A charming queer holiday romance about three adult siblings, each at a personal and romantic crossroads, who reunite at their larger-than-life mother’s Catskills manor for an unforgettable Christmas, from the author of It Had to Be You.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Georgia Clark’s Most Wonderful, which is out now!
It’s the most romantic time of the year.
The holidays are fast approaching, and the Belvedere siblings are a mess. Liz, a Hollywood showrunner and responsible eldest, has no idea how to follow up her hit show’s first season, or how to deal with her giant crush on its star, Violet Grace. Birdie turned her chronic middle child syndrome into a career as a stand-up comic, but since she spends more time wooing women than working on new material, she’s facing one-hit wonder status, especially once she gets axed by her manager. And Rafi, sensitive romantic and the baby golden boy, proposes to his coworker girlfriend in front of his entire company, only to be turned down by the woman he thought was the love of his life.
Born to three different fathers, the three adult children share one mother: famed actress and singer Babs Belvedere. Seeking direction and holiday cheer, all three siblings head up to their mother’s house in the Catskills, determined to swear off love and focus on themselves and their work. But the spirit of the season seems to have different plans for them, and their best intentions are quickly derailed in the most delightful and festive of ways.
Emotional, smart, and sexy, this queer holiday romcom celebrates love, family, and the wild creative life, and is perfect for fans of Emily Henry and Casey McQuiston.
“What’s gay about Christmas?”
The cute comedy nerd whom Birdie had been trading flirty little glances with for the past ten minutes double-took at Birdie’s opening line. “Ex-squeeze me?”
Birdie took the chance to scooch closer. They were hanging out at a semi-famous West Village comedy club where Birdie was about to perform. Birdie and her new friend were watching from stools at the back bar, behind the rows of New Yorkers and tourists, whose collective attention was focused on the comedian onstage.
“What’s gay about Christmas?” Birdie repeated. “Besides all the singing and drinking and tacky decorations?” She gestured with her beer at the comic who’d just started a bit about going home for the holidays. “I’m up soon. Need some good punch lines.”
“Ah.” Comedy Nerd nodded, tucking a lock of pencil-straight black hair behind an ear loaded with piercings. Between that, her Chuck Taylors and her beaded choker, definite I-kissed-a-girl-and-I-might-do-it-again vibes. “Gay happy meetings?”
“Bingo.” Birdie nodded. “Good one. Also, isn’t there something majorly queer about a holiday centered around a chick who gives birth without a dude?”
Comedy Nerd laughed. Her eyes were bright as she stuck out her hand. “I’m Amy, by the way.”
“Birdie.”
“I know.” Amy’s cheeks flushed the color of her lips. Her features were precise and pretty, like a particularly hot fox. “I’ve seen you before. You were dressed the same.”
Amy’s gaze skimmed Birdie’s Oscar the Grouch T-shirt (I Got 99 Problems but a Grouch Ain’t One!), baggy blue jeans, and dirty blond hair shoved under a backward baseball cap. Despite being thirty-three, Birdie regularly rolled out of her apartment dressed like a teenage boy.
“You did this bit about buying a case of wine,” Amy recalled. “And how you got signed up to the company’s aggressive email marketing campaign . . .” She looked expectantly at Birdie.
Birdie remembered. “And how those emails are like a one-night stand who won’t go away.”
“Yeah, like, I’m done with you, get out of here, stop embarrassing yourself ! ” Amy finished, breathless.
Birdie perked up. Amy chose to bring up a joke about clingy one-night stands in this moment? Potentially, the beginning of some sexual chaos.
“I’m thinking of doing something about clichéd holiday rom-coms,” Birdie said.
Amy nodded, her smile willing. “Hit me.”
Birdie cleared her throat, improvising. “In Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire, a high-strung big-city career woman who loves texting spills her peppermint mocha latte over the humble, beanie-wearing owner of a Christmas tree farm, while home for the holidays in a New England town. We know Christmas Tree Guy is the romantic lead because he has one of the universally acknowledged hot names of River, Bentley, or Chase. She has perfect hair, but he has perfect forearms.”
Amy giggled.
Birdie kept her voice low enough to not distract from the comedian onstage, eyes trained on her own audience. “River/ Bentley/Chase turns out to be a volunteer firefighter who delivers healthy meals to homebound seniors with hearts of gold. He’s also renovating an old house for his future family to live in. He doesn’t have an Amazon account, and he builds everything from scratch, even toilet paper.”
Amy laughed louder, one finger twirling a lock of her hair.
Riffing like this was easy and fun. Birdie relaxed further, switching her baseball cap to the side without breaking stride.
“Will High-Strung Career Woman look up from her phone long enough to realize River/Bentley/Chase’s eyes are the exact same green as the Christmas trees he sells? Spoiler alert: she will!”
Amy cackled so loudly, a couple in the back row shot them warning glances. She edged closer. “More.”
One of Birdie’s all-time favorite words. She was in the zone. “Coming this Christmas, All the Way Home I’ll Be Warm tells the story of Lucy, a super-pretty NYU grad student, who informs her meddling-but-lovable family that she finally has a boyfriend. She does not have a boyfriend, which is weird because she is so pretty! She pays fellow student-slash-archnemesis Bruno, also hot, to pose as her boo. At their first family dinner, they give contradictory answers about how they met, and Lucy’s nephew asks Bruno if he has amnesia and why they never hold hands. So cute! So quirky!” Birdie paused for effect. “There is only one bed, and it’s covered with her great-great-great-grandmother’s fertility quilt.”
Amy snort-laughed. “Of course it is.”
Some people found meaning on the top of a mountain or in the pew of a church. This darkened comedy club, this entertained fan, this was Birdie’s church. She moved to let someone order at the bar without slowing her roll. “Lucy and Bruno realize A, they don’t hate each other and B, they want to bone.” Birdie kept her eyes locked on Amy’s. “When they decorate Christmas cookies, Bruno opens up to Lucy about a tragic bald eagle attack during a ski vacation that killed his entire family, which is very sad. Then they kiss, which is very hot, but no tongue because they’re in her parents’ house. Bruno gives all the money Lucy pays him to a children’s charity that prevents bald-eagle-related skiing accidents. That helps Lucy realize what true love actually is, and it starts snowing. The end.”
“I swear, I’ve seen that film!” Amy wiped away a tear of laughter, cheeks flushed. “Wow, you’re funny. I really loved your special.”
Birdie’s post-joke high wavered. “Thanks, dude.” “Are you going to do another?”
At the time, Birdie ate up every morsel of praise about her first, and only, hour-long Netflix special, Birdie in the Hand, Birdie in the Bush. (Kate McKinnon famously tweeted it was “fucktastic.”) But now, three years later, being proud of her old special was starting to feel a bit pathetic. Birdie finished her beer. “Trying. Keep getting distracted.”
“By what?”
Birdie signaled the bartender, ordered a whiskey, then let her gaze land back on Amy. “Beautiful women.”
Amy’s expression was at the crossroads of incredulous and flattered. “Wow, what a line.”
“It’s not a line,” Birdie said honestly. “It’s my lot in life.” The bartender slid the whiskey across the bar.
Birdie took a grateful sip, the liquor dulling her professional insecurity. Other comedians used their specials to swan dive into acting or screenwriting or sold-out national tours. That momentum, that buildup of energy—Birdie never got there. Instead, she was still asking for one-off spots at local clubs. She tipped her glass to Amy. “Want one? On me.” Birdie had spent her last drink ticket on that whiskey, and was pretty near broke, but that’s what credit cards were for, right?
Something daring flashed in Amy’s gaze. She leaned in and put her mouth right by Birdie’s ear. “Want me to show you what’s gay about Christmas, Birdie Belvedere?”
This tête-à-tête was back on track. Birdie grinned. “More than Santa loves the unpaid labor of elves.”
And that’s how Birdie ended up not finessing her material as she intended, but in the graffiti-covered bathroom, being pushed against the hand dryers, kissing like Christmas depended on it.
There were many things Birdie Belvedere was not good at: being on time, tidying up, wearing clothes without pizza stains. But she was good at making people laugh, and she was very good at making out. Especially this kind of make-out: all hot breath and desperate hands.
Birdie allowed herself to be backed into an empty stall, Amy locking the door behind them.
Amy’s fingers paused on the top button of Birdie’s jeans. “Can I?”
Even though one part of Birdie’s brain warned her this might not be the best time, the larger, hornier, beer-soaked part nodded enthusiastically. “Hell yeah.”
Amy slid her fingers inside Birdie’s underwear, pressing up.
Birdie gasped, then groaned. “Holy mother of mistletoe.”
Amy’s tongue was back in Birdie’s mouth. The pleasure radiating through Birdie’s body was exactly why she considered plans to be loose suggestions. Going with the flow was way more fun. As Amy tugged her jeans lower for a better angle, Birdie panted, eyes squeezed shut, anticipating the delicious rush about to come.
“Birdie?” a voice called from outside the bathroom. Birdie’s eyes flew open.
“Birdie?” the woman tried again, the sound of the bar briefly flooding into the bathroom as she stepped inside. “You in here?”
Mouthing sorry to Amy, Birdie called back, “Yup. Just a sec.”
This was not the first time Birdie Belvedere had been caught with her pants down. There was high school summer camp with Tracey Jenkins-Jones, whose breath always smelled like Doritos. Britney Liu, at a sleepover party while everyone else was watching Candyman. Michelle Paris, in a hotel suite bathroom, until her boyfriend walked in.
Birdie wriggled her jeans back over her hips. Unlocking the door, she tried not to look guilty as she came face-to-face with her no-nonsense manager, Issa Mitchell.
Issa folded her arms, assessing Birdie head to toe.
“Issa, hey!” Birdie began brightly, adjusting her baseball cap. “Sorry, just using the can . . .”
Amy slipped out from behind her, waggling sticky fingers in farewell.
“. . . with a friend?” Birdie ended, cringing. “Anyway, I didn’t know you were coming tonight. What a rad surprise.”
Issa’s eyebrows narrowed in disapproval. “I came to see your set. Which you just missed. Didn’t you hear them calling your name?”
“What?” Birdie gaped at Issa. “No!” She hustled for the bathroom door and back into the club.
Marin, a comic who definitely wasn’t on the lineup, was onstage, starting a set. People were already laughing.
She’d missed it. Birdie had been looking forward to this hard-to-get slot all week and she’d missed it.
“That’s three strikes, Birdie.” Issa was beside her, counting off her fingers in a low voice. “You missed that improv podcast last month, and you were so hungover at your Just for Laughs audition, you may as well have missed it.”
Birdie puffed a breath, hiding her shame with a flippant response. “I’m a hot mess; that’s my brand! Give the people what they want.”
“It’s not what I want. I’m sorry, but I can’t rep you anymore.” And with that, Birdie’s manager headed for the club’s exit.
“Wait a sec!” Birdie followed Issa up a flight of stairs clogged with people waiting to get in, taking the steps two at a time. “Issa!” Birdie called. “C’mon, wait!”
Outside, West Third Street was busy with holiday shoppers and honking yellow taxis. The first snow of the season was starting to fall, dusting the piled black garbage bags with white.
“Issa, please!” Birdie bounded after her, shivering in her T-shirt. “I lost track of time. I was workshopping my set with . . .” In her panic, Birdie could not remember her hook-up’s name.
Issa called over her shoulder, “Your fly is undone.”
Birdie cursed, zipped up, and hurried to get in Issa’s path.
“Gimme another chance. I’m good! C’mon, you know I’m good!”
“I do know you’re good—that’s what makes this so hard.” Issa tightened her coat around herself. “You’re wasting your talent. You swore you’d be performing a new hour by the end of the year. Well, it’s December first. Have you even started working on it?”
If only it was as easy to do things as it was to say them.
Yes, Birdie had said she wanted to work on a new show. But the doing of that was proving harder than anticipated. “It’s been a tough year,” she said. “The world is a dumpster fire. I haven’t been able to focus.”
“But you are able to focus on drinking. You are able to focus on your very active personal life.” Issa’s face screwed into an expression Birdie had grown familiar with— somewhere between bewilderment, affection, and disapproval. Snow dusted the top of her voluminous Afro. “You’re like a hot, gay frat boy who never wants to grow up.”
It wasn’t not true. “I know that’s meant to be an insult, but thank you?”
Issa didn’t chuckle as Birdie had hoped. Instead, she shook her head in frustration. “There are more comedians in this city than cabs and bodega cats. You need to take yourself and your career way more seriously.”
What Birdie needed was to make people laugh. Make them feel good and hopeful in the face of the relentless terribleness that was, well, life. A manager was someone in the trenches with her, who believed in her potential. Someone to help her stay accountable and stick to her commitments. Someone who could help her take herself and her career way more seriously.
“What about four strikes?” Birdie tried. “Or five?”
Issa smiled, but it was closer to pity than amusement. “Happy holidays, okay?”
One final nod, then Issa was off, striding down West Third Street, taking all Birdie’s hopes and dreams with her.
The air left her lungs like a spent balloon.
Fired for missing a slot due to tipsy bathroom sex. Her mother would find that amusing.
Her beloved big sister, Liz, would shake her head in concern, a line forming between her meticulously tweezed brows. I just want you to be happy, Squeak.
Her hopeless-romantic little brother, Rafi, would be worried about her heart.
At least she had people biologically compelled to love her.
So what was getting in the way? Why did she feel so blocked when it came to the idea of new material?
Birdie trudged back down the stairs, reentering the dimly lit comedy club and making her way to the back bar. On-stage, a spotlit Marin was getting big laughs. Her laughs.
The whiskey she’d abandoned ten minutes ago was nowhere in sight. The bartender gave her a bloodless nod. “Another?”
Desperate times. Even though she really couldn’t afford it, Birdie felt grateful for the offer of booze. That understanding friend. That sympathetic confidant. “People claim I’m not reliable, but clearly, I am: Yes please.”
He poured it neat. The first sip spread like sunshine in her belly, fuzzing out the edges.
“Hey.” Amy was back. “Everything cool?”
“Not really. I missed my set,” Birdie told her. “Will you console me?”
Or, more accurately, distract her from her epic screwup, in the same way the glass in her hand was already doing.
Amy grinned, edging close enough to hook a finger around Birdie’s belt loop. Skin on skin: yeah, Birdie could use a little more of that. “With pleasure.”
Excerpted from Most Wonderful by Georgia Clark Copyright © 2024 by Georgia Clark. Excerpted by permission of Dial Press Trade Paperback. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
