Set amongst the glittering backdrop of London’s iconic Savoy hotel, a young woman is forced to confront her troubled past as she uncovers the story of the hotel’s first female bartender who has been erased from the history books—”an exhilarating, tender read that will leave you smiling” (Fiona Davis, bestselling author).
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Brisa Carleton’s Last Call at the Savoy, which releases on November 4th 2025.
Six years ago, Cinnamon Scott was a young writer on the rise in New York City. But since the sudden loss of her parents, she’s been stuck in place, retreating to a life of endless partying—made possible by the massive fortune she’s inherited. Despite their tragic loss, she and her older sister Rosemary have always had each other to lean on. But now, with Rosie living in London and about to give birth to twins, Cinnamon feels more lost than ever.
When Rosie is put on bedrest, Cinnamon flies to her sister’s side, where she’s temporarily living at The Savoy. Immediately swept away by the beauty and history of the legendary hotel and its famed American Bar, Cinnamon finds ample opportunity to distract herself. When the late shift bartender tells her the story of Ada Coleman, the woman who crafted the cocktail recipes The Savoy popularized in its famous handbook a century ago, Cinnamon is inspired by the bartender’s vivid stories of Ada’s fearlessness and can’t understand why Ada’s name is nowhere to be found.
After meeting a handsome historian researching the hotel and realizing that Ada is likely to be once again overlooked, Cinnamon must decide if she can overcome her demons and stand up for Ada’s story. And, along the way, she might just save her own story too.
“Well, look what the cat regurgitated,” my sister says as I skid around the corner of her hospital room. The glaring overhead lights combined with the overpowering smell of disinfectant immediately reinstate my hangover. But it’s nothing compared to my relief at seeing my sister looking more or less like herself.
“Nice to see you too, Rosemary.” I take her snark as a good sign, giving her an awkward hug as I feel the adrenaline that has been coursing through me since I landed in London finally beginning to recede. The smooth skin of her back is cool where the edges of the flimsy hospital robe don’t quite meet.
“Cinnamon and Rosemary?” laughs a well-meaning nurse before our mutual eye rolls send her scrambling into the hall.
“How you feeling, Rosie?” I say, eyeing her massive twin-infested belly. My hangover had temporarily vanished when I landed to find a dozen texts from my sister saying to meet her at the hospital instead. Despite her eventual text assurances that she was okay, for the better part of the interminable cab drive here from Heathrow, my mind had been cycling through worst-case scenarios of losing the only person I had in the world. I had practically sprinted to the cab, all my earlier thoughts of a shower and a change of clothes vanishing. I’m going to need paint thinner to peel my dress off at this point.
“I’m fine. But they’ve put me on bed rest for the last few weeks before we can get these monsters out,” she says with a sigh.
I look her up and down. We’ve only been apart for a few months since she left New York, but the pregnancy differences jump out at me. The glowy sheen of her skin, her shinier-than-usual hair, not to mention the basketball-size bump protruding from her slender frame are jarring. Like she’s my sister but different. I reach out and squeeze her hand, not sure if I’m reassuring her or myself.
We are interrupted by the return of the nurse, pushing a wheelchair. We both eye it with trepidation.
“Come on, Humpty Dumpty, let’s get you home,” I say, feeling a fresh pang of anxiety as I let go of her hand. I feel a strong urge to wrap myself around her as if building a protective cocoon with my body.
“Not funny,” she says.
“Kind of funny,” I say as the nurse and I lift her off the hospital bed and set her in the chair.
But she just looks at me grimly as we make our way to the waiting driver.
As we creep along the congested Strand toward the hotel, I find myself clenching the armrest. The whole driving—well, riding in my case—on the left thing always takes me a bit to get used to, and I’m extra edgy with stress about my sister’s delicate state. I’m well aware that I’m transporting precious cargo. I don’t know a whole lot about the medical particulars of a bed rest order, but I’m imagining that even the slightest wrong move could lead to disaster. Like she’s an egg that might crack if I don’t handle her in just the right way. Rosemary, meanwhile, is shifting uncomfortably in her seat and whispering profanities under her breath at the snarled London traffic.
I’m relieved when our driver finally turns into the driveway leading to the Savoy Hotel. Craning my neck to get a glimpse of my home away from home for the month, I take in the line of luxury cars depositing customers in front of the palatial facade. Thick, elegant columns in black and white frame the entrance under a mirrored marquee proclaiming the storied Savoy name. As we glide along the driveway, posters advertise the current West End musical offering in the Savoy Theatre.
“Slumming it, are we?” I say with a smirk as we are embraced by the majestic stone buildings that form a horseshoe around the Savoy’s front doors.
“I think you mean, ‘Thank you, my darling sister, for the five-star accommodations,’” she says. “My firm is putting me up in a flat as part of my relocation package, but it’s not ready and I couldn’t exactly delay my flight.” She looks down at her bulging belly.
“And the Savoy was the only other option?” I raise a skeptical eyebrow and nod toward one of London’s most iconic, not to mention expensive, hotels.
“If you had seen the extended stay corporate hotel they had suggested, you’d understand why I had to take matters into my own hands.” Even before our family had come into their fortune, my sister’s definition of camping was staying in a hotel with room service and cable. “And anyway, I feel closer to Mom and Dad here. Remember that time we came here for Christmas your junior year of high school?”
I flinch at the mention of our parents. Of course I remember. But before I can respond, the driver halts behind the line of cars. Guests pour out as porters and bellmen retrieve designer luggage and overstuffed shopping bags bearing the names of the many retail diversions in nearby Covent Garden. After a few minutes, when my sister and I both have to pee and it’s clear we’ve hit Savoy arrival rush hour, I realize I’m going to have to roll up my sleeves.
“Hello?” I shout to the handful of bellmen who are scurrying around the hotel entrance with luggage trolleys. As each car deposits its passengers, the drivers loop around the imposing black marble fountain, careful to navigate around the hulking black Rolls-Royce sporting the license plate S8VOY. “We’ve got a wheelchair here. Could someone please give us a hand?”
“We’ll be right with you, madam,” says a harried bellman pushing a luggage cart filled to the brim.
Irritated, I step out of the car and zero my focus in on the one man who doesn’t seem to have his hands full.
“Hello? Are you just going to stand there?” I know I’m being a bit of a brat, but I can imagine how much my sister is paying to stay here.
The man rushes forward.
“Oh, of course,” he smiles. “Happy to help.”
He has one of those posh British accents that make me think of Downton Abbey. I’d think he was cute if I wasn’t so annoyed.
I’m sweating by the time we make it to my sister’s suite, despite the fact that the bellman did the bulk of the heavy lifting. I push open the ornate double doors.
“So, this is home?” I say, stepping into a living room–like area. The room feels fresh and airy while also feeling like a step back in history. There’s a desk and gold and white furnishings with coffee tables that look like they could have been there for a century, albeit exceptionally maintained. With a twirl, I take in the lavish suite before pushing aside the heavy brocade curtains to gaze out over the Thames. My sister sinks onto the bed. Her eyes drooping.
It’s only 6 p.m. but it’s clear my sister is done for the night. Looks like I’ll be relieved of my duties, at least for a few hours. For the first time since being here as a teenager, I have to wonder…is there a good bar in this swanky hotel?
