From Cosmopolitan’s Cosmo Reads imprint and the author of the smash hit Call It What You Want comes a fresh, charming romcom about the chaos of dating in your twenties, the ache of a brutal breakup, and the hilarious lengths one romance writer will go to get her spark back―including staging her own meet-cutes. Perfect for fans of Katherine Center and Emily Henry’s Beach Read.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from How to Find Love in the Cereal Aisle by Alissa DeRogatis, which releases on August 4th 2026.
If you can’t write a good meet-cute, maybe you need to live one first…
Ainsley Green writes happily-ever-afters for a rabid fanbase of hopeless romantics. In real life? Her boyfriend just broke up with her, her editor wanted a new book yesterday and she’s starting to wonder if love actually exists beyond the pages of her favorite novels.
So when Lucas, Ainsley’s best friend and biggest cheerleader, insists the best cure for writer’s block is real-life inspiration, she’s ready to try anything. Enter: the meet-cute plan, a mission to take her head out of her heartbreak and force meet-cutes IRL to spark some new ideas. But as failed missions bumping into strangers at the airport and spilling coffee on men at the cafe result in nothing but embarrassment and stained clothing, Ainsley begins to wonder if maybe the romance she’s been chasing already has a leading man.
Because the truth about falling in love? It never goes according to plan.
Equal parts heartbreak, humor, and hope, How to Find Love in the Cereal Aisle is a fresh, flirty send up of dating in the modern age and a reminder that love finds us when we stop performing and start living.
EXCERPT
Chapter 4
My laptop balances on top of an open suitcase as I sort through a pile of clothes, trying to decide if I can justify packing a fourth pair of shoes.
“Why is every single piece of clothing in your suitcase black?” Ross’s voice comes through the Zoom call. “Are you a romance writer or a funeral home director?”
“Very funny,” I reply, holding up a black sweater. “Black is classic.” He raises an eyebrow. “Black is also what people wear when they’re trying to disappear. Are you sure you’re not packing how you feel?”
I pause, the sweater still in my hands. Ross never goes for a subtle look, but today he’s not wrong. “Maybe I just don’t want to draw attention to myself.”’
“You do realize the whole point of a book tour is that people are literally coming to see you, right?”
“I know.” I say, tossing the sweater into the suitcase anyway. “It’s just after that first signing, I feel like I should be hiding. Not repeating it in multiple cities.”
Ross leans in closer to the screen. “For your first event, it could’ve gone a lot worse.”
I snort. “I literally word-vomited about my ex into a microphone. In front of strangers. That’s not worse?”
“Sure, you word-vomited,” he admits. “But you didn’t run. You stayed. You answered, you signed, you got through it. Were you messy? Yes, but people kind of ate it up. They saw a real human being, not some robot spitting out PR-approved answers.”
My stomach twists. “I just keep wondering if someone’s going to ask about Cole. What if I lose it all over again?”
Ross shakes his head. “You won’t lose it. Look, yeah, you word-vomited, but you were honest. Remember what people in that line said after? That you made them feel less alone. That’s what they’ll remember, not the rambling.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed. “I don’t feel like the version of me who wrote those books anymore, and I definitely don’t feel like someone who should be up there answering questions like I have it all figured out.”
“You’re not supposed to have it all figured out,” Ross says. “Relatable is better than polished, and you proved that. Your readers want to meet the person who ugly-cries to Gracie Abrams and isn’t afraid to admit it. That’s why they connect with you.”
I blink, throat tightening.
“And if someone brings up Cole again,” he adds, leaning back with a smile creeping in, “you have every right to keep it vague. Pivot, make a joke, or blame me. You don’t owe anyone your heartbreak just because you write books about love.”
I manage a laugh, shaking my head. “Thanks. Seriously.”
“Of course.” His grin sharpens. “Now, Q and A prep. I’ll send you a cheat sheet by the end of the day. And Ainsley, I’m begging you to hire me as your stylist next tour.”
I reach for the loafers on the floor. “Why? So you can throw these away?”
Ross groans dramatically. “Exactly. But seriously, pack at least one fun top. Maybe even a heel?”
“No promises,” I say with a smile as I hang up the call.
***
The automatic doors slide open, and Boston Logan Airport greets me with its usual mix of chaos: gate change announcements, squeaky suitcase wheels, and a baby crying somewhere in the distance. I scan the crowd near baggage claim until I spot him.
Lucas stands near carousel three, holding a small white poster board that reads: looking for an anxious author with great hair. He’s smiling and totally unbothered by the fact that people are staring.
I laugh, despite the slight embarrassment warming my cheeks. “You’re insane.”
He shrugs. “I like to make an entrance.”
“You know if you hadn’t insisted on picking me up, I would’ve taken a rideshare like a normal person. Instead, you’re subjecting me to public transportation.”
Lucas grabs my suitcase and starts walking. “The T builds character. And besides, I wanted to see your face when you read the sign.”
“Mission accomplished.”
We step out into the cool fall air, and as we make our way to the shuttle to Airport Station, I let the sounds of the city buzz around me. Car horns, conversations, and the rumble of trains are almost enough to distract me from thinking about tonight. Almost.
I’m surprised by how crowded the T is this early in the afternoon. The platform smells like wet concrete and a little bit of urine, but it’s still much cleaner than New York subways. A woman in a Red Sox jacket rushes past us as a kid accidentally swings his backpack into my shoulder. Everyone looks like they’re in a rush to get somewhere else, excitement and community buzzing around me. Meanwhile, I wouldn’t have minded a flight delay and an excuse to cancel instead of facing a crowd.
Lucas glances over. “Margo’s excited for tonight, by the way.” I raise an eyebrow. “She’s coming?”
“She’s gonna try to make it after work.” He says it casually, but there’s something in his tone that tells me that it’s not a sure thing.
Margo’s a lawyer. The kind who’s crushing it in the big league, and as a byproduct, might always be too busy for anything or anyone that isn’t work. Lately, that’s even included Lucas. He’d never say it outright, but I know he’s frustrated. Most of their relationship lately seems to circle around lapsed calendar invites and logistical planning.
They met sophomore year of college in the dining hall. Lucas walked right up to the table she was sitting at with a group of her friends, told her she was cute, and asked for her number. It was direct, sweet, confident, and—unfortunately for me, someone currently on the hunt for meet- cute inspiration—completely unremarkable. It’s not that I don’t love a bold move, but even Ross said meet-cutes need a little chaos. Lucas and Margo’s story is sweet, but it lacks plot. Sorry, Lucas.
Anyway, I try not to cast Lucas in the romantic hero role, even if he might, to many readers, fit the bill. Back when I met him freshman year, he was more puppy-dog cute than anything else. He had big brown eyes, an easy grin, wavy dark hair paired with this innocent charm that made him impossible not to like, even when he was being insufferable. Like when he’d blast EDM remixes at eight a.m. and wake up the whole floor, or when he got weirdly obsessed with some fantasy video game and skipped an entire semester’s worth of parties just to stay home and slay three-headed beasts.
Now, nearly a decade later, the puppy-dog thing has faded. His dark hair is shorter, and the boyishness has been replaced by a sharp jawline and stubble he can finally grow. The confidence is still there, but he’s not the eighteen-year-old kid who lived down the hall from me anymore—he’s quieter now, more careful. Still the same easygoing Lucas, but with a tendency to gloss over conflict and wait things out instead of speak up. Especially when it matters. He’s a pleaser, a good listener because he doesn’t judge but he also doesn’t pry.
Margo’s never had that problem. She says exactly what she wants and where she sees herself going, no hesitation, which, at this stage in my life, is both as admirable as it is terrifying. She’s someone that always has a five-year plan. She grew up in Massachusetts and moved to North Carolina for school, but she always knew she’d come back. After passing the bar, she landed a job at a law office in Boston and didn’t look back.
We’ve always gotten along well, though I’m not sure you could ever quite call us friends. Mostly because she already had her own circle, one that ran around the high-achieving set at school. She’s the kind of woman who captivates a room without saying a word, and not just because of how she looks. Her caramel complexion and sleek dark brown hair make her hard to miss, but it’s the way she carries herself that really pulls people in. There’s something about her that makes you feel like she’s always the smartest person in any room. Now, picture that in a courtroom. I can’t even imagine.
The thing about college relationships is that sometimes you just fall into them without asking the questions that start to matter more as you get older. Do you want to get married? Do you want kids? Where do you want to settle down? Twenty-year-old Lucas definitely wasn’t thinking that far ahead when he started dating one of the hottest, smartest girls in our graduating class. Now, they’re stuck in a standoff. Margo’s here in Boston, Lucas is still in Raleigh, and neither one of them wants to be the person who gives up their life to make it work.
I’d be lying if I said I hope he doesn’t leave. I mean, for the sake of his relationship, I hope he does. But selfishly? I don’t want him to leave. We don’t talk about it much. Actually, we never talk about it. But I know the stagnation, the constant waiting and guessing and trying to make two opposing schedules work, weighs on him. Lucky for him, his graphic design job is fully remote, so he’s been splitting time between both cities. For now, that seems to work for them. I just wonder how long it’ll last.
The train screeches to a stop in front of us, and we board with the rest of the crowd. Lucas finds two empty seats near the back, and we settle in as the doors shut behind us. For a while, we ride in silence.
“I forgot how much I like the Northeast in the fall,” I say as I look at the city through the fogged-up window.
Lucas nudges me. “For someone who hates public transportation, you seem to love romanticizing it.”
I smirk. “It’s a coping mechanism.”
“Fair enough,” he says, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You’ve got a big night.”
“Yeah.”
He looks over at me. “How are you really feeling?”
“Off the record?” I ask, glancing at Lucas. He smiles in encouragement, our secret code landing between us.
We’ve had an unspoken rule for years: Off the record means no judgment, no follow- ups, and definitely no circling back.
It started freshman year, a few months into school, when I told Lucas that I thought the guy in our psych class was cute. Then almost immediately after that, I admitted I wasn’t sure I wanted to be with my high school boyfriend anymore. I felt awful saying it, but Lucas didn’t flinch. He just looked at me and said, “Off the record?”
Since then, it’s been our way of saying the things we’re not totally ready to deal with. The almost feelings. The half decisions. The stuff you don’t want to carry alone but aren’t quite ready to say out loud to anyone else.
I’m the one who uses it more, especially now. Lucas, even with me, has grown into a bit of a closed book. He will say something off the record here and there— things like Off the record, I’ve been think-ing about growing a beard or Off the record, I don’t think Taylor Swift’s Karma album exists. Once he even admitted, Off the record, I kind of like the taste of airplane coffee, and another time it was Off the record, I think socks are optional in sneakers. But definitely not as often as I do. He usually just waits things out, hoping someone else will fill the silence for him or work it out. Or forget there was a problem in the first place.
He nods. “Always.”
