Listen. I was minding my business, scrolling through the usual chaos of my feed —when suddenly, BAM! There it was. This book. With reviews. Actual reviews. Not just lazy five-star button smashing, but people writing words with their hands about this thing. Naturally, I thought: What the hell is going on here? So I clicked. I read. And now I'm writing this from the floor because the deviled egg has claimed my sanity 😂
Apparently, the "horny devils of Bookstagram and BookTok" have united in unholy thirst, and they want this. They want it bad.
I peeked at the author's bio, expecting the usual “I love coffee and long walks through fictional trauma” thing—but no. NO. This woman said, “We are DONE explaining ourselves,” built an entire literary universe out of that principle, and basically said: Let the chaos reign and let the chair do the work. Excuse me??? 😂
So I did what any curious, possibly possessed reader would do. I buckled in, took a deep breath, and let Wilde take the wheel. Y'all. This book? Unhinged. Hilarious. Absurd. I laughed so hard I scared myself 😂 I'll never look at eggs or chive without my mind going perverted 😂 😆
Do I usually read these kinds of stories? No. I like my fictional men tattooed, morally grey, emotionally unavailable until the third act, and preferably capable of brooding on cliffs. Bonus if he has a tragic past and the blood of his enemies on his hands.
At one point, he put her on his shoulder and I literally paused like: WHERE IS A SHOULDER ON AN EGG? I screamed. I wheezed. I will never recover.
So no, this might not be my jam—but damn it, I respect the hustle. Don't yuck someone else's yum, especially when that yum has a sense of humor.