Sparks fly as the leaves fall this autumn…From the USA Today bestselling superstar romance author of the Boston Bolts hockey series comes a spicy and swoony friends-to-lovers fake-dating delight. . .
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore by Brittanée Nicole, which releases on August 11th 2026.
These old flames are ready to catch fire.
For Penny Darling, love is best enjoyed between the pages of a book. After a very public failed engagement, she’d rather cozy up by the fire with a book boyfriend than a real one any day. And as the owner of Bonfire & Bliss Bookstore, she has her pick.
Then Jake “Monty” Montgomery returns home. Her high school best friend, now a struggling author with inked forearms and wicked green eyes. And he needs her help.
His proposal is simple: She’ll teach him to write the perfect book boyfriend and he’ll pose as her real boyfriend, keeping Hope Harbor’s busybodies—and their obsession with Penny’s love life—at bay.
But when their lessons begin, the line between fiction and reality grows dangerously thin. As pretend kisses in the apple orchard turn into searing ones beneath the autumn moon, Penny begins to wonder if Monty could really love her, or if she’s destined for another broken heart.
EXCERPT
Chapter 1
Monty
September
The thing no one tells you about writing is that the smallest fact, especially when it eludes you, can become an obsession. And right now, I am a man obsessed.
Honey. Whiskey. The inner color of a flame where it hits the charred wood. Maybe the bark as it ignites?
Not quite. I click the top of the pen and run my tongue along the inside of my cheek.
Maple leaves beneath a warm October sun? No.
Rose gold?
I pull the black frames from my face and dig my fingers into my eye sockets. That’s not right, either.
Milk chocolate?
Frustrated, I slip my glasses back on and flop against my seat on the small plane I’m taking from New York to Hope Harbor. My restless hand clicks the end of the pen that’s yet to write a damn word.
It’s been months, but every time I settle in to write, this is what happens. If I could just figure out the damn color, I could move on.
“Sir, we’re about to land,” one of the air stewards says as she passes my seat. “Would you please put your tray table back into position?”
I offer her a perfunctory nod and do what she asks. It’s not like I’m going to write anything anyway.
That’s why I’m heading back home. Not because I want to see those eyes in person again. That would be ridiculous. Though I’m sure writers in my position have done crazier things to cure my current predicament.
I won’t say the actual word that some use to describe my inability to write—like most writers, I’m superstitious—but this certain blockage is causing me more stress than normal. I need this book to be the best I’ve ever written. I didn’t earn out my last advance, and even though I’ve pitched a completely different genre that excited my publisher in a way they haven’t been in a long time, if they don’t actually buy this book, I’m not sure anyone else is going to take a chance on me—not after the piss-poor numbers I’ve had. This is my last shot.
But that’s not even the worst of it. My roommate with the insane rent-controlled apartment in the West Village decided to propose to his girlfriend, which means she’s moved in and I need to find a new place to live. I can’t exactly afford New York prices on my bartending salary, and without a book to sell, I have no choice but to tuck my tail between my legs and move back home to New England. Back in with my father and my vovo.
Fuck, I need to sell this book. Which means I need to remember how to write again.
The wet rings around a whiskey barrel?
No. Her irises were definitely brighter than a whiskey barrel.
The plane lands and I head straight to baggage. Normally I travel with nothing more than a carry-on, but this trip is different; I’ve got everything I own with me. This time, I’m returning to Hope Harbor for the foreseeable future.
I grimace as I remember the moment my housemate told me about his impending nuptials. It was at that moment I realized that everything that had ever gone wrong in my life was because of love.
First, my parents’ divorce—they fell out of love.
Then there was the news that Penny was engaged—she was apparently in love.
And now I’m having to uproot my entire life in New York—all because of my roommate’s great love.
Love is the reason I’ve lost everything I ever wanted. Everything that’s truly ever mattered to me. I’m done with love. Or maybe love is done with me. Hopefully. I can’t risk losing anything else.
It therefore seems extremely ironic that, as I take the escalator down toward baggage, the first thing I hear is the deep timbre of a man’s voice singing Frank Sinatra’s classic “L.O.V.E.”
Seated at a black baby grand piano, an older gentleman with a white head of hair sways as he sings. His shoulders bounce and his eyes crinkle in delight as, one by one, people stop to listen. Couples sway along to the tune, and I watch as one woman glances up at the man who just arrived to pick her up. She presses a kiss to his jaw; it’s quick and thoughtless and the action makes my heart squeeze tight.
I hustle past the gathering crowd, searching for my flight number on the board so I can locate my bags.
I turn my phone off airplane mode and, as soon as I do, a slew of texts populate.
Penny: Did you know that Stephen King was rejected by thirty publishers before one picked up Carrie?
I huff out a laugh. Since my last book bombed I haven’t found a whole lot to laugh about, but Penny Darling has been the one bright light. My high school best friend who I lost touch with for far too long. I’m not sure how I lasted without her ridiculous commentary.
Penny: Also, your day has to be going better than mine was yesterday. Stop me if I already told you this story but Babs and Rayna actually tried to set me up with someone yesterday. And before you tell me, but Penny, maybe this is a good thing, let me tell you—he’s still in HIGH SCHOOL!
This time my laughter is loud. Shit, that’s bad.
Penny: When I reminded them of that fact they told me he’s eighteen and has a car. Beggars can’t be choosers! God, Monty, I wish you were there for that one. Then again, it was humiliating so maybe not.
Penny: I guess it’s better than Babs trying to set me up with her son–who’s married! I don’t care how stony his relationship is, that’s a no!
It takes me a second to puzzle together what she’s saying and then I chuckle at her wrong choice of words. Marriage on the rocks . . . She always screws up the easiest sayings. It’s just as endearing now as it was in high school.
Me: I would never tell you to take dating advice from Babs and Rayna, I promise.
I also would never tell her she should date. I just about did a backflip when she told me her engagement was over when we reconnected this past spring.
We were seated at the bar in the local brewery. The lighting wasn’t great, but I remember every detail. From her thick auburn hair pulled to the side in a braid, to the choppy bangs that framed her heart-shaped face. Her bright eyes had danced wildly as if she, too, was taking in every facet of this moment and her full lips were so wide her cheeks must have hurt. The last time I had spent any real time with Penny before that night, we were eighteen and both leaving for college. I’d wanted to kiss her so bad my tongue hurt from biting down on it. But we were kids, and I was scared I’d ruin our friendship if we crossed that line.
Would it be weird if I asked her to send me a selfie right now? Then I could settle this eye color thing once and for all.
Before I can muster the courage to do something so ridiculous, my phone trills with a ring.
“Hey, Mom.”
With a thick New York accent that two decades in Hope Harbor didn’t soften, she asks, “How was your flight?”
“Quick. Just at baggage now, waiting for Dad.” I wince as soon as I say it, and quickly cover up the mention of him. “I tried writing on the plane.”
My mother hums. “Don’t stress, I’m sure the words will come.”
Right. Because my mother knows about my—I swallow the dreaded term—inability to write. “Not soon enough to avoid moving here.”
“You know you were more than welcome to stay at my place, honey.”
“And what? Sleep on your couch?”
“We could have gotten a bigger place together.”
“I’m not moving in with my mother,” I huff, embarrassed. I’m twenty-eight. At one time I was a New York Times bestselling author. Okay, I still am, I guess. Though those few words above my name on the front of a book aren’t enough to pay my rent every month. No one tells you how quickly your success can be forgotten. How quickly you can be forgotten.
“But it’s okay to move in with your father?” I can hear the hurt in her tone, though she immediately takes the jibe back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
My mother rarely talks about my father. It’s the oddest thing, because for the first eighteen years of my life I would have told you they were best friends before they were husband and wife. They had that kind of love people write about: they finished each other’s sentences, they danced together in the kitchen, they laughed over the same jokes, enjoyed the same television shows, read the same books. And then one day they sat me down and told me they were separating. It made absolutely no fucking sense. Honestly, it still doesn’t.
It was right after my grandfather’s death, which we all took hard since we lived with him and my vovo. At first, I thought my father was depressed, but his grief didn’t seem to end and then their marriage did. My mother moved back to New York when I went to college there, and we both stayed after I graduated.
The weight of my laptop bag digs into my shoulder, so I shift it to the ground and move the phone to my other ear.
“I’m only going back to Hope Harbor because I need a change of scenery to write and somewhere cheap to live. Dad’s offered me both.” It’s the least he could do after destroying our family. “You know if I could stay in the city, I would.”
“I know.” My mother sighs. “And maybe this will be good for you. You did some of your best writing on the back porch.”
That’s where I wrote my first novel: a love story and my mother’s favorite book of mine. It spilled out during high school and has never seen the light of day. Reading and writing about love felt too hard after everything that happened with my mom and dad.
“Maybe. Listen, the bags are starting to come out. I’ll give you a call later this week.”
“Okay, Jake, talk soon. Give my love to Vovo.”
I agree and tell her I love her before hanging up, realizing that will probably be the last time someone calls me Jake until we next speak. I was given the nickname Monty when growing up since we lived with my grandparents and I shared the same first name as my grandfather. When I got to college, I rebranded myself as Jake and never looked back. Guess I’ll have to get used to being called Monty again.
Ten minutes later, baggage in hand, I head outside to wait for my father. I wanted to take an Uber; I don’t want to owe him any more than I have to. But he insisted. Am I doing the right thing coming back here? Do I have a choice? I’ve visited my vovo over the years—I love that tiny woman—but I’ve rarely spent time with my father in the past decade. I haven’t known how to close the divide between us since he divorced my mom. And it’s only grown bigger over the ten years I’ve been in the city.
I blow out a breath as a woman walks past me, her luggage catching my eye as she does. It’s one of those iridescent suitcases that changes color as it rolls and the rose-gold prisms taunt me. I grit my teeth. Not the right color.
Nerves hit me at the sight of my father’s navy Volkswagen SUV rolling up to the curb; it’s rusted around the tires and likely in need of an oil change. The man behind the wheel smiles at me and I nod in return.
My dad has jet-black hair like me. His is peppered with silver streaks now, but still full. We also share the same green eyes, strong jaw, and cheekbones my mother used to wax poetic about, plus olive skin that he inherited from his Brazilian-born mother, my vovo.
Mine is now decorated with black ink, something my vovo smacks me about every time she sees me with a new tattoo. I suspect my father likes them. The ones on my arms are all nautical, and I did get my love of the sea from him.
He’s barely put the car in park when he jumps out and rounds the front, holding out his arms to me.
“It’s so good to see you, meu filhinho.”
Unlike my mother, there isn’t a hint of New York in his accent, though there is a brush of my vovo’s Brazilian Portuguese that hits the last words of almost all his sentences. Everything sounds like a question or a poem.
“Papai,” I murmur, awkwardly returning the hug. There are moments, like right now, when I wish I could forget all the years and miles that stand between us. Where, for a few seconds, I remember what a wonderful father he was for most of my life. Before he fell out of love with my mother.
I release him before he lets go of me. He recovers quickly from my coldness, grabbing my bags and talking animatedly as he heads to the trunk.
“Vovo is making tempero baiano for dinner and then I thought we could take the boat out for a sunset sail.” He’s still smiling as he looks back at me. “Oh, and I got those sodas you like!”
“That sounds great, thank you.”
And it does. My vovo’s cooking is one thing I could never get in New York, and her tempero baiano—seasoned chicken legs—is one of my favorite dishes.
He nods in response, and then gestures for me to climb into the passenger seat. By the time we hit the highway, my father has filled the silence by telling me everything that’s happened in Hope Harbor since I left, though he makes no mention of the one person I want to ask about most.
I bite back the urge to mention her name; I’ve managed to keep all thoughts of Penny—and our renewed friendship—to myself for the past few months.
As we pass the sign welcoming us to Hope Harbor, my heart rate speeds up. Scanning the once-familiar surroundings, I try to appreciate them in a new light, though all I see are the many shades of copper that don’t quite do her eyes justice. The bronzed letters on the side of a sailboat bobbing in the harbor, the sunburnt edges of the leaves on the trees as summer fades to fall, the reddish-brown brick that decorates downtown. My father continues to tell me about the town’s antics and I turn my head to face him just in time to avoid the dancing flames of fire on the sign of the local bookstore.
How the hell am I going to write my next bestseller when all I can think about is the girl who owns that shop, and the many shades of copper that danced in her eyes the last time she smiled at me?
