An antique dealer and his inconvenient(ly irresistible) new colleague must contend with an illicit stuffed goose and their sizzling attraction, from USA Today bestselling author Sarah Adler.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Wild Goose Chase by Sarah Adler, which releases on July 28th 2026.
Antique store owner Callahan Leitner has an illegal taxidermy goose in his living room.
Why? It’s…complicated.
But it may end his career unless he finds a legitimate way to dispose of the bird ASAP. Except, there’s an unexpected wrench in his plans—the frustrating, effervescent Annie O’Neill.
Annie is happy to fill in for her uncle at his antique store; it’s the perfect opportunity to gain more experience before opening a shop of her own, plus she’ll finally meet his handsome young business partner. Unfortunately, Cal is nothing like the charming man she expected. She’s tempted to take his apparent dislike personally, until she stumbles upon the source of his moodiness: the contraband waterfowl hidden upstairs.
When the goose goes missing, both of their professional reputations are on the line. As Cal and Annie attempt to track down the bird before it can be traced back to the store, their tentative alliance turns into something much deeper. Will the hunt for their felonious fowl lead to true love, or end in ruin?
EXCERPT
“Good morning.”
“Baltimore,” I whisper-sing to myself as my distracted gaze slowly drifts from an art deco pendant light suspended from the ceiling to the source of the greeting.
Oh.
It’s as if my brain flickers off and back on again, unable to register the reality of someone I’ve only seen on television (and also on my phone screen as I innocuously stalked the business’s Instagram account to catch glimpses of him) standing in front of me. Callahan Leitner as a real-life person. One with dark hair and fair skin and eyes the exact color of the type of olives they put in martinis. Standing in front of me. Ripe for the picking.
I mean. For the learning from.
Although the idea that I could learn anything from this man about running an antique shop seems foolish right now, as I’m pretty sure there’s no room in my head for anything except a thick lust-based fog, permanently settling into all the crevices. Somehow, despite that, I’m still looping “Good morning, Balti-more.” But now it’s transposed over the footage of him carefully running his fingers over the fragile shade of a Handel lamp some guy in Philadelphia brought for televised appraisal that I’ve watched way, way too many times.
“Can . . . I help you?” he asks politely when I don’t respond. “Oh. Sorry. Brain broke for a second,” I say, moving toward him. I reach out my hand. “Hi. I’m Annie O’Neill, Harold’s niece. Reporting for duty!” My free hand comes to my fore-head and I find myself saluting. It is too enthusiastic, too weird.
Too me.
Ideally, Callahan Leitner’s first thought upon meeting me would have been, Wow, this woman is smart and sexy. But instead he’s probably thinking, This woman is a nut.
Despite the immediate impulse to throw up my shield, to protect myself from judgment and say something else that will make him warm to me, I instead cling to the hours and hours of therapy and self-reflection that got me this far. Being too me is kind of the whole point of everything I’ve been working toward. If he thinks I’m a nut, well, that’s better than having to pretend I’m not for the next four weeks.
He takes my hand, a frown on his face. “Callahan, but you can call me Cal. It’s easier,” he says, releasing me as soon as we get the cursory amount of shakes out of the way. “Sorry you had to come here with so little notice. If this whole thing is at all inconvenient, please don’t feel the need to stay. I’m sure I can handle it.”
Wow. I know that was not the best first impression I have ever made, but I don’t think it was bad enough that he should be actively trying to get rid of me already.
“Not at all.” I smile back in a way that may actually just be baring my teeth. “I was so glad that Uncle Harold asked me to come help out while he’s away. You know, I visited Virtu once when I was a little girl and I’ve secretly always dreamed of working here since.”
“Similar thing happened to me. Except I actually did work here,” Callahan says distractedly as he turns back to the counter and scribbles something down on a legal pad. “And now I own it.” Okay. What the fuck are these vibes? I can’t tell if he’s being standoffish, or apathetic, or . . . I don’t even know. I like to think I’m good at reading people, but whatever language this man is written in is not even remotely coherent to me so far. “Well, you half own it,” I say.
This gets his attention, his head popping back up so that he can glare daggers at me.
“Right?” I ask innocently. “Uncle Harold owns the other half. You’re equal partners.”
“We are,” he says, writing again. A moment later he adds, “Harold tells me you ‘upcycle’ antiques and sell them online.” He does not say this as if it’s a good or impressive thing. In fact, I think I can hear the dismissive quotes he’s mentally placed around the word “upcycle.”
“I do. It started as a pandemic side hustle and now it’s my full-time job. Which is nice, because it gives me flexibility to hop in the car and drive three hours to Baltimore on a moment’s notice to help rude men with the stores they half own.”
His pencil freezes for a second. Then it starts back up. Callahan—Cal, I guess—continues focusing on his task, ignoring my barb long enough that I have time to start wondering if I maybe shouldn’t have said it. Finally he finishes, tears the lined sheet of yellow paper off the pad, and holds it out to me with a little jut of his stupidly handsome chin that says, Come on, I don’t have all day.
I snatch the page and look it over. It’s a to-do list.
- Dust all
- Vacuum
- Take photos for potential social media
“Let me know if you have any questions,” he says. “I’ll be in the office. Down the hall, to the right.”
Then he simply walks away, shattering every single fantasy I ever had about him into the tiniest shards that reflect myself back to me in a way that I’m not sure is particularly flattering.
“Good morning, Baltimore!” I sing quietly to myself again, even though I’m absolutely sick of it.
I barely see Cal the rest of the day.
