Romance is the biggest scheme of them all in this laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from beloved author Alexa Martin.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Alexa Martin’s How To Sell A Romance, which is out July 15th 2025.
Emerson Pierce loves everything about being a kindergarten teacher except the painfully low salary. It isn’t until she hears about Petunia Lemon—an opportunity to sell makeup products, make some extra money, and meet a group of skin-care aficionados—that she begins to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sure, it sounds a little too good to be true, but what’s the worst that could happen?
Investigative reporter Lucas Miller didn’t always have a chip on his shoulder…until his wife joined Petunia Lemon, drained their savings, and filed for divorce. Now he’s a little bitter, a lot single, and determined to expose the company. After infiltrating their largest convention yet, the last thing he expects is to lose sight of his mission for one night with the gorgeous woman at the bar.
When Emerson and Lucas learn that she’s his daughter’s teacher, they decide to ignore their scorching chemistry. Until things with Petunia Lemon turn downright diabolical and Emerson turns to Lucas for help. They work together to bring the company down but can the two come out on top in this pyramid scheme of love?
I don’t want to be a downer among the girlbosses of the world, but something feels a little off about buying my own business with five clicks and for the low, low price of two hundred dollars.
Well, two hundred dollars before Nora and three other very persuasive, very tipsy, and slightly scary women convinced me that I just had to add the signup bonuses. The “discounted” products were apparently imperative to my success as a Petunia Lemon consultant, and since they’re the experts and I’m the people pleaser, how could I say no?
No, really. How do people say no? Much to my dismay, it’s a skill I never acquired.
By the time we got to the payment page, my quaint little business came out to a whopping total of over five hundred dollars. I had to use my emergency credit card to pay for it.
I’m going to have to get a side job to pay for my side hustle!
Money-back guarantee. Money-back guarantee. Money-back guarantee.
If it hadn’t been for Nora sitting next to me, acting as my personal hype woman and promising that it would pay for itself within the month, I’m not sure I would’ve gone through with it. But she was and I did. Now I’m a little more in financial debt, but I have a friend surplus.
And you know what that sounds like to me?
Balance.
I’m here for a good time, not a long time.
Plus, what’s five hundred more dollars on top of the bone-crushing, soul-sucking amount I have left to pay for my student loans? And with these products I just ordered, at least I won’t have to worry about the anxiety causing me to age faster anymore. Goodbye stress lines and pimples!
“Are you sure you don’t want to come out with us?” Nora asks again, the words slightly more slurred than when she asked me five minutes ago. “We’re going to get nachos and margaritas!”
If there is one thing that can tempt me in life, it’s nachos and margaritas. Tequila is my frenemy. I love her so much, but she always leaves me with regrets. And as much as I love Nora, she’s still my boss, and I cannot allow Tequila Emmy P to make an appearance around her.
“I really wish I could, but I have to head home.” The regret in my voice is authentic, but it doesn’t stop the rest of the table from trying to change my mind.
“Please come, Emerson!” Ashley . . . I think her name is Ashley? No. Alice? Amber? Alyssa! Alyssa shouts from across the table. “It’s going to be so much fun!”
“It sounds like fun and I wish I could, but I have to—” I try to think of an excuse, but it’s been so long since I’ve been asked out that I’m rusty. “I have to go home and . . . water my plants.”
As far as excuses go, plants are pretty terrible ones.
Add this to the growing list of reasons I should get a cat. I’ve been a volunteer at The Barkery for over three years now. It’s a great way to get my cuddle fix in, but one of these days I’m going to have to give in and bring a new kitty friend home.
Or move into the shelter. I’m down for either.
“Oh boo!” Nora shouts, even though I’m right next to her. “You’re no fun!”
“Excuse me?” My hand flies to my chest, and an extremely offended gasp escapes my mouth. “How dare you!”
I may be a lot of things, but no fun isn’t one of them! I’m a delightful, hoot and holler, fantastic freaking hang . . . something Nora knows firsthand since I’m the most fun teacher at Nester Fox Elementary.
“You’re right. I’m sorry!” She wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a sloppy, Pinot Grigio–scented hug. “You’re the most fun! You created Karaoke Wednesdays at school!”
See? Point proven.
But even if she didn’t admit her wrongs, I already have a plaque to prove it . . . and by plaque, I mean a custom-painted canvas that my best friend (and art teacher coworker) made for me after I complained that nobody appreciated how much fun I was.
But it still counts.
“Apology accepted.” But only because her apology was swift and she’s so drunk that I know she won’t remember this in ten minutes, let alone the morning.
“So now will you come with us?” she asks. Again.
“Answer’s still no.” I pull away, trying to remove myself from her drunk clutches as discreetly as possible. If I’m going to make a clean getaway, it’s now or never. “I’ll call you tomorrow so I can hear all about it.”
And coming from me, a person who has a strict text, don’t call policy, this is a big deal . . . an honor, if I might say so myself.
She opens her mouth to say something else, but before she does the waitress appears with another round of tequila shots, and all thoughts about me joining the party fly out the window.
The second her attention focuses on the packed tray, I dart out of the booth with no hesitations and not a single goodbye.
It’s not that I don’t understand the appeal of an Irish goodbye, it’s just not for me—most of the time. Not only am I a people pleaser to the nth degree, but in general, I’m just a people person. I love talking and I thrive in crowds. When I was a kid, my mom would avoid taking me to the grocery store because I’d strike up conversations with every person who passed.
Stranger danger? I don’t even know her.
I love meeting new people and hearing their stories. I can hold full conversations with anyone, anywhere, at any time. And even though I am perpetually and tragically single, I’ve never been on a date where conversation lulled.
All of that to say that I’ve never understood when a person tells me they “don’t like peopling.”
Until now.
And listen, it’s not because everyone hasn’t been absolutely lovely. They have! It’s just been . . . a lot.
A lot of yelling. A lot of enthusiasm. A lot of wooing. A lot of drunkenness.
A lot of everything.
Which, coming from a kindergarten teacher who once cleaned up a domino throw-up situation, an entire canister of glitter, and a bloody nose in a single afternoon and still managed to organize an after-school happy hour? That’s saying something.
And not anything good.
By the time I reach the elevator that goes to the parking garage I paid an absurd fifty dollars to park in for the day, I feel like I felt that one week I decided to train for a marathon. I’m beyond exhausted, my body aches, and my head throbs, but at the same time, I’m so amped up that if I go home, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fall asleep.
I should definitely go home.
I need to go home and go straight to bed.
I absolutely should not go up to the rooftop bar and have a quiet nightcap.
That’d be a terrible decision. Horrible. I absolutely cannot spend another cent tonight.
The elevator doors slide open, and I mean to push the button to the garage, but somehow my finger slips and I accidentally push the button to the rooftop bar instead.
Oops.
[…]
Unfortunately for my personal life and my waistline, food and a good craft cocktail will always beat out any and all competition.
I grab the bowl of nuts off of the table, carefully pushing the almonds to the side in favor of the pecans and walnuts, surprised when the waitress returns like the freaking Flash.
Except, when I look up with grateful eyes expecting to see a gorgeous cocktail garnished with a maraschino cherry and orange and lemon peel, I’m stunned to silence when I’m met with something impossibly more gorgeous and welcome than an old fashioned.
Or more accurately, someone more gorgeous.
In the words of Carrie Bradshaw—and just like that, this night just got a whole lot more interesting.
