A debut Australian romantic comedy with the wittiest banter you’ll read all year – for readers of Emily Henry and Zoë Foster Blake.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Lying Is My Love Language by Olivia Simons, which releases on July 28th 2026.
Telling the truth was never part of the plan. Neither was falling in love.
Jamie Hayes lies to keep things light and casual. It’s a foolproof formula full of strong cocktails and even stronger exit strategies.
That’s until she meets Luke at an outback wedding and discovers there’s one flaw in her strategy: he doesn’t believe a word she says.
Devastatingly handsome and infuriatingly stubborn, Luke is completely immune to her city charm. So immune they end up in bed together. Twice. Their connection is electric, but it’s only a game. At least, that’s what she tells herself . . . until they crash back into each other’s lives and she’s forced to confront the one thing she’s always avoided: the truth.
Now Jamie must decide whether she’ll keep running from anything real, or risk it all for something bigger than the life she curated. Because the man who sees through her lies might teach her how to love without them.
EXCERPT
‘We look like the Men in Black,’ I whisper, tugging at the fabric around my waist.
Abbey scoffs. ‘Please. We’re Romy and Michele. Only sadder. And without millionaire boyfriends or Post-it empires.’
My eyes catch on a cluster of guys by the makeshift bar. Beers in hand, sleeves rolled up, sun-kissed forearms on full display. They’re mid-conversation, all rugged charm and dusty good looks, an R. M. Williams ad come to life.
I nudge Abbey. ‘What are the odds you walk over and say hi?’
Her eyes flash. ‘Out of five.’
We count down in unison. ‘Three, two, one—’
‘Four.’
‘Four.’ My smile spreads.
‘Joke’s on you,’ she says, already eyeing the group. ‘I was going to get us drinks anyway.’ She winks. ‘Consider it recon.’
I watch her stroll off, her hips swaying, and nearly snort when three heads pivot towards her like periscopes the moment she leans across the bar and accepts a glass of champagne from the bartender. It’s inspiring.
‘Jamie!’
I turn to see Ella sitting on a wooden bench and radiating goddess beauty in a linen wrap dress that hugs her body like a lover. Her hair is smooth and bouncy despite the humidity. For the love of God, someone put this woman in a shampoo commercial.
I settle into the space she offers beside her on the bench, my dress clinging to my thighs.
‘Where’s Abbey?’ Ella asks, scanning the crowd with a worried expression.
‘She’s on a mission,’ I say and point to where Abbey has already become the gravitational centre of a circle of tall, tanned men. Ella follows my gaze and lets out a low whistle.
‘Wow. That didn’t take long.’
Abbey is a chaos magnet. If that chaos comes in the shape of several handsome men in denim and polished boots, who am I to judge?
‘Typical Abbey,’ Ella says playfully.
I grunt in agreement, taking in the scene: the low buzz of chatter, the smell of lemon myrtle, the barbecue and the buzz of young love.
‘So?’ Ella prompts, waving at the vast golden bushland stretching out around us. ‘What do you think?’
I shrug. ‘Silk was a bad choice.’
Ella laughs, bright and effortless. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘I don’t think I want to.’
She leans in conspiratorially. ‘Oh, don’t be so closed off. You might change your mind when they propose with rings like this.’
She lifts her hand and I gasp. ‘Ella. That’s—’
‘Huge? Yep.’ She turns her hand, admiring the antique diamond ring. ‘I told you the camera didn’t do it justice.’
I raise a brow. ‘That’s what he said.’
Ella cackles and grabs my arm. ‘Come on. It’s time you met Darcy.’
Technically, I have met him – several times. Through a screen. While trying to pretend the wi-fi wasn’t lagging and my camera hadn’t frozen on my double chin. But sure, let’s pretend this is our grand introduction.
I twist out of Ella’s grasp. ‘I’m gonna grab a drink first. I’ll come find you.’
She nods and is immediately swallowed by a pack of glowing, linen-clad mothers gushing over her. Godspeed, my little butterfly.
I turn to the bar – and slam into something solid. My body ricochets back and my heel catches on nothing, sending me crashing to the ground in agonising slow motion.
Death by humiliation. Cue the blackout screen.
My hands hit the dirt in time to save my face, though my confidence is in tatters. I’m one breath away from being the main character in a Hallmark movie, minus the festive soundtrack and snow. Just a scorched lawn and my inner monologue screaming, NO NO NO.
Before I can assess the damage (emotional, physical, spiritual), strong hands wrap around my waist and haul me up like I weigh nothing more than an overwatered succulent.
‘You good?’ a low, gravelly voice asks in my ear, the words slow and smug and wildly inappropriate.
I glance up and meet blue eyes. Unfairly blue. The kind of blue you’d assign a fictional boyfriend in a morally questionable fantasy novel. The kind of blue girls on TikTok go crazy for. Trust fund, six five, et cetera. Except, judging by his callused hands and off-duty farmer aesthetic, this one’s probably allergic to suits and thinks crypto is a disease. The kind of man who thinks drinking oat milk is a character flaw.
His unfairly blue eyes crinkle in amusement.
‘I’m fine,’ I lie, brushing dust from my dress and what remains of my dignity. ‘Thanks for the save.’
He shrugs. ‘Didn’t want you scaring the livestock.’
‘Okay. So, chivalry’s dead and buried then?’
‘Just resting.’
‘What’s your name, cowboy?’
He blinks, as if that’s the most exhausting sentence he’s heard all week. ‘Not interested.’
‘In what, conversation or human interaction?’
‘In you,’ he says simply, reaching for a beer from the outdoor bar like we’re not still mid-scene.
I stare at him. ‘Okay. Little blunt for someone who probably thinks eye contact is foreplay.’
He cracks the beer open with a signet ring on his hand. ‘Don’t take it personally. City girls aren’t my type.’
My jaw ticks. ‘You don’t even know me.’
He gives me a once-over – not rushed, just thorough enough to feel insulting. ‘I know enough.’ He takes a slow sip, eyes glinting as if he’s enjoying himself. Which makes one of us.
‘Right. And what exactly do you know?’
‘You showed up in heels to a working farm. You probably drink champagne like it’s a personality trait. And you practically threw yourself at my feet. Bit full-on, don’t you think?’
‘I tripped,’ I correct.
‘On me. Physics is a bitch.’
‘You’re out here in jeans and an Akubra, but I’m the cliché?’
He tilts his head, maddeningly calm. ‘Difference is, mine’s practical. Yours is curated. You scream high heels, high maintenance, gone by Monday.’
I grab a glass of champagne from the bar behind me. ‘Better than screaming “emotionally constipated farmhand who hasn’t touched a woman since his restraining order”.’
His mouth twitches. A real smile, maybe. Dangerous territory.
‘You done?’ he asks.
‘Not even close.’
He leans in a fraction, all heat and arrogance and eucalyptus-scented aftershave. ‘You’re not used to people saying no to you, are you?’
‘No,’ I say sweetly. ‘Mostly because they don’t. And when they do, they don’t smell of diesel fuel and generational trauma.’
He actually laughs – low and sharp. ‘You think this is flirting?’
‘I thought this’ – I gesture between us – ‘was me being polite. But sure, let’s call it a cultural misunderstanding.’
He tips his beer in a lazy mock toast. ‘To clear boundaries.’
I clink my glass against his. ‘To good instincts. Mine clearly need work.’
We drink. We stare. The silence burns like the grass beneath us.
I should walk away. I should go find Ella and tell her this wedding guest is hostile and possibly cursed.
Instead, I say, ‘So . . . what is your type?’
He grins. ‘Not you.’
It’s the meanest, hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
This is an extract from Lying is My Love Language by Olivia Simons, out August 11, Penguin Random House Australia, more info here.
