A Book A Week

First comes love.

Luc and Oliver have come a long way in their relationship. When we first met them in Boyfriend Material, the pair were fake-dating in an effort to save Luc's job. Spoiler alert: they actually fell in love. Sure, Luc had to reconcile with his son-of-a-rock-star, caution-to-the-wind tendencies, while Oliver worked through the emotional baggage left behind by years of overbearing parents. But together, they made it work.

Then comes marriage.

When we last saw the couple in Husband Material, they were grappling with what comes next. They'd already gotten their happily-ever-after, so marriage seemed like the logical next step. Of course, nothing is ever straightforward with these two. The novel ended on a note that divided readers, even if it felt like a natural progression for Luc and Oliver's relationship.

Then comes...

What exactly comes after that?

With Father Material, Alexis Hall returns to the beloved couple once more, and as the title not-so-subtly suggests, Luc and Oliver are beginning to think about expanding their family. It's a question that starts creeping into many people's lives in their thirties. Friends get married. Babies arrive. Suddenly, the idea of children of your own no longer feels hypothetical.

For Luc and Oliver, however, the prospect of parenthood feels more than a little daunting. A child is a huge responsibility, and neither is entirely convinced they're ready for that step. So they start smaller. Much smaller. They bring home a puppy. After all, if they can keep a dog alive, happy, and reasonably well-adjusted, how much harder can a child really be?

I can't say enough great things about this series. Seriously, for someone who generally shies away from romance as a genre, I've become completely enamored with the characters that Alexis Hall has created. Not just Luc and Oliver, but the entire supporting cast as well. They all feel authentically human, navigating the emotional highs and lows of life in a way that feels far more grounded than what I've typically encountered in the genre.

Father Material brings their story to a natural and satisfying conclusion. Luc and Oliver still face challenges, and Hall continues to balance those conflicts with the sharp humor and quick wit that have become hallmarks of the series. But what struck me most was realizing just how much these characters have grown over the course of three books. The people we meet in Boyfriend Material are not the same people we leave here, and watching that evolution unfold has been a real joy.

Hall once again balances humor with genuine emotional insight, creating a story that is funny, heartfelt, and full of compassion. The epilogue landed exactly the way I wanted it to, offering one last visit with characters I've come to care about immensely. By the final page, I wasn't ready to say goodbye, which is perhaps the highest compliment I can give a series.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2026, 47)

I love it when an author can transport you to a specific place and time. That's exactly what Caitlin Mullen accomplished with her debut novel, Please See Us. Set in a struggling Atlantic City, the book captured a seaside town filled with the faded promise of glamour and reinvention, making it the backdrop for a dark, slow-burning suspense story that completely pulled me in. By the time I finished, I was left with that rare post-book euphoria that only comes from discovering an author whose voice resonates with you. Naturally, I was eager to see what Mullen would do next.

That opportunity has finally arrived with Heather, her sophomore novel. This time, she trades the neon glow and crumbling casinos of Atlantic City for the dense wilderness of the New Jersey Pine Barrens. The setting may be different, but Mullen's gift for atmosphere remains intact. From the very first pages, she creates a sense of place so vivid that it feels as though you're wandering through the story yourself, and she wraps that atmosphere around another suspenseful tale that hooked me from the start.

It’s 1994, and sixteen-year-old Annabelle has just discovered that her twin sister, Sabrina, is having an affair with an older man. At first, she’s stunned. The sisters have always been inseparable, sharing secrets and navigating adolescence side by side. How could Sabrina keep something this significant from her?

But shock soon gives way to curiosity. Who is this mysterious man? What does he want with Sabrina? And why has her sister become so secretive? As Annabelle begins searching for answers, the unthinkable happens. Both girls disappear.

Years later, in the same New Jersey town, newly appointed police chief Callie Hauser is determined to prove herself. She’s spent her entire career trying to step out from under the shadow of her family’s reputation—particularly her mother's—and is eager to lead the department into a new era. But when an arrest unexpectedly reopens questions surrounding the decades-old disappearance of the twins, Callie finds herself pulled into a mystery many people would rather leave buried. The deeper she digs, the more unsettling the answers become. Long-held assumptions begin to crumble, loyalties are tested, and Callie is forced to confront uncomfortable questions about the town she serves and the people she trusts.

Caitlin Mullen's gift for pairing atmospheric settings with multigenerational mystery is on full display in Heather. She transports readers to this isolated corner of the New Jersey Pine Barrens, where the dense woods become a character in their own right. Hidden among the trees are secrets that span generations, connecting women whose lives are separated by decades yet bound together in unexpected ways.

Mullen alternates between past and present timelines, carefully peeling back layers of the mystery and revealing the truth piece by piece. The novel reminded me a bit of Liz Moore's The God of the Woods. Like that book, Heather is dark, meticulously plotted, and interested in much more than simply solving a crime. It explores family, womanhood, inherited trauma, and the ways in which the past continues to shape the present long after we think we've left it behind. While I ultimately connected a bit more with Mullen's debut, Heather is nevertheless a compelling and richly written mystery. It's the kind of novel that slowly tightens its grip until you're fully immersed in its world, eager to uncover each secret hidden among the trees.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2026, 46)

Kathryn Stockett made waves when her debut novel, The Help, was released in 2009. The book became a publishing phenomenon, spending more than 100 weeks on bestseller lists before being adapted into an acclaimed film. But as the dust settled, a broader conversation emerged about the novel's perspective and Stockett's place in telling a story centered on the experiences of Black women during the Civil Rights era. Looking back on my own reading of the novel, I can see that I was largely swept up in its page-turning narrative and didn't spend much time considering those questions myself.

Controversy aside, The Help was undeniably a cultural force. That's why I was surprised when the years passed without another novel from Stockett. One year became five, then ten, and eventually fifteen. Now, after one of the longest gaps between a bestselling debut and a sophomore novel that I can recall, Stockett has returned with The Calamity Club. This time, she largely sidesteps the racial themes that defined the conversation around her first book, instead turning her attention to a girls' orphanage struggling to survive on the eve of the Great Depression.

The novel alternates between two primary perspectives. The first belongs to eleven-year-old Meg, one of the "big girls" at the Lafayette County Orphan Asylum. Meg is smart—perhaps a little too smart for her own good. She knows that older girls rarely get adopted, and she suspects that's why Garnett Pittman, the woman who runs the orphanage, seems to take particular pleasure in making her life miserable. According to Pittman, there’s no future for a girl like Meg. Instead, she spends her days confined to a sweltering, mold-infested office, counting down the years until she's old enough to leave and take a job at the local cannery.

Marion Crane is on the run, carrying stolen cash and desperate for a place to stay the night. She finds refuge at the isolated Bates Motel, where she meets the proprietor, Norman Bates—a handsome, if somewhat awkward, young man who seems unusually attached to his mother. After sharing a late-night sandwich with him, Marion retires to her room and turns on the shower.

She steps beneath the spray. The sound of falling water fills the room. Then, through the translucent curtain, a shadow begins to take shape.

The screech of violins and the scrape of shower rings on metal explode across the soundtrack as the curtain is pulled back, revealing a knife-wielding figure. Marion's confusion gives way to terror. She screams. The scene descends into a frenzy of flashing blades, splashing water, and chaos. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends. The killer slips away. Marion lies dead in the tub, water pouring from the showerhead as blood swirls down the drain.

It's one of the most iconic scenes in film history, a sequence that shocked audiences upon release and continues to influence horror storytelling more than sixty years later.

But what if Marion didn't die? What if, in those frantic moments, she fought back—and won? What if Norman Bates ended up dead on the bathroom floor instead?

That's the irresistible premise at the heart of Marion, in which author Leah Rowan reimagines one of cinema's most famous moments and follows the ripple effects of a story that suddenly takes a very different path. The moment I heard that setup, I knew I had to read it.

With Marion, Leah Rowan modernizes the original story and gives agency to a character who was largely powerless in Psycho. Here, Marion hasn't stolen money simply to run away with a lover. Instead, she's taken funds from the advertising agency where she works in a desperate attempt to help her sister escape an abusive relationship. It's a change that immediately reframes the character and makes her motivations feel more urgent and sympathetic.

And yes, Marion fights back.

What follows after that pivotal moment is a twisting chain of violence, secrets, and revelations that kept me completely riveted. Rowan takes a story whose ending feels predetermined and makes it unpredictable again. The novel moves quickly, embraces its pulpy roots, and never loses sight of the tension that made Hitchcock's original film so memorable.

Most importantly, Marion herself is a fantastic protagonist. She's sharp, resourceful, and determined in ways the original story never allowed her to be. The result is a clever reimagining that honors its source material while confidently carving out its own identity. Fast-paced, suspenseful, and enormously entertaining, Marion is the kind of book that's easy to devour in a weekend and a perfect addition to any summer reading list.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2026, 44)

Ryan O'Connell is probably best known for his TV work on shows like Queer as Folk and Special. I've never seen his shows, so my first introduction to O'Connell came when I read his debut novel, Just by Looking at Him, a couple of years ago. Only after reading and learning a bit more about the author did I realize that much of that story mirrored aspects of his own life. 

Like the protagonist of that novel, O’Connell is a gay man living with Cerebral Palsy. He's been candid about his struggles with addiction, self-worth, and navigating the world with a disability. His writing blends sharp humor, vulnerability, and a willingness to engage with darker subjects without ever losing sight of just how absurd life can be. It made Just by Looking at Him a standout read and left me eager to explore more of his work. That opportunity has finally arrived with Inspiration Porn, a collection of autobiographical essays that promises the same honesty, wit, and unflinching self-examination that made his fiction so compelling.

Much of the first half of the book centers on O’Connell’s past. He writes about parents who fell out of love, a mother struggling with addiction, and a father who was off chasing the life he had always wanted—a life that, at least initially, didn’t seem to include his family. Amid all of this, O’Connell was grappling with being both disabled and gay. Through his trademark humor, he often frames it as if the universe had singled him out for an especially cruel joke. Couldn’t he have been just one of those things?

It should come as little surprise, then, that he eventually found himself struggling with addiction as well. Throughout those difficult years, writing became a refuge. On the page, writing for blogs and then TV, he found a place where he could be honest about who he was. It became a source of freedom, connection, and self-acceptance.

While much of this first section was compelling, it also felt like stories I'd heard before. It was in the second half of the collection that O’Connell truly took us into something different. There’s a universal experience many queer people can relate to. So much of our formative years are spent coming to terms with our sexuality that we don’t always get the chance to fully embrace it. I think about the occasional pang of jealousy I feel when I see queer teenagers going to prom together. I'm thankful that the world has evolved enough for them to feel safe doing this, but it's an opportunity that simply wasn’t available to me.

O’Connell explores a similar feeling after meeting his longtime partner, Jonathan. Just as he begins settling into a committed relationship, he’s struck by the fear that he may have missed out on an entire chapter of his life. It’s a kind of FOMO of sexual exploration. In true Ryan O’Connell fashion, he tackles that anxiety with equal parts humor and honesty, chronicling the decision to open his relationship and the resulting adventures in what he calls his "Slut Diaries."

As many laughs as there are in this portion of the book, it would be easy to overlook its deeper exploration of boundaries—of desire, emotional well-being, physical limitations, and, most importantly, the strength of a long-term partnership. Throughout it all, O’Connell maintains the balance of humor, chaos, vulnerability, and authenticity that makes his voice so distinctive. His life may look very different from that of many readers, but the emotions driving these essays are universal. The longing for connection, the fear of missing out, the struggle to accept ourselves, and the desire to be truly seen transcend the specifics of O'Connell's story. Inspiration Porn is the work of a writer willing to venture into uncomfortable territory—for himself and for his readers—and the result is a book that will have you buckled with laughter in one moment and deep in contemplation the next. 

For more information, visit Amazon and Goodreads. 

(2026, 43)

Last year, a coworker recommended Hildur Knútsdóttir’s The Night Guest, and I devoured it in a single sitting. I loved the tightly wound suspense, even if the ambiguous ending left me with more questions than answers. Despite some unevenness, the novel intrigued me enough that I knew I’d give Knútsdóttir another shot. That opportunity came with her newest release, Dead Weight, kindly provided to me by the publisher.

Unnur has built a life that is, on the surface, perfectly comfortable. She throws herself into her work in pursuit of a promotion and spends her free time traveling with her boyfriend, who also happens to be married. It’s unconventional and undeniably lonely, but it’s a life she’s convinced herself is enough.

That fragile routine begins to unravel when she discovers a black cat sitting on her couch.

At first, Unnur brushes it off as a strange inconvenience, shooing the cat from her apartment. But when it returns the next day, she tracks down its owner, a troubled young woman named Ásta, who asks Unnur to care for the cat temporarily while she gets her life together.

What follows is the beginning of an uneasy and increasingly complicated friendship. Ásta’s situation proves far more dangerous than Unnur initially realizes, and like the black cat that wandered into her home, darker omens begin to follow close behind. Before long, Unnur finds herself caught between Ásta and her abusive boyfriend, forced to confront just how far she’s willing to go to protect someone else and herself. 

With Dead Weight, Hildur Knútsdóttir delivers another quick, twisted little tale that quietly lulls readers into a false sense of security before pulling the rug out from under them. At first, the story feels almost deceptively ordinary, and I found myself wondering where exactly it was headed. Then suddenly, the darkness I’d come to expect from Knútsdóttir’s writing crashes into the narrative with full force.

Content warnings for domestic violence and abuse are absolutely warranted, and some moments are genuinely unsettling. Even so, I was glued to the story, unable to stop turning pages as the tension escalated.

And yet, once again, I found myself conflicted by the ending. The climax itself is dark and unsettling, but there’s very little aftermath to the events that unfold. Instead, the story seems to simply stop, cutting away just as I wanted to sit with the consequences of everything that had happened. There’s a brief epilogue that offers a little more context, but if anything, it only raises additional questions. Ultimately, that ambiguity left me feeling torn. I admire Knútsdóttir’s ability to create atmosphere and unease in such a compact space, but I can’t help wishing the novel had given just a bit more resolution to match the intensity of the journey getting there.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2026, 42)