind of like volunteering to get food poisoning repeatedly but with more ghosting and awkward coffee. She meets Tom, who’s either a sweetheart with a childhood crush or a future Netflix documentary subject. I wasn’t sure. Then we’ve got Slug, Tom’s creepy-crawly-loving friend. If someone’s stalking you and keeps a pet cockroach, you’re allowed to suspect them. I don’t make the rules.

Daisy and Allison are classic frenemies with secrets. Gretchen, the other girlfriend-turned-bestie, is shady with a capital S. And then there’s Randy the Super, who might be a peeping Tom, actual Tom, or Slug in disguise. Jake, Sydney’s ex-boyfriend detective, rounds out the cast with a broody side order of regret.

I suspected every single one of them at some point. Freida McFadden played me like a fiddle, and I loved every twisty second. I had no idea where it was going, but I absolutely needed to find out, even if it meant losing sleep.

Highly recommend to psychological thriller lovers who like their stories fast, twisty, and filled with red herrings. This one gets a solid 5 out of 5 from me.

I was thinking...

...Did you smell smoke? 

Lately, I realized I need a way to tell the difference between the books I’m reading for pure fun and the ones I’m reading for my book club. (Yes, I’m in a book club. Yes, it’s fantastic. Yes, there’s sweets involved.)

So I’ve decided to separate them the only way that makes sense to my slightly chaotic brain: fonts.

Book club reads? They get a clean, respectable sans serif font. Something like Arial or Verdana—neat, serious, maybe just a little too eager to be taken seriously. Like someone who irons their jeans.

 (That's a nod to my big brother, who reads just as much as I do - only non-fiction. And really does iron his blue jeans.)

Books I’m reading just for me? They’re in a loose, scribbly font that looks almost like handwriting. The kind of font that feels like it might spill tea and gossip with you. Casual. Relaxed. Possibly a little unhinged. Just like the way I read them.

Because if I’m going to obsessively categorize my reading habits, I’m going to do it with style.