Happy Sunday, mis internet amigxs!

I don't think I can keep this going weekly, but I'm feeling so hyped up about all this amazing Latine news this start of Latinx Heritage Month that I decided to summarize all the Latine Excellence I've seen this week for you, in case you missed it. This also inspired me for our November Book Club poll.

I made a video about it last week, but our very own March Bien Leidos selection, Now I Surrender by Alvaro Enrigue and translated by Natasha Wimmer was longlisted for the National Book Award for Translated Literature

Dominican writer Julian Randall was longlisted for the National Book Awards in Young People's Literature for Shook--this is a middle grade novel in verse about a young boy who is following in his father and uncle's footsteps to become a basketball player, only to find himself injured and dealing with anxiety. I loved Julian's Pilar Ramirez series and can't wait to dig into this one!

NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FICTION LONGLIST

There were THREE Latine books longlisted for the National Book Award for Fiction! Before I tell you about them, I wanted to mention that there has been significant discussion online about the absence of Kin by Tayari Jones. I've been trying to find a more cogent explanation of this phenomenon, but basically, there are forces at play that keep books by Black authors, women in particularly, off of awards lists--the phenomenon of the "One Great Black Author" as well as systems seeing as "Too much success for Black women writers" that keeps committee members from voting for these books to be included on the list because they've been awarded "too many" other awards already. Of course, I always want us to strive for more Latine representation, but also understand that the same structural racism that keeps Black authors off huge awards list as the National Book Awards. We can see amazing Latinx representation this year and also acknowledge where there are momentous gaps for other marginalized groups.

I ordered a copy of Kin so I could read it before the end of the year and hope you'll consider reading and supporting it, as well.

I'm planning on reading all 3 of these Latine titles ahead of the National Book Award and since we don't have a November book picked yet, I thought we'd read one together. Check out the poll at the end of this post to select our November read!

Dèy by Edwidge Danticat (Audiobook) Taking place in Haiti, Miami, and Brooklyn, a woman whose sense of self and family are called into question when she gets caught in a random act of violence one sunny Florida day.

Beginning Middle End by Valeria Luiselli (Audiobook) From the author of Lost Children Archive comes a story of a mother and daughter starting anew in Siciliy and a road trip about 4 generations of women.

Pretend You're Dead and I Carry You by Julian Delgado Lopera (Audiobook) Set in Colombia's queer underground scene--this story follows Ignacio and his daughter Valentina. Valentina wants answers to her mother's death and Ignacio is depressed and betrayed. Alternating between present day and the past, we begin to uncover more of what happened.

LATINE BOOK ADAPTATION NEWS!

How Not To Drown In A Glass of Water by Angie Cruz is being made into a movie with Angie writing the screenplay!! I know this was just announced, but I'm already SO, SO excited!

Chapter 11

Icarus shut the front door so hard the glass rattled in its pane, his footsteps boomed like captive thunder storming up the stairs. With a roar, he began to throw open drawers and cabinets and boxes until he found everything he could on his father’s case, on Dáire or Eilonwy or whoever they might actually be. He leaned into reception and snarled at Edith.

“I want everything we ever took from Eilonwy on this case. Every scrap of information you remember, write it down!” He punctuated his misplaced rage with a slam of his office door. 

He paused long enough to pour himself a generous drink and then began the labor of staring at scattered files, adding page after page of the Callahan murders to them. They were connected, he knew it, he could feel it. A thread of comprehension lay just outside his reach, but it was there and when he found it he would pull it so hard it would unravel the world. His whole life since he took the damned collar from those wretched priests had just been layered over and over with lies and half-truths about his father, keeping whatever the connection might be from him. He was sick of it, sick of being lied to. 

He wanted to know where his father was. He wanted to know who Eilonwy was, since it was abundantly clear she was not a Callahan. 

And who, Icarus raged to himself, the fuck is Dáire?

Maren didn’t knock, he would not have heard her over the cacophony of his own thoughts anyway. Movement caught his attention and he met her cool, level gaze. He tensed, expecting her to scold him or tell him to calm himself. Instead, she dropped some handwritten notes into his flurry of paperwork and dragged the other chair closer. 

“We knew something was wrong,” she whispered almost too quietly for him to hear. “You said so, I said so. And we let it go. We ignored our instincts.”

“And what are your instincts telling you now, Mare?” He took a long drink and slumped into the empty seat alongside her. She didn’t even chide him for the indiscretion of his too-early whiskey this time.

She shuffled some of her notes around, tucked them under other papers. There was no rhyme or reason to it, her hands didn’t want to stay still, “That Reed is reaching a point in his stories where he can no longer keep us in the dark.”

Icarus scowled and turned his glower to the window. He nodded and emptied his glass, “I’d say that’s the only true fucking thing about any of this.”

They sat in silence for a long time. The sun faded—darkness seeped into the room diffused by the frosted window glass, chasing the light out with its descent. Neither of them rose to turn on the lamps. Edith rapped on the door and opened it slowly. Icarus met her intrusion with a grunt—not an apology, but the making of one settled into the furrowed lines of his face. He looked at her, then the sheaf of paper she handed to him. 

“Everything I might remember,” she spoke hastily, cowed by his undeserved ire. “Should… should I stay longer, sirs?”

Icarus reached for the papers and took them with a heavy sigh. He tossed them on his desk and shook his head, a tired hand running over his face, “No. No, Edith, you’re alright. Get home. Be safe.” She turned to go until he lifted a hand to stop her, “I’m sorry, it’s not your fault. Forgive an angry old man his idiocy?”

The older woman’s face twisted into a wry smile and she sighed, a maternal scolding in the making, “Icarus Ulrich, you are anything but an old man. It’s all our mistake, love. We bear responsibility as a team, not one man. Oíche mhaith, then.”

She gave him a tight-lipped smile and the intractable fist of guilt let him go with a wave of relief. He nodded, she returned it, and her hand found the switch before she shut the door. In the amber light of wall sconces, he watched his shadow stretch long over the faded green carpet. 

“This rug is hideous,” he muttered, Maren hummed her inattentive agreement. He turned to her and set his glass down hard, the sound drew her attention to him, “What say we pay an evening visit to an old friend? I’d love to know who the fuck The Inquisitor is.”

**

He was no fool, much as the Church might disagree. It would be a declaration of war to cross the Church threshold this evening—at least by the means he intended to do it. Icarus tossed his copy of the Pale Doctrine in a small satchel, considered his situation, and tossed in a second along with a spare silver knife—another strapped inconspicuously to his left forearm tucked into his long, black sleeve. The one in his boot, however, was steel made to fight with if it came to it. He shrugged the baldric over his shoulder and adjusted the weight of his sword across his back. His long wool coat covered the scabbard, but the hilt was impossible to hide. 

Good, he mused, tying his overlong hair in a haphazard knot at the crown of his head and swearing he would have it cut back. Let them know I mean to be answered one way or another.

Maren waited in reception, idly leaning on Edith’s desk. The layered belts cinched around her waist sagged under the weight of whatever magic salts she decided would help, a copy of the Pale Doctrine somewhere on her person he had no line of sight to. She looked nearly the same as she always did before an exorcism save for two things: the mean-looking longknife tight against her thigh and the double-barrel shotgun looped over her shoulder. 

He raised a brow at the firearm. They were rare, but not entirely unheard of. Between netherism, her salt magic, and that knife, though, he felt compelled to ask about the gun. He motioned with his chin. 

“A precaution.” She said nothing more about it and because it was her, he was satisfied.

He led the way down the stairs—tugging on gloves, holding the door, and locking the office behind him. Something about the night hanging overhead felt different. The sky was holding its infinite, blackened breath while it watched them. Whatever was happening was about to change and the fates swirling around them had no answers for what that meant. He could feel it in the chill of the air, the way the breeze could not decide to come or go, and in the otherworldly crackle of magic dancing at the edges of his skin. 

With one last look back at their darkened office, he turned up his coat collar and started towards the Church.

***

In his head, Icarus had imagined dramatically kicking open Reed’s office door and splintering the frame. He would snarl and shout and give an impassioned speech about lies and the Church and corruption. Now, standing in a nearly-empty hall of administrators shuffling files back and forth amid rows of desks and identical oil lamps, it felt a bit too dramatic even for his liking. 

“Nothing takes the wind out of your sails like a bit of paperwork,” he muttered to Maren, uneasy. They moved along the sparsely populated desks, the mundane happenings in the face of his righteous fury felt like a threat in their own way. For the first time all evening, he felt the tug of doubt at this plan.

“You can’t bring weapons into the house of the Pale God,” one of the younger priests sighted them. He stood, rigid and wide eyed. 

Maren shrugged and swung the shotgun so its stock landed in her hand. She waited—patient, still, unyielding—a predator tracking potential prey. The young man stepped to the side and out of their path. When she was satisfied, she motioned to Icarus to proceed. She didn’t  bother to give the young man a second glance when they strode past him toward the managerial offices. 

When the door slammed into the wall, Reed exclaimed, his chair scraped the floor and nearly sent him toppling over it. He stood too quickly and stumbled, catching himself on the wainscotting. It took a moment to register his unwelcome, aggressive visitors. A hand flew to his chest and pressed out an exhale of relief like air from a bellows. 

“Icarus! Pale Sons and Daughters, you scared the life out-,” he stopped, tracking the look of them both when they stepped into the dimly lit room. The threat was obvious. He adjusted his tone, face falling into something darker, and a warning filled the undertone of his words, “What on the Pale Lord’s sanctified ground of this Holy Church are you doing, Father Ulrich?”

It was always Father Ulrich when Icarus was standing at the precipice of trouble with Reed. He sneered resentfully at the formality, “Sanctified ground? That’s where we are, then? Could’ve fooled me.”

Maren shut the door and leaned back against its frame, shotgun cradled in the crook of her arm. Reed glanced at it, then her, his frown giving way to fear, “Icarus, what are you doing? What is this?”

“Have a seat, Father,” he gestured at the man’s chair and waited. 

“Icarus-”

“I said to have a fucking seat.” He snapped. Reed eased himself down into his chair, careful to keep his eye on Icarus. Icarus sat across from him and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “I think it’s time we have a conversation.”

“What-”

“An honest one, preferably. Provided you’re even capable anymore,” he scowled, posture rounded and coiled with the urge to lash out. “Where is my father, Reed?”

“I don’t-”

“Where is my father, Reed?”

“You read-”

“Where is my father, Reed?”

A long, tight silence wound in the air between them and both men stared at each other, history after history playing out behind their eyes. A lifetime of mentorship, friendship even, boiling away under the heat of whatever the Church had kept from Icarus using Reed’s mouth to do it. 

The older priest took a slow breath through his nose and broke the thread, looking down at weathered hands interlaced on his desk. He had the heaviness of a man weighing his heart against a feather around him. Another agonized exhale took his posture with it and he slumped. Icarus, unfortunately, gave no ground in his fury. 

“At this point, I truly can say I do not know,” Reed raised tired eyes to meet his and fought the urge to wince at the fire he found there. “But I know he isn’t dead. It’s the best I can tell you.”

“Not good enough,” Icarus leaned on that feeling in his gut—the constant writhing knowledge something was only half-true that he had ignored, labeled as unearned suspicion for much too long.

Reed tightened his lips and leaned back, “There was chatter. A secret entrust from the Cardinal. Rumors he was to make contact with the Tuatha de Dannan across the Veil. He never told me anything himself, all I’ve got are rumors.”

Despite his tenacity, Icarus balked, “The Tuatha-. Across the Veil?!”

Reed nodded.

“Mortals can’t cross the Veil,” Icarus knit his brows together and leaned back, straightening. He studied Reed’s face. It dawned on him with an incredulous laugh, “Pale fucking Sons and Daugthers. You’re a score of fucking liars.” He leaned back, legs splayed, head shaking in disbelief, “There’s a way across the Veil and you cunts decided to lie about it so, what? You can keep people safe?”

The derision in his words drew a sharp look from Reed, “The Church has an obligation to stop anything coming through a tear in the Veil. We must guard it, stop people from crossing through.”

“Control what crosses through,” Maren corrected. Her voice hung in the air like the tone of a bell.

“This is bigger than either of you,” Reed hissed. Whatever airs he had at camaraderie or familiarity fell away, “I owe no divulgence of the Church’s greatest threats nor am I obliged to justify the actions of our Holy Orders to a pair of estranged priests who turned their faces from the Pale God to take up heretical magic.”

“A pair you’re happy to call on when it suits you and lie to when it doesn’t,” Icarus barked back. He got to his feet and paced briefly before jamming a finger towards him, “I ask you one more time, Reed. Where is my cunting father?!”

Reed stared up at him with a defiant anger Icarus had never been on the receiving end of before. If Reed knew anything, he had no plans to tell him. Icarus took another pacing lap and leaned against the edge of the desk. In conversation with himself, he nodded. 

“This place is a fucking stain. A mockery of the Pale God and the sacrifice of His Son,” he cut Reed’s attempted interruption off with a glance. “You sit here in this building preaching virtue and charity and truth in one hand while lying to everyone, hoarding Pale God knows what, and spinning me in circles with the other. A fucking mockery indeed. This is no holy house of the Lord. This is an abscess of secrets and lies and darkness. An infection. A rot in the binding of every copy of the Pale Doctrine that leaves its halls.”

Icarus stood tall. The distance between them was a chasm now and he had no intention of finding a way across it. Not anymore, not when everything he had trusted about Reed evaporated in a moment. 

“If Daedalus is alive,” Reed exhaled, “I do not know what’s become of him. Whoever kept communion with him has not heard from the man in years.”

That writhing in Icarus’s gut stilled—confirmation, a truth. Finally, a damned truth. At least enough of one, anyway.

“How many?” Maren interrupted. Reed startled as if he forgot she was there. She waited, then repeated her question, “Has not heard from him in how many years?”

If Reed could strike her down with a look, he was trying hard enough that it should have worked. He held his breath for a moment and glanced at her lazily held shotgun, “Five.”

Icarus rubbed his eyes. He wished dearly it had been surprise he felt, but it was not. Instead, a hollow, aching anger bordering on resignation filled his chest, “May the Stygian Lord drag your soul into shadows where the Pale God’s light can never touch.”

Reed crossed himself, “Icarus Ulrich you’ll not curse me in such a manner and invite the Stygian Lord into this place!”

“The real miracle of this fucking Church with its foundation of lies,” Icarus snarled, “is that he isn’t personally walking the halls of it already.”

There was more to ask, more to know, but Icarus couldn’t  stand it anymore. Static buzzed in his head, veins pulsed hard along his neck, his nails dug into the meat of his palms in an attempt to channel the urge to hit something. He couldn’t be here anymore—the atmosphere was too thin, his coat was too hot. Fuck answers, he needed to leave. 

He shook his head and tried to breathe through it, “Whatever you’re doing, whatever my father is doing? I will figure it out. And I will put a fucking stop to it.”

“And side with the fae?! With demons?!” Reed barked, “We work to purge them from our realm and are trying to keep anything dangerous crossing the Veil and you threaten to stop us?! Have you turned your back on the Pale God so far you would seek to make an enemy of His Church?”

Icarus turned—slow, methodical, controlled. He held Reed’s outraged stare in his, cold and storming. He seemed taller somehow, his shadow reaching higher up the wall. The image would sear into Reed’s mind and be difficult to shake, he found himself shrinking away from the former priest when the shimmering outline of feathers stretched out behind the silhouette of Icarus’s shoulders. In a blink, it was gone.

“I have never turned my back on the Pale God. Nor will I ever. His word is peace. It has always been peace. Truth, charity, love. These are all His words that live in me and through me by His grace. He saves me from the Rot brought on by the magic He allows me to reach for and do His work,” Icarus paused long enough to let the admonition hang, “I have not turned from Him. But you may want to ask yourself if you have.”

With finality, Icarus turned for the door and Maren stepped aside so he could leave. She lingered, though, and watched the old priest a while longer. Reed eventually set his sights on her and his expression softened into pity. 

“Maren,” he whispered, “you do not have to go down this path with him. You can stop him from whatever foolhardiness he intends to try. Save him from himself. Save you from himself.”

She considered him for a long time, then tilted her head in curiosity, “Oh, Father. I’m the one who made this path in the first place. I’ve just been waiting for him to follow.”

Nothing left to say, she disappeared and closed the door behind her.

Icarus needed to escape the heat boiling him alive in his own skin. He stalked down the row of desks and administrative priests pressed themselves out of his path as if they could feel what he felt—he was a furnace moving too close and they would burn if they could not get out of the way. He burst through the front doors and was greeted by a pleasant shower of cold midwinter rain. Standing on the steps, he turned his face into it with a sigh. It cooled his skin, his hair, his fury. 

Everything was breaking underneath him. Five years—not fifteen. If he wanted answers, if he wanted more, he would not get them from the Church. Frustratingly, he was starting to wonder if he would get them from the fae. Or, perhaps, something worse. 

He raised his hand and pulled the tab collar free from his throat. His fingers worked, turning it over, memorizing its weight and shape. He looked down and studied the simple white thing resting in his palm. It represented everything he had believed in about this place once, who he had been, who he thought he would become. All of it was so far away he could hardly reconcile who he was now with who that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed new exorcist was. 

The door closed behind him and Maren appeared at his side, staring down the amber-lit street and watching the raindrops flashing in the gaslight like tumbling fireflies. Icarus opened his hand and let the collar fall. It made no sound when it hit the stone. Maren reached for her own and tossed it behind her. It was symbolic anyway, she had made her peace with the loss of the Church a long time ago and wore it out of habit now. 

They watched the silent midnight street for a long time. When the rain began to ease back, Icarus had made his decision. 

“You said there’s lower chambers in the Church?” She nodded. He looked at her, resolute, “Then let’s find a way to them, shall we?”

Here we go for a quick weekly reading update and recap on what we've put away this week during my Indie September Sprint! I've been trying to read through more of my indies and I fear I have too many things on my plate that may prevent me from realizing success, but it's not going to stop me!

Anyway, let's begin.

What Blood Remembers by C. William Phillips

Full disclosure, Will is a close personal friend of mine and I love the guy a lot. He originally asked me to read this MONTHS ago before we were very close and in September I knew he had to be near the top of my list with this book.

When I tell you I was floored by this book. I never see indie thrillers and this was my first one, but now I don't think I can read any more ever. This was so good. I would put his prose in the same group as S.A. Cosby's. The story was fraught and panic-inducing, brilliantly paced, and breathless. He wrote villains you can understand, even if you don't agree with them. He also wrote heroes who were nothing heroic and a complex relationship between a young man and his father that ironed out on a road trip for revenge. This was a thriller about loss and connection and what we will do for the people we love.

I think this is a book I'm going to encourage folks to read much more often. It was nothing like what I expected in the most fun, wonderful way.

Child of the Night Guild by Andy Peloquin

Another very close, personal friend of mine! Andy is one of the most wonderful human beings I've ever met in the books space. So imagine my confusion when he decided to personally attack me with this book. Wow. What a freaking BOOK. I didn't expect this at all. The writing style, the structure, the pacing, the voice, the characters? This was so strong and so good I couldn't stop. I finished it in two days. I literally forewent my daily Malazan chapter to keep pulling apart this one.

I was engrossed completely in this grim, dark world he created where the Night Guild runs the streets and Ilana must figure out how to be of use to them or die trying. It was brutal and ruthless, but clear eyed and thoughtful. It showed the way tragedy shapes a young person and the full weight of a bitter world as it crushes someone under its foot. I cried, DM'd him about how mad I was, and then immediately began book two.

Thief of the Night Guild by Andy Peloquin

Which brings me to Book 2 of Queen of Thieves. This follow up was spectacular, it lost none of its momentum and gave me so much more of the intricacies of Ilana. It gut punched me from the outset and never let up. I held my breath, I gasped, I feared for everyone who appeared on the page, and I never once had a moment I felt lulled or could skip. Everything mattered. This is a heist book and a breathtaking adventure book and a corrupt guild politics book and a book about a woman who will survive no matter the costs. And yes, I finished it in two days.

He Who Ate The Wild by G.J. Terral

If ever there was a love letter to Princess Mononoke, this is that book. But it's also much, much more than that. While Terral has so much imagery from that movie, he also has his own story and his own beauty that he infuses so strikingly into this book. It's about Ku and his coming of age under the mantel of grief and loss, his otherness and how he is set apart from the people he desperately wants to be close to. Terral takes the landscape he created and brings it to life with effervescent language and a raw, brutal perspective on grief that I rarely get to see anywhere. As someone who recently lost a parent, this bit into pieces of me in the best possible way. I felt seen by the way he weaves a tapestry of loss and what happens to the people who are left behind in its wake.

Permutations by Jessica Coronado

I can't say I've ever sat down to read a hard sci-fi book in the indie space, but this one really got to me. Coronado built a deft, twisting story that relied on plausible science while working in philosophy, religion, and history in a way I really loved. This book made me settle under my blanket and use my brain more than I have in a while. Her explanations of theories and schools of philosophical thought were done smartly and accessibly while still continuing to trust the intellect of her readers. I watched Aiden grow while he was thrust into universe after universe in this philosophy heavy version of Dark Matter that took the journey of multiverse theory and quantum physics inward to the main character instead of outward into a story about action.

I had moments where I needed to think about it and found myself internally arguing with the philosophy or perspective, but that is the hallmark of a well communicated argument. As someone who deeply enjoys science fiction that makes me work for it, I appreciated this book a lot more than I expected to.

______________

I had a much slower reading week with a few projects coming to a head that I've hunkered down with and, honestly, I have been buried in my phone more than usual lately. I have a lot on my mind and a ton of things waking me up in the middle of the night, which makes it hard to concentrate on reading like I want to. But that's okay! I talk all the time about how fine it is to have a slight slump and, while not ideal, all of our TBRs are made up and we can take as long as we want to go through them.

Transparently, I'm working through the beta read suggestions on my completed manuscript, I'm finishing the last four chapters of my second book, I'm apartment shopping, I'm in the gym 4 days a week, I have friends I make plans with and love, I'm working through a paid writing project I hit the halfway mark on, I have a full time job, and I'm currently talking to some folks in the publishing world about some major opportunities.

I have a lot of things on my plate and I can feel myself rebelling as I sit down to read in favor of a moment of TV or catching up on an anime I want to rewatch or something—and that's alright. Life is a tide that ebbs and flows in a hundred directions. Right now, it's ebbing around my ability to sit and read. Tomorrow, that could change.

Morning book buddies!

Sending this a little late after a lie-in. I'm feeling poorly today, so I'll keep this brief.

Before we get to the books, let me tell you about last night. My guy's childhood best friend invited us to see his brother's band, The Sixties Show, down in Costa Mesa last night. It was SO FUN, and I highly recommend you go if they ever tour in your area. They played a variety of hits from the 60's, all note-for-note. 10/10 recommend.

Now for the books! I finished Stations by Louise Kennedy and have been in a reading slump ever since. It's absolutely perfect!!! If you've ever loved someone who struggled with addiction and unresolved trauma, this is the book for you. It's very character-driven and more of a stream-of-consciousness style narrative, but I think it's one of the most beautiful books I've ever read. Stay tuned for a very personal review. 5⭐️s

I also finished The Little Shop of Merry and Bright, and while it wasn't my favorite Bayliss, it definitely scratched the holiday reading itch. I loved the play on Dickens and the throwback to one of my favorite films: Mannequin. Overall, it was a cozy revenge/reclamation story that's perfect for holiday season reading. 4⭐️s

I didn't start either of the books you voted for (a tie between An Infinite Love Story & The Birthing Tree). Instead, I started two other audiobooks and can't seem to find the time to finish either. Someone on Youtube recommended The Liar's Club, a memoir by Mary Karr. I'm still early in, but I think I get why they recommended it. It's as if Meg from The Calamity Club wrote a memoir. 😳 I also started Almost Life, a sapphic love story set in the 1970s. It's giving Before Sunrise vibes, and I'm really enjoying it!

The Hacienda is super fun, but rather than finish that today, I think I'm going to do a 6-hour reading marathon and focus on my next Let's Go to the Library book. Hint: the theme is A Book Set in the 1930s, and you'll NEVER guess what I'm reading. You'll have to stay tuned to YouTube to find out.

ICYMI:

• The BBFL is currently voting on a book featuring Italian American stories in honor of Italian American Heritage and Culture month in October; go join & vote!

• Best (and Worst) of Q2 2026 + a few Mid-Year Freak Out Tag prompts

• A fun read that all perimenopausal women will enjoy

• Perfect for Fall: The Story Keeper by Kelly Rimmer

• A series of mini-reviews featuring several past-due ARC reads

• I'm a victim of peer pressure 😜

• My nomination for Book of the Year

Hear It Here First:

My next YouTube video goes into detail about why I'm quitting NetGalley; stay tuned for that!

My 10 Before the End will be going live across all platforms, and I will need your help staying accountable this year.

Watch for a fun survey that I hope you'll help me with!

A great giveaway is coming to Facebook, so be sure you're following me there. 🙌🏻

Ok friends, gotta go start my pot of read beans and settle in with my new library book.

Happy Reading!

xoxo

c