A stolen latte results in a meet-cute for the ages in this brand-new edition, with bonus content, of New York Times bestselling author Lynn Painter’s rom-com Accidentally Amy.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Lynn Painter’s Accidentally Amy, which is out January 14th!
Isabella Shay is usually a very honest person. But when she’s running late for her first day at her dream job and the barista yells for “Amy” three times with no answer, she does the unthinkable.
Izzy takes that PSL.
It’s the exact drink she ordered and paid for, only way further ahead in the queue—and she’ll take whatever bad karma is coming for her; she’s desperate and very late. But when she turns around and runs directly into the most attractive man she’s ever seen, spilling the drink all over his made-for-GQ shirt and tie, she ends up having the ultimate meet-cute. Karma who? Sparks fly and things feel beyond promising, until he says to her: “See you tomorrow, Amy.”
Izzy reasons she can just straighten things out the next day, no biggie. Only when she gets to her new office and meets the VP of her department, it is none other than Blake Phillips—the hottie from Starbucks. And the man might’ve been charming to “Amy,” but he is an arrogant grump to Izzy, an arrogant grump who does not find her explanation funny at all. But day by day, an attraction simmers between them and they’ll have to find a way to work together without ripping each other’s heads—or clothes—off.
I hitched the tote bag over my shoulder and headed for the elevators, feeling downright giddy over the way my first day was going so far. I’d spent all morning with my team, shadowing the HR generalist whose position I was filling, and it’d been—no joke—fun.
Seriously.
Everyone in the department seemed to get along, the work appeared to be challenging but not too stressful, and I actually had an (incredibly small) office with my name on the door.
And yes, I had already taken multiple photos.
In addition to that little nugget of fantasticality, Incite Fitness—the city’s hottest health club—was located on the twelfth floor of the building next door, and Ellis employees were able to use it for free. For. Free. So I’d just run three miles on the treadmill, showered, and brushed my teeth, which left me more than ready for part two of my amazing day.
As I walked down the hall, the elevator doors started to close. “Wait!” I yelled, just in case someone was listening and wanted to be nice. I expected nothing, so when a hand reached out and stopped the doors, I very nearly squealed with delight.
Could the day get any better?
“Thank you,” I sang as I ran over and hopped into the elevator.
“No problem,” the person inside said. “What fl—”
“Oh. My. God.” I stared at the guy and couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Mr. Chest from Scooter’s. In my elevator. I think my mouth was once again hanging open in his presence as I breathlessly managed to form the words “It’s you.”
He was still wearing his fancy suit, but the tips of his hair were wet, like he’d just showered, and I could smell his soap. He looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see him, but then his mouth turned up into one of those toe-curling, genuinely happy smiles that always bumped an exceptionally handsome man right up to a work of art. He said in that ridiculously deep voice, “Talk about your small world.”
The elevator doors slid closed, and he gestured with his thumb to the floor buttons.
“Oh. Yeah. Lobby, please,” I said, even though I was so shocked I could barely remember how to language. All morning, I’d been forcing myself not to think about Mr. Chest, be- cause not only did I need to focus on the new job, but also there was no way in hell a Scooter’s meet-cute would ever pan out into something real.
But now, here he was.
Dun-dun-duuuun.
“So, um,” he said. “Do you work around here, or do you belong to this gym?”
“I was working out because—” I started, but then he nodded and cut me off.
“Okay, I don’t normally do this sort of thing, but someone’s going to get on this elevator any minute now, so I have to talk fast.”
His expression was purposeful and intense, but his mouth was relaxed, like he was enjoying our encounter. I watched the numbers light up on the display over the doors as we descended.
Eleven, ten, nine . . .
Please don’t stop, please don’t stop.
“I know we’re strangers,” he said, his eyes so focused on me that I fought the urge to fix my hair or fidget with my lip gloss. “But—”
Eight, seven, six . . .
Talk faster before someone gets on! “I can’t stop thinking about—” Five, four, three . . .
I reached out and hit the emergency button behind him.
The elevator car jolted to a halt, which made Mr. Chest stop talking as I stumbled closer to him. Did I really just do that? I watched his eyes narrow a fraction, and a wrinkle appeared be- tween his brows.
“No, no—I’m not stopping for creepy reasons,” I said quickly, shaking my head and putting up my hands. “This isn’t a bunny- boiling, Silence of the Lambs situation, where I’m trying to have my way with you in an elevator or something. It’s just that I—”
“Fatal Attraction,” he interrupted.
“What?”
“The bunny boiling was in Fatal Attraction,” he repeated, and the wrinkle of concern disappeared as his mouth twitched. “Oh, right,” I agreed with a nod. “Well, this isn’t that situation, either. I just really want to hear what you have to say with- out reaching the ground floor first. That’s all this little stoppage
is about, I promise.”
“What I have to say . . .” He stepped a little closer, but not in an intimidating way. It was more . . . intimate. It reminded me of the way Darcy said, Mr. Wickham? and stepped closer to Elizabeth during his rain proposal in the hand-flex version of Pride and Prejudice. I kind of wondered if I was going to faint dead away for the first time in my life as he put his hands in the pockets of his suit pants and said, “Is— I have meetings all afternoon, but can I please call you later?”
Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.
“On the telephone?” I said. “Like a psycho?”
“Well, I’m shit with emojis,” he said, looking half-serious and a little boyish.
“Send a lot of accidental eggplants?” “No,” he said with a laugh.
“Use the same tired cry-laughing smiley for everything, like a total wank?”
“Is that a wank thing to do?” “Absolutely, it is.”
“Well, then, um, yes.” His eyes were on mine as he said, “But honestly, all wankiness aside—”
“Wankitude,” I corrected. “Or is it wankery? Wanktasticality?”
“Wankiness,” he repeated, shutting down my babbles. “All wankiness aside, I rather like hearing the voice of the person I’m talking to.”
Excerpted from ACCIDENTALLY AMY by Lynn Painter, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2025
