Page 17 of Iris Kelly Doesn't Date

Shit.

She actually had to do this.

She took a few deep breaths, observing the woman as she let Stefania, Sexy Wonder-Thespian, seep into her bones. The redhead was white, her skin so pale it looked nearly blue underneath the dim lighting. She had little braids plaited throughout her long hair, freckles over much of her face. She wore a cropped green sweater and tight jeans, but only about an inch of her stomach was showing. Stevie started to feel self-conscious about her shirt again but forced herself back into character.

Stefania wasn’t self-conscious.

Stefania was a queer marvel.

A gift to sapphics everywhere.

A genius in bed.

A—

“You’re doing that thing again, aren’t you?” Ren asked.

Stevie blinked her reality back into focus. “Huh?”

“You’re pretending you’re someone else.” Ren narrowed their eyes.

“I’m... I’m just doing a little mental exercise to boost my courage,” Stevie said. She knew it was weird, trying to become a fictional character off the stage, but it worked for her. Besides, her namewasStefania. Shewasan actor. “Do you want me to go hit on that woman or not?”

Ren presented their hands in surrender. “Fine. Do what you gotta do, I guess.”

Stevie frowned at Ren’s disapproving tone, but she shook it off. She needed this. Needed a night free of being... well, herself.

She cleared her throat. Fiddled with her fringe. She took a deep, calming breath. She took one step toward the redhead and froze.

Because the redhead was already walking across the room, her eyes fixed on Stevie.

CHAPTER FIVE

SIMON WAS BEINGa terrible wingman. On the phone, he’d failed to mention that Iris had in fact woken him up and, while he’d dutifully gotten dressed, and Emery hadn’t complained when Simon left them in their bed to come out to a queer club with Iris—Emery knew Iris well enough by now to think nothing of it—Simon was less than energetic once they’d arrived at Lush.

Luckily, Iris didn’t need much help finding someone she liked.

“Okay, one o’clock,” she said. “The person with the shaggy curls and plaid pants.”

“Lovely,” Simon said, yawning.

“Jesus, Simon, seriously?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been up late the past week working on my book, and—”

“Oh, you poorNew York Timesbestseller.”

Simon had written a book a few years ago,The Remembrances, that had done extremely well, earning him enough to write full-time and be an insufferable, if loveable, ass about it. He’d finally turned in his second novel to his editor—a year after the first one debuted—and he was currently hard at work on his third. Bisexual himself, his stories were chock-full of queer characters, and Iris, despite her general disdain for literary fiction, really loved his writing.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s going horribly,” he said.

“A bit,” she said, grinning. “And same.”

“Still no ideas?” he asked.

“Nothing I’d pull off a shelf. I think I spent all the romance from my past relationships on my first book. I’ve got nothing, feel nothing. Maybe I should write horror.”

“Okay, calm down,” Simon said. “You’regoodat romance. Your writing is funny and sexy and emotional. You just need... I don’t know. Have you considered going on an actual date? Getting some real romance into the mix?”