S.J. Tilly lives in Minnesota with her husband and their herd of boxers. She spends an unhealthy amount of time with her face buried in books, reading and writing. If she’s not nose deep in text, or harassing her dogs, she’s probably playing with her plants, pretending she knows how to garden.
“Want me to tell you why I call you that?” I ask her.
Cassandra nods.
“Because you remind me of one. Beautiful. Mesmerizing. Too fragile for this awful world. A pretty little butterfly I can’t help but want to protect.”