Lark excavated a notebook from under the sheaf of sheet music. “What’s this? Some kind of handwritten lyrics—” Clearing my throat, I pried it away, my hands protectively curled around the worn pages. “That’s private.” “Oh. Sorry. Do you sing, too?” “No.” My reply was too firm, too quick. She frowned as I clutched the notebook,
Good lord this chick is insufferable
