Read An Excerpt From 'Code Word Romance' by Carlie Walker

One fake prime minister, one ridiculously hot handler, and one Italian summer collide in this thrilling adventure rom-com.

Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Carlie Walker’s Code Word Romance, which is out March 18th 2025.

The next morning, someone is pounding at my door.

My eyes spring open, the heels of my hands swiping at my face. Outside is the muted pink of sunrise, and it takes only a second before everything from yesterday comes flashing back. I know exactly who’s at my door—and exactly what she wants. Calvin isn’t answering. Good! Good, Calvin. Cautiously, I slip out of bed, black-and-white catering uniform half-unbuttoned, bangs plastered across my forehead. Through the front door peephole, I spy Gail’s distorted frame, haunting my hallway.

Not today, Satan! The last thing I should do is open the door. Only, after the sixtieth knock, each one growing increasingly louder, the neighbors start banging on the walls. If we get another noise complaint, if I get kicked out of this apartment and can’t afford rent anywhere else . . .

“We started off on the wrong foot,” Gail says, thrusting a white paper bag through the newly opened doorway. “I brought bagels. You don’t look like you slept well.”

“Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth.

She clearly thinks I mean about the bagels, not the insult. “Poppy seed,” she says, waggling the bag. Dammit.

Poppy seed is my favorite. Brushing past my shoulder, Gail cranes her neck into my apartment. “Perhaps this conversation might be better suited for inside your home. Is that charming roommate of yours about?”

My head’s starting to throb. “I . . . I don’t know. Probably?” “Mmm,” Gail says, pulling out her phone and shooting off a

quick text. Asking for surveillance on Calvin’s whereabouts? Less than three seconds later, her inbox pings. “Ah, he’s gone out to purchase some coffee and what looks to be about two hundred grams of marijuana. A little much for a Monday morning, but to each their own, I suppose.”

“Look.” I rub my thumb, hard, between my eyebrows. “I said no. I said no to what you’re asking. So, if you don’t mind—”

“Oh, but I do mind,” Gail says, fully pushing past me now. “You didn’t say no about the bagels. The bagels really are crucial to this part of the operation.”

I snatch the bag from her hand, just to get her to shut up about them. “They’re not drugged, are they? I’m not going to bite into one and wake up on a plane to Positano?” Gail pauses at my hunter green sofa, swiping off a few crumbs before smoothing the back of her coat and sitting down. This only adds to my snippiness. “I thought people like you wouldn’t wear trench coats.”

She cocks her head. “People like me?” “Spies. It just seems a little obvious.”

Gail crosses her legs, folding both hands on top of her knees. “Well, Max, I wouldn’t call myself a spy.” She glances around the apartment, at the stacks of used coupon booklets and a full bin of empty ranch dressing bottles. “I would call myself your best option to get out of this hellhole.”

“Hey!” I’m genuinely offended. “We have a microwave.”

“I am absolutely sure, Max, that hell has microwaves.” Gail is the type of person who says your name a lot in conversation—and not in the friendly way. In the condescending way. As if she’s speaking to a disobedient six-year-old. “May I ask what is with the ranch dressing? Surely one can’t need that much. That’s nearly . . . fifteen bottles.”

At least I can answer that one. “My roommate gets stoned a lot. He puts ranch on everything.” Tired and frustrated, I plop down in the opposing fold-out chair. “Even if you are who you say you are, you’ve made a mistake, okay? You don’t want a washed-up chef. My main skill used to be making really, really good clam chowder, which isn’t—”

“Did you know,” Gail says, cutting me off, “that Julia Child was an asset for the CIA? Chef, too, wasn’t she? You’d be just like her, in a foreign country, carrying out clandestine duties. Who doesn’t want to be like Julia Child?” Gail perks up even more. “Think of this as a getaway for you. Don’t you want a nice vacation, Max? What we’re asking, it isn’t hard. Mostly, you’ll just sit in a beach chair, read a book. It’s a simple job in beautiful Italy. The food will be exquisite. Eating with the season. Fresh pancetta and buttered noodles. Lemon gnocchi . . .”

“And all for the low, low price of . . . possible death!” I say, like I’m a game show host.

“Max,” Gail reasons, “we all trick ourselves into believing that we’re safe. The truth is that every time we step out our doors, we’re in danger. Every time we drive our cars, we’re in danger. Every time we step in our showers, danger. Eating, danger. Sleeping, danger. Do you know how many people accidentally strangle themselves in their bedsheets every year?”

I stare at her, unimpressed and vaguely horrified. “Hallmark would not hire you.”

“Fine,” Gail says, clapping her knees and rising to a stand. “I thought that some shut-eye might help you think clearly about all of this. Five million dollars is a lot of money.”

The living room tilts sideways. The ringing returns to my ears. “What did you just say?”

“Five million dollars. The five million dollars we’re offering you, if you complete the assignment to our specifications.”

“You never mentioned five million dollars.” I’m standing now, too. All the blood is rushing to my face. “If you were going to offer five million dollars, you should’ve led with five million dollars.”

Read An Excerpt From ‘Till Human Voices Wake Us’ by Rebecca Roque

“I’ll note that for next time,” Gail says, infuriatingly. “Al- though, it could have been that I purposefully withheld that information, knowing that you’d say no at the first approach, and this is all part of the gentle process of acceptance. I should also mention that I know about your financial situation.”

Memories flash through my brain, ones that always come when I’m low—of my mom, stopping by my apartment with a few groceries when she noticed the barren state of my fridge; of my dad, selling his Chris-Craft for cash and draping his arm around my shoulder. It’s just a boat, Max-a-million. But that boat was his whole damn life. “It’s bad.”

“Yes, it’s horrendous.”

Actually, it’s worse than horrendous. Horrendous would just be losing my restaurant. Horrendous would just be an insurmountable mountain of debt. Here’s what I’m looking at: the dissolution of every relationship I valued. I borrowed money from everyone.

And I lost every penny.

“It’s not often, Max, that one gets the opportunity to completely turn their life around within a matter of days. Think of your parents. Think of what they could do with a share of that money. Retire, perhaps? And your friend Jules. Your relationship’s a bit strained, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to mend that in seven simple days? Just a quick trip to Rome and the Amalfi Coast, then back again. You can return to your . . .” She gazes around at a stack of moldy pizza boxes. “Your home. Move on with your life. Maybe even open a new restaurant. This isn’t just an opportunity; it’s a time machine. Turn back the clock. Right your wrongs. Reclaim your—”

“Hello, hello!” Calvin has wandered through the door, plastic grocery bag stuffed with coffee beans and weed. “Who’s our new friend?”

“I’m from the Maine State Lottery,” Gail says automatically, turning to Calvin. “Your roommate has won one of our secret cash prizes. An all-expenses-paid European getaway.”

Calvin’s already-dilated pupils widen at me. “Dude, really?”

Intrinsically, I know I have seconds. I know that the deal’s on the table, and something tells me if I don’t take it now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. My family deserves this chance . . . and honestly, if I need another reason, Sofia deserves it, too. Protecting her would be, by far, the noblest thing I’ve ever done.

Swallowing the gigantic lump in my throat, I do my best to smile like I have just won the lottery. “Yes. I’m going on vacation.”