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.”

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘How To Find Love In The Cereal Aisle’ by Alissa Derogatis appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from International Relations by Zac Hammett, which releases on August 4th 2026.

Max has never had time for a relationship working in the high-stakes world of international diplomacy. But when a high-profile ambassadorial position opens up in Athens, Max is discreetly advised that his single status isn’t helping his chances. In this line of work, appearances matter, and Max’s rival Quentin has an advantage in the form of his charming and accomplished girlfriend.

Determined not to lose out, Max hires Hunter, a charismatic actor, to play the perfect boyfriend. Hunter dazzles on the diplomatic circuit, but soon the charade takes on a life of its own. When visa complications force Max and Hunter to make their relationship official, they find themselves trapped in a marriage of convenience that is anything but convenient. There’s only one thing that could make all this even more complicated—if Max and Hunter’s feelings for each other start becoming real . . .

International Relations is a fake dating to fake marriage romance filled with glamorous locations, sizzling chemistry, and a love story that will capture your heart.

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The post Read An Excerpt From ‘International Relations’ by Zac Hammett appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Embrace by Bal Khabra, which releases on August 4th 2026.

Kian Ishida is all about parties, hockey, and living in the moment. But when he realizes he’s headed to the NHL without his degree, his late dad’s one wish for him, he’s determined to make up those last few credits. Desperate for help, he joins a study group led by none other than Scarlett Kilner. She’s as gorgeous as she is smart. Too bad he doesn’t know yet that she’s his coach’s daughter.

After making a reputation for herself, all Scarlett wants for her senior year is to prove she’s more than her mistakes and graduate without tarnishing her well-respected father’s name. But when Kian Ishida, one of her dad’s star hockey players, joins her study group, things get complicated.

As Scarlett helps Kian, their study sessions turn into something more—stolen glances, lingering touches, and a connection neither of them expected. Kian has to decide what’s more important: the dream he’s worked for his whole life or the girl he never saw coming.

EXCERPT

I go to toss my empty cup of ramen when someone calls my name.

As usual, my stomach tightens, because at Dalton you never know who’s going to approach you. But when I turn, I see Kian Ishida walking toward me.

My gaze catches on the sliver of skin at his exposed midriff, his wrinkled white shirt stiff and short on his long frame. I don’t dare look at his veiny arms, or the rings adorning his thick fingers. He’s got on faded blue jeans, ripped in some places, and white sneakers. “You weren’t at the library,” he says, slightly out of breath when he reaches me. “Huh?”

“The library? We were supposed to meet there to talk about our new arrangement, remember?”

Arrangement? Oh my God. The deal. This can’t be real.

“That was a joke. Y-you were drunk,” I remind him.

“I wasn’t,” he says. “Well, drunk, yeah, but I wasn’t joking. You shouldn’t have to deal with those creeps. I can keep them away, and you can help me graduate. That’s what we decided, right? Your reputation, my graduation?”

My words catch in my throat as I blink rapidly. “Do you realize what hanging around me would do to your reputation?”

I expect him to realize I’m right, that this won’t be worth it for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing their opinions don’t mean shit to me. Which, by the way, is lesson one: Fuck. Everyone.” He pauses. “Well, excluding the people you actually care about.”

I shake my head hard enough to rattle something loose. “Look, it’s a nice thought and all, but you don’t need to do that. You don’t have to associate yourself with me. I can find you someone who actually tutors Dunn’s students—”

But Kian’s already moving. He climbs onto the table I was just eating at, right in the middle of the dining hall, startling a guy who is now seated there, and the sound of Kian’s sneakers hitting the wood makes half the room look up.

“What are you doing?” I mutter, my pulse skyrocketing as people start whispering. Even the professors pause mid-bite, like this is their entertainment for the day.

“Scarlett.” His voice booms across the room. Then he crouches down and whispers, “Wait, what’s your last name?”

“Why?” He just stares, waiting for my response. I hesitate, feeling the name on my tongue before saying, “Rose.”

There’s a deep, almost instant swell of guilt in my stomach when he tilts his head, as if he’s wondering if that’s my real name, before he stands tall again.

“Scarlett Rose, will you be my friend? I cannot”—he clutches his chest dramatically—“I cannot continue this cruel, meaningless life without you by my side!”

I nearly choke on air. “What the hell are you doing? Get down!”

“It’s a grand gesture, Scar. Let it happen,” he whispers, before straightening to his full height. “So . . . is that a yes or a no? Only one will shatter my heart, but hey, that’s not your problem.”

Every set of eyes in the room lands on me, and I can feel my entire face heating up.

“Put me out of my misery, Scarlett!” “Okay! Yes. I’ll be your friend,” I shout.

A grin splits his face as he bows to the crowd, earning a smattering of confused, hesitant applause. Then, with the kind of grace that shouldn’t belong to someone his size, he hops down from the table, landing light as a cat.

“Perfect. So, tutoring tomorrow at four?” he asks casually, as if he didn’t just cause a scene. Or that his sneakers didn’t make contact with that poor freshman’s oatmeal.

“See you later, Scar.”

Scar?

I can only blink at him, caught between awe and disbelief, be-fore I manage a nod. He takes my hand, gives it a firm shake, and then he’s slinging his gear bag over his shoulder and disappearing through the double doors.

What the hell just happened?

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Embrace’ by Bal Khabra appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Roman Holiday Rule by Andra Loy, which releases on August 4th 2026.

Lexi Walker has finally committed to the Italian adventure that she and her late mother dreamed of for years–complete with a meticulously crafted itinerary, four sealed letters to open at Rome’s most iconic sites, and her mother’s final painting to present at the art festival Lexi is helping organize. She’s ready for the perfect Roman getaway. What she doesn’t expect is for her mother’s artwork to start manifesting in real life, turning her carefully planned trip into something unpredictable.

Italian-American architect Mark Russo has sworn off American tourists after having his heart broken, and he’s certainly not about to let another one distract him from winning the restoration bid that could reunite his estranged father with his grandfather. But when the captivating woman next to him on the flight to Rome proposes a photography challenge–whoever captures the heart of Italy in seven days wins–Mark can’t resist the bet or her charm.

As Lexi follows the letters from her mother around the city, she encounters Mark everywhere she goes. Their competitive banter turns to undeniable chemistry, but they both know the cardinal rule of holiday romances. Will a little magic–and a lot of mishaps–break the Roman Holiday Rule?

EXCERPT

Seventeen
Lexi

That evening, walking down narrow, tourist­flooded streets lined with shops and restaurants, I keep fingering the chain around my neck, unused to its emptiness.

Halfway to the restaurant, my phone rings. That must be Julie, since I didn’t get a chance to call her yesterday when I landed. Without looking at the number, I answer, pausing in the orange glow of a lit, wrought-iron sconce.

“Sorry, I was going to call tonight.”

“Flattered, but this is urgent,” a gravelly, amused male voice says.

I pull the phone away from my ear and scowl at the number. Mark. I don’t even try to stop the “ugh” that comes out of my mouth, because that tiny flutter in my stomach at his voice is super inconvenient, misplaced, and confusing. “I thought you were my best friend.”

“I get that a lot.”

I snort, then grit my teeth. He’s not funny. I only semi­laughed because of the delirium of jet lag.

“Are you at your hotel?”

“No, I’m headed to a restaurant. Why?” I turn down the next street and gasp. Massive, ancient columns line the front of a building. From my research I remember it’s Hadrian’s Temple, but I didn’t expect it to be so . . . imposing. This is on the schedule in a few days, so I keep walking.

“The airline dropped a suitcase off at my place while I wasn’t there, except it’s yours.”

“What? You have my luggage?”

He chuckles. “Well, I don’t have twenty pairs of shoes.”

I stop. If he were here, I’d slay him with eye daggers. “You went through my suitcase?” Apparently for Mark, three backup pairs of shoes, including sandals, is an uncountably high number. And here I thought architects were math-y.

“No, that was a joke.” He growls, and I can visualize him pinching the bridge of his nose like he did on the airplane. “Please tell me you have mine so we don’t have to wait for the airline to fix this.”

I’m caught on the fact Mark made another joke. He has an odd sense of enemy behavior.

“I won’t be at the hotel until after dinner.”

“Okay, call me when you’re there.”

I hang up before I say something I regret, like how annoying it is that in a city this size, I can’t get any peace from him or that for some inexplicable reason, it was nice to hear his voice.

It’s not until my bowl of pasta on the red plaid oilcloth is half eaten that I can spare a thought for anything but this meal. The freshly made pasta and homemade sauce with chunks of bacon­like meat they call guanciale is heaven. The recipe is a family secret—I asked.

I may already have the answer to the bet. This meal could be the heart of Italy. It’s definitely the heart of my mouth.

At this early hour, there’s not a soul but me in the dining room, so I prop my phone against my glass and video call Julie.

She opens with, “It’s about time!” and pops a potato chip into her mouth. She’s on a busy New York City street, and with her bright orange glasses and a matching chunky necklace not many people could pull off with success, she looks right at home. “You’ve been on the ground for a full day. What part of ‘let me know when you get in’ was confusing?”

I laugh. “Like you weren’t tracking my flights.”

She points a chip at the camera. “Touché. So what’s this message about the reception program? It didn’t make any sense.”

“Did you switch the design graphics on the reception program?”

Julie screws up her face and checks both ways at a crosswalk. “No. Why would I do that? I loved what we came up with.”

“That cityscape isn’t what got printed. Look.” I pull out the program and my mom’s Trevi Fountain envelope, holding them both up in front of the camera. She’s pored over those unopened envelopes with me for the past year, so her reaction is as strong as mine was.

She stops and squints at her phone screen, eyes darting between the two papers. Someone honks, and she starts moving again. “Whoa. That’s uncanny.”

“Strange, right? And then this morning, a hawker tried to sell me this exact arrangement.” I point at the watercolor bouquet on the seat of the boat below the hot air balloons.

She shivers, eyes wide. “You just blew my mind for a second. But I’m sure there’s an explanation. That combination of flowers isn’t unusual, so it’s not wild that more than one person thought to arrange it like that. Freaky, but not impossible. Ask Gia.”

She’s right. It’s bizarre, but it’s not like something fantastical is going on.

“So how’d you spend your first day? What’s the big plan this evening?”

I panorama the phone around the out­of­the­way, family­owned pasta joint with four items on the menu. The walls are cluttered with mismatched knickknacks on shelves and tiny framed photos of family.

“Okay, nothing special.” Julie shrugs. “Not jealous yet.”

“That’s because you’re not eating this.” I fork another bite of fettuccine into my mouth, humming with pleasure again, like I have with every single bite. Up until now, al dente was a cute cultural anecdote, not a way of living. Whatever I’ve been eating for years labeled as pasta was . . . not.

I catch her up on the flights, yesterday’s reception, and today’s events, lingering over my final bites. Not only to savor the buttery noodles and garlicky tomato sauce, but savoring the fact that Mark is waiting.

(Let’s not analyze if that delicious bubble of anticipation means ha, I’m making him wait, or mmm, I’ll see him again. My pasta coma is confusing all my body signals.)

“So you’re heading back to your hotel for the evening because this guy needs his suitcase?”

“I need my suitcase, Julie. All those outfits are coordinated with the ten­day forecast and my scheduled activities.” And my festival skirt is irreplaceable. Vintage, from my mom’s time in Rome.

“Dire,” she deadpans, and I laugh, because she would not be fine without her whole arsenal of fashion choices.

“Speaking of clothes, how’s the shopping trip going?”

She fills me in and gushes with anticipation at the Broadway show she’s got lined up for this evening, then we disconnect. I’m glad we closed the office this week, or I’d be tempted to help her remotely with the workload. Instead, our conversation has left me even more focused on following through with my plans here, more determined to power through this Mark-suitcase wrinkle.

I walk the two blocks back to my historic hotel building. Sure enough, a suitcase that isn’t mine sits on the far side of the lobby near the receptionist’s desk. I dial Mark’s number, giving the suitcase a light kick with my shoe, and he answers on the first ring.

“Is your luggage a tan hard case with a wonky wheel?” Honestly, it must be his because that’s pretty much how I’d describe him. Like man, like suitcase. (I’m using the wonky wheel as a metaphor for his weird sense of hu—for his unwelcome opinions.)

He lets out a long breath. “Yeah, that’s the one. I’ll come by with yours. Unless you want to do the switch in a dark alley like a spaghetti Western?”

See? Wonky wheel. He wants the helpless tourist scared out of her mind. Possibly lost. Whatever it’ll take to make me run home to Boston.

After he tells me he’s on his way, I google his address since I still remember it from the luggage forms. It’s only three blocks from here, and he said earlier this was urgent, so I wait with it downstairs, settling on the couch since the bar­restaurant off the lobby closes early on Sunday evenings.

Sixty­one minutes later, my neck starts to heat, and I clench my teeth. I’m wasting my evening when he could have been here in five minutes—it’s not the point that I’m exhausted and content to be scrolling my phone in the deserted lobby. He probably thinks a tourist stuck in her hotel is one less tourist making a mess in his city.

Finally, he opens the hotel door. I stand, glaring across the space at him. He must feel my annoyance from his side of the room because he whistles the opening measures of the soundtrack to The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. We face off, eyes narrowed.

He pushes my wheeled suitcase across the wood floor toward me, like this is a hostage exchange at an abandoned mine. So I shove his suitcase to him.

I hold my breath—the suitcases are barreling along, set to pass about a foot apart. At the last second, the crooked wheel sticks, throwing it off course. His suitcase tackles mine, bringing them both to the floor in a heap.

On accident, my exhale comes out as a laugh. We meet at the crime scene in the middle of the lobby.

“Thanks for bringing it over,” I say. It’s a type of conversational hustle. Start positive, then zing. “Did you get lost?”

“No.” The word lingers.

“Was the suitcase too heavy to manage?”

“No, why?” He frowns.

“Just trying to work out why it took you over an hour to walk three blocks.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You memorized my address?” His voice is carefully neutral, but there’s an intense question in his eyes.

“You took my phone number. And you’re deflecting.” I fold my arms.

“I was at dinner across town.” He’s looking at me, as focused as he was at the airport, and his stormy expression does something uncomfortable to my stomach. “I left before dessert.” He pulls a small package wrapped in wax paper out of his bag and passes it to me. “My grandma sent you one of her homemade cannoli Siciliani.”

A sigh slips out until I’m drained of annoyance, leaving me empty. Cannoli are my favorite dessert. Mom and I ordered them in Boston’s North End every month when I was a kid.

I stare at the wrapped cannolo, precious, fragile, and sweet. I will have to eat it alone. This moment is what I was most afraid of in coming to Italy, why I tried to plan my time here within an inch of its life. But there’s no way to prepare for the crippling loneliness and loss when it hits in the form of a single cannolo.

Mom’s letters left a piece of her with me, kept her memory alive in every second I wondered what she had to say to me. What am I going to do after Italy, when all the letters are opened, when she’s still gone and there’s nothing left?

“Please tell your grandma thank you.” My voice cracks on the words. I take the pastry and focus on the luggage. “So how did you know that one belonged to me?”

He sets my navy suitcase upright and fingers the scrap of turquoise fabric tied around the handle. “I noticed you with it at check­in.”

My mouth opens but nothing comes out. Before he found my passport, which disappeared so suspiciously? “Was I a mark?”

I expect a flippant pun about him being the Mark here.

He shoots me a quick look I can’t read. “The airline lady at the counter was having a rotten day and you made her laugh. She was much more pleasant with the rest of us than all the people in line before you. That’s all.”

I was not prepared for that honesty. It’ll take an hour of processing to know how to respond. At least.

He yanks the handle of his suitcase and heads for the door. “Bye, Lexington.”

My hand clenches, crinkling the cannolo’s wax paper. He keeps using that name. It’s too personal and tender for someone who wishes I was a continent away.

“It’s Lexi,” I remind him, but he’s already out the door.

Content taken from The Roman Holiday Rule by Andra Loy, ©2026. Used by permission of Haven Fiction.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘The Roman Holiday Rule’ by Andra Loy appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

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.

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Burnout Summer by Jenna Ramirez

A sunny, emotional new adult (NA) contemporary romance set in small-town Rhode Island with a friends-to-lovers romance, slice-of-life narration, and thoughtful exploration of burnout.

Checking You Out by Jennifer Chen

A sweet, welcoming young adult (YA) contemporary romcom set in Los Angeles that’s a love letter to books, cats, libraries, and Southern California.

Daughter of the Pirate King by Tricia Levenseller

A thrilling, fierce YA fantasy romance with pirates, enemies-to-lovers tension, and found family.

Flirting Lessons by Jasmine Guillory

A sexy, compelling contemporary romance with sapphic love, immersive settings, and, of course, flirting lessons.

Furious by Jamie Pacton and Rebecca Podos 

A riveting, achingly beautiful YA contemporary romance infused with sapphic love, found family, and nods to Fast & Furious.

Gwen & Art Are Not in Love by Lex Croucher

A playful, uplifting YA medieval rom-com inspired by Arthurian legend, brimming with queer love and witty banter.

If We Never End by Laura Taylor Namey 

A tender, atmospheric YA contemporary romance set in small-town Oregon with mystery, summer adventures, and a paranormal love story.

Sea of Charms by Sarah Beth Durst

A magical, exhilarating cozy fantasy romance with music, a sea serpent, sweet treats, sailing, and found family.

Seyoon and Dean, Unscripted by Sujin Witherspoon 

A campy, vibrant YA contemporary romance following a wilderness game show with rivals-to-lovers tension and reality TV drama.

Stranger Things Have Happened by Kasie West

A hilarious, witty contemporary romcom with a fake-dating romance, creative plot, and beautiful exploration of family and friendship.

These Kindred Hearts edited by Shari B. Pennant 

An enchanting, heartfelt YA fantasy romance anthology brimming with pulse-pounding action, touching love stories, diverse characters, and clever magic systems.

The House of Now and Then by Edward Underhill 

A sweeping, tender queer contemporary romance set in a Cape Cod cottage with a magical twist.

The Summer of Broken Rules by K.L. Walther 

A joyful, vivid YA contemporary romance set at Martha’s Vineyard following a propulsive game of assassin during a summer wedding.

The Summer of Lost Things by Jenn Bennett 

An adventurous, cinematic NA contemporary romance set in small-town Michigan with childhood friends-to-lovers yearning, perfect for fans of National Treasure.

This Vicious Grace by Emily Thiede 

An atmospheric, captivating YA fantasy romance set in an Italy-inspired world with a bodyguard romance, hilarious cast, and lethal magic.

Tropesick by Lauren Okie 

A twisty, laugh-out-loud funny contemporary romance with an emotional core that presents fan-favorite romance tropes with heartwarming and heart-wrenching flair.

From small-town adventures to big-city jaunts, harrowing high-seas quests to heartwarming sun-soaked shenanigans, these sixteen captivating romances will bring fun, joy, and love to your summer TBR. Happy reading!

Do you have any other recommendations? Tell us in the comments below!

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Wild Goose Chase by Sarah Adler, which releases on July 28th 2026.

Antique store owner Callahan Leitner has an illegal taxidermy goose in his living room.

Why? It’s…complicated.

But it may end his career unless he finds a legitimate way to dispose of the bird ASAP. Except, there’s an unexpected wrench in his plans—the frustrating, effervescent Annie O’Neill.

Annie is happy to fill in for her uncle at his antique store; it’s the perfect opportunity to gain more experience before opening a shop of her own, plus she’ll finally meet his handsome young business partner. Unfortunately, Cal is nothing like the charming man she expected. She’s tempted to take his apparent dislike personally, until she stumbles upon the source of his moodiness: the contraband waterfowl hidden upstairs.

When the goose goes missing, both of their professional reputations are on the line. As Cal and Annie attempt to track down the bird before it can be traced back to the store, their tentative alliance turns into something much deeper. Will the hunt for their felonious fowl lead to true love, or end in ruin?

EXCERPT

“Good morning.”

“Baltimore,” I whisper-sing to myself as my distracted gaze slowly drifts from an art deco pendant light suspended from the ceiling to the source of the greeting.

Oh.

It’s as if my brain flickers off and back on again, unable to register the reality of someone I’ve only seen on television (and also on my phone screen as I innocuously stalked the business’s Instagram account to catch glimpses of him) standing in front of me. Callahan Leitner as a real-life person. One with dark hair and fair skin and eyes the exact color of the type of olives they put in martinis. Standing in front of me. Ripe for the picking.

I mean. For the learning from.

Although the idea that I could learn anything from this man about running an antique shop seems foolish right now, as I’m pretty sure there’s no room in my head for anything except a thick lust-based fog, permanently settling into all the crevices. Somehow, despite that, I’m still looping “Good morning, Balti-more.” But now it’s transposed over the footage of him carefully running his fingers over the fragile shade of a Handel lamp some guy in Philadelphia brought for televised appraisal that I’ve watched way, way too many times.

“Can . . . I help you?” he asks politely when I don’t respond. “Oh. Sorry. Brain broke for a second,” I say, moving toward him. I reach out my hand. “Hi. I’m Annie O’Neill, Harold’s niece. Reporting for duty!” My free hand comes to my fore-head and I find myself saluting. It is too enthusiastic, too weird.

Too me.

Ideally, Callahan Leitner’s first thought upon meeting me would have been, Wow, this woman is smart and sexy. But instead he’s probably thinking, This woman is a nut.

Despite the immediate impulse to throw up my shield, to protect myself from judgment and say something else that will make him warm to me, I instead cling to the hours and hours of therapy and self-reflection that got me this far. Being too me is kind of the whole point of everything I’ve been working toward. If he thinks I’m a nut, well, that’s better than having to pretend I’m not for the next four weeks.

He takes my hand, a frown on his face. “Callahan, but you can call me Cal. It’s easier,” he says, releasing me as soon as we get the cursory amount of shakes out of the way. “Sorry you had to come here with so little notice. If this whole thing is at all inconvenient, please don’t feel the need to stay. I’m sure I can handle it.”

Wow. I know that was not the best first impression I have ever made, but I don’t think it was bad enough that he should be actively trying to get rid of me already.

“Not at all.” I smile back in a way that may actually just be baring my teeth. “I was so glad that Uncle Harold asked me to come help out while he’s away. You know, I visited Virtu once when I was a little girl and I’ve secretly always dreamed of working here since.”

“Similar thing happened to me. Except I actually did work here,” Callahan says distractedly as he turns back to the counter and scribbles something down on a legal pad. “And now I own it.” Okay. What the fuck are these vibes? I can’t tell if he’s being standoffish, or apathetic, or . . . I don’t even know. I like to think I’m good at reading people, but whatever language this man is written in is not even remotely coherent to me so far. “Well, you half own it,” I say.

This gets his attention, his head popping back up so that he can glare daggers at me.

“Right?” I ask innocently. “Uncle Harold owns the other half. You’re equal partners.”

“We are,” he says, writing again. A moment later he adds, “Harold tells me you ‘upcycle’ antiques and sell them online.” He does not say this as if it’s a good or impressive thing. In fact, I think I can hear the dismissive quotes he’s mentally placed around the word “upcycle.”

“I do. It started as a pandemic side hustle and now it’s my full-time job. Which is nice, because it gives me flexibility to hop in the car and drive three hours to Baltimore on a moment’s notice to help rude men with the stores they half own.”

His pencil freezes for a second. Then it starts back up. Callahan—Cal, I guess—continues focusing on his task, ignoring my barb long enough that I have time to start wondering if I maybe shouldn’t have said it. Finally he finishes, tears the lined sheet of yellow paper off the pad, and holds it out to me with a little jut of his stupidly handsome chin that says, Come on, I don’t have all day.

I snatch the page and look it over. It’s a to-do list.

1. Dust all
2. Vacuum
3. Take photos for potential social media

“Let me know if you have any questions,” he says. “I’ll be in the office. Down the hall, to the right.”

Then he simply walks away, shattering every single fantasy I ever had about him into the tiniest shards that reflect myself back to me in a way that I’m not sure is particularly flattering.

“Good morning, Baltimore!” I sing quietly to myself again, even though I’m absolutely sick of it.

I barely see Cal the rest of the day.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Wild Goose Chase’ by Sarah Adler appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from As Long as It Takes by Jill Francis, which releases on July 21st 2026.

Love isn’t exactly a priority for Lora Brooks. After all, her last break-up made it perfectly clear that she can’t rely on anyone but herself. That’s why Lora’s number one focus is her research, where she’s hard at work debunking Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. But when she’s offered a prestigious post-doctoral position in Zurich—one whose funding hinges on her having European citizenship—everything changes.

Hoping to claim citizenship through her birth father, Lora and her best friend travel to the quaint Italian town where he was born. She knows little about her father (and intends to keep it that way) but nothing, not even the ghosts of her past, will stand between Lora and this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Except, perhaps, Italian bureaucracy. And an outdated filing system. And Andrea, the handsome—and slightly anxious—mayor.

Andrea’s plate may be more than full, but in between trying to increase tourism, wrangling quirky business-owners, and debating whether to run for a second term, he somehow finds the time to show Lora what it really means to live, and perhaps love, like a local. Lora is destined for a future hundreds of miles away and Andrea’s parents are pushing him to return to his fast-paced life in New York, but will they discover that their most basic need is actually just…each other?

Chapter 1

LORA WOULD HAVE PAID BETTER ATTENTION TO VILMARI’S explanation of the ingredients in a Hugo Spritz, but she was too focused on attempting to parallel park, with the help of RuPaul, on the steepest street she had ever seen. Living in New York City for the past decade, she had found herself in the driver’s seat fewer times than were necessary to master the task at hand—let alone in a rental car with a stick shift. But there was that video of Ru on the internet somewhere in a classic convertible explaining how easy it was to parallel park once you measured up to the—what was it? PSL? No, not the latte. The PSD. All she had to do was make sure the seam of the Passenger-Side Door was lined up with the bumper, then reverse at an angle, and she should be nestled in that spot like it had written her an invitation. At least according to RuPaul.

“It sounds so good, don’t you think? You know how much I love elderflower. Remember my St. Germain thing two summers ago? This is the first drink I’m ordering.” Vilmari swiped away her Pinterest board, then paused to glance out the window of the tiny Fiat 500, where a stone wall was the only thing visible. “If there is anywhere to order it.”

“I think we’re not quite in the town yet,” said Lora, glancing at the rearview mirror on the passenger’s side. She flicked her eyes forward to the car in front, which was another Fiat

500, identical to the one she was driving. How hard could this be if that person managed it? she thought as she eased her foot off the clutch and unfortunately felt the car roll back and straight out of the perfect PSD position. Sweat bloomed on her forehead as she contemplated the utility of taking parking advice from someone who also likely thought that both mastering winged eyeliner and walking in eight-inch platforms were child’s play. “Also, it’s only 12:30? Maybe we should get settled before we spritz anything.”

“It’s 12:30 here, but it’s 7:30 in New York. My body’s already on cocktail hour. You got this, Mami?” Vilmari peered over her massive Chanel sunglasses. “I’m sure we can find a parking lot somewhere.”

“No, no,” Lora said, gripping the steering wheel with her left hand. She reached down into the middle of the seats and wrapped her right hand around the parking brake, pressed the button with her thumb and jerked it up, holding on tight. Instead of emulating the elegant RuPaul maneuvering her Mercedes around Bel Air, Lora was going to have to resort to calling up her South Florida roots, where she learned how to yank a 4×4 out of a mud pit in pitch darkness with Tim McGraw on the stereo. She blew out a breath between pursed lips, centering herself. “I got it. I got iiit . . .” She trailed off, sliding her foot off the brake and pressing the clutch while easing the hand brake down. The Fiat rolled forward with a purr; then she cut the wheel and settled into the spot, bumping the back tire gently against the curb.

“Holy crap, that was insane. You nailed it. We have to celebrate!”

“Hold the balloons, Mar. We’ve got a lot more hurdles to get through before we start celebrating anything.”

“We made it here from Milan without getting lost once with a fourteen percent charge on my phone, and even figured out how to pay tolls in Italian. I’m feeling festive!” Vilmari grinned, her shoulders squeezed up to her ears. “Should we grab the bags? Let me GPS the B and B. What’s it called again?”

“Casa Coo-coo Zolo? I think that’s how you say it. But I want to head right to city hall first. Baia Santa looked pretty small on the map, so I think we can take the bags with us now and figure out where everything is later. What do you think?” Lora popped her door open and stepped out into the June heat. It wasn’t sweltering, but hot enough to let her know that August would likely come with fangs. The landscape was on the edge of arid, with short, scrubby bushes lining the road and two tall maritime pines rising up to frame the view of a deep blue wedge of sea. The road was too high up for them to get a good view of the water, but seeing only a piece of it made Lora feel a zing of excitement. Yes, she was here to complete a task, but she was also on the Italian Riviera with her best friend on their last summer trip for—well, for the amount of time it would take her to complete a postdoc in Zurich and figure out whatever was coming next. If she could get her citizenship paperwork filed as soon as possible, there’d be plenty of time for a Spritz—Hugo or otherwise.

“I think I’m ready,” Vilmari said, swinging her tote bag onto her shoulder. “Let’s get this woman a country!”

“I already have a country. What I need is grant money.” Lora laughed as Vilmari ducked her head back into the car, then struggled to push her seat forward. “I already have a country. What I need is grant money.” Lora laughed as Vilmari ducked her head back into the car, then struggled to push her seat forward. Her suitcase was so huge they’d had to shove it in the back seat instead of the trunk, laying it down like a sleeping toddler. “I think we need to get you a stevedore. How is it that you always pack like you’re going to be at sea for six months?”

“Because my style contains multitudes,” she said, gesturing one arm toward the heavens. She clasped both hands around the handle and pulled hard.

From As Long As It Takes by Jill Francis Copyright © 2026 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Where We First Fell by M. Hartley, which releases July 21st 2026.

After a betrayal that shattered her heart, Ellie Cassidy fled Faircloud, Texas, hoping time away would provide her the clarity she couldn’t find in the confines of her small hometown. When the noise of the past finally quiets, she makes the hardest choice of all, to return.

Coming home means facing the whispers, the stares, and the weight of old wounds.

Faircloud has a way of testing her, and soon Ellie finds herself questioning everything all over again, especially her heart.

The only steady thing in her world? Logan Walker.

Her childhood best friend. Her fiercest protector. The boy who’s quietly loved her for years and the man she’s never stopped leaning on.

Logan has always stood by Ellie, even when it meant standing in the shadows. But when she needs an escape, he offers her more than just a shoulder—he offers a road trip, a chance to breathe, and maybe something she never dared hope for, a new chance at love.

As miles pass and secrets unravel, Ellie and Logan discover that sometimes, the love you’ve been searching for has been beside you all along, and the path back home leads straight into the arms you’ve always belonged in.

Chapter 6: Logan

Checking the tack room one last time, I paused, a frown tugging at my brow. One saddle was missing.

It was the end of the day, and I’d been moments from heading home when I noticed the empty space on the wall. But instead of irritation, a small grin curled at the corners of my mouth. There was only one explanation and only one person who would’ve slipped it out without asking.

Shaking my head, I decided to finish up the rest of my nightly duties, flipping off the lights as I went. Behind me, a soft whinny echoed in the barn, almost like a whispered goodnight.

The big wooden doors groaned as I pulled them shut, sliding the wooden block across to lock them up.

Working on Cassidy Ranch was where I knew I belonged. Working for the family—and my best friend—couldn’t get any better.

The Cassidys were kind, understanding, and appreciated hard work when they saw it.

I turned, heading toward the training ring outside, where the last light of day bathed the dirt and fencing in a soft hue.

Beyond the paddock, in the smaller round pen used for acclimating horses, I caught a glimpse of blond hair swaying gently in the breeze. She wore fitted jeans, dirt smudged along the seams, and an oversized T-shirt that hung casually from her frame.

Ellie.

The reins were in her hand, the newest horse on the ranch standing a few feet away, ears flicking with every movement. I moved quietly, careful not to startle either of them, and leaned against the cool metal fence, one foot propped up on the lowest rung.

Ellie didn’t notice me yet, and I didn’t call out. I didn’t want to interrupt. There was something sacred about this moment—her, the horse, and the space between them.

She reached out gently, fingertips brushing the horse’s nose. It snorted and pulled back, head turning away from her touch. Ellie’s hand dropped slowly, and I watched her shoulders sag. Just a little. But enough.

It wasn’t going how she’d hoped.

I let out a soft, low whistle, just enough to catch her attention. Her head snapped toward me, eyes wide for a second before recognition bloomed. She gave me a half-smile, the kind that warmed my chest more than it should’ve.

Without a word, she turned back to the horse and tried again. It stepped away, clearly still unsure, and Ellie didn’t push it. She just stood there, waiting, the reins held loosely in her hand.

Resting my chin on my folded arms, I stayed quiet.

This part of the training, the beginning, was delicate. Bonding mattered. You had to earn a horse’s trust before you could ever ask it to carry you, let alone run wild with you. It was the same kind of trust I imagined you needed in love—quiet, patient, unwavering.

And if anyone had the heart for it, it was her.

So I waited until she called me in.

“You can come over,” Ellie spoke softly. “She might as well get used to your voice too.”

With that invitation, I slipped under the rail and into the round pen. My boots sank into the well-worn dirt as I made my way to her side, falling into step beside her like it was second nature.

“How’s she doing?” I asked, keeping my voice low and easy.

Ellie tilted her head side to side in a shrug, her expression thoughtful. “She’s doing fine… but we’re not bonding as fast as I hoped.”

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She was trying to sound nonchalant, but I could hear the disappointment tucked behind her words. This was her first time back in this ring since she’d left over a year ago. I knew how much pride she had in her ability to connect with a horse, and I also knew how unfairly hard she could be on herself too.

Ellie always expected more from herself than anyone else ever would. She didn’t just want to be good. She needed to be exceptional. Especially here. Especially now.

But I also knew better. If there was anyone made for this kind of work, it was Ellie Cassidy.

People all over Faircloud knew it too. If they had a horse that needed breaking or bonding, they brought it straight to Cassidy Ranch, no questions asked.

“It takes time, Ace,” I said, arms crossing loosely over my chest. “You know that.”

“It never used to,” she muttered, reaching out to stroke the horse’s nose again. The mare huffed and turned her head away, disinterested or maybe just unsure.

I let out a low chuckle. “You don’t remember that time you spent months trying to get Louise to like you?”

Ellie looked up at me then, a small smile tugging at her lips. “God, Louise,” she breathed, eyes softening with the memory.

“She fought you every step of the way,” I said, laughing now. “Came out of that trailer like she was gonna burn the whole place down. Your dad just about threw his back out trying to wrangle her.”

Ellie’s grin grew as she shook her head. “I swore she was going to be mine. Everyone thought I was insane.”

“They did. But you ended up being right. You made her yours. First horse you ever trained from start to finish.”

I remembered all of it. The hours Ellie spent out here, covered in dirt, sweat soaking through the back of her shirt, never giving up. Watching her work was like watching someone bend magic with their bare hands. She had a patience and determination I’d never seen in anyone before, and a quiet sort of power that could calm even the wildest animal.

“I know,” she said, her voice dipping lower. “But this feels… different. It all feels so damn different.”

She didn’t look at me when she said it, and I had the strange feeling she wasn’t just talking about the horse.

She was talking about this place—her place here in Faircloud.

I wanted to ease the weight I saw in her shoulders, but the truth was, I didn’t know how. And the worst part? When Ellie hurt, I hurt too. I felt it in my bones.

“How can I help?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

“I need to eat,” Ellie said, brushing dust from her jeans. “Let’s just call it a night. Will you come in and eat with us?”

There wasn’t a universe where I’d say no to her. Not now. Not ever.

Didn’t matter if I wasn’t hungry. Didn’t matter that I was supposed to meet Mac and Rhodes for beers at The Tequila Cowboy. If Ellie Cassidy asked, I showed up. No hesitation.

“Sure thing, Ace.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket just as she smiled and led the horse toward the barn.

I walked behind her and shot off a quick text to the group chat:

Me: Rain check on the beers.

Rhodes: All right, man. If you change your mind, you know where to find us.

Mac: Bummer.

Boone: You guys are going for beers?

Mac: Don’t you remember when you said “I’m trying to watch my figure”?

Boone: That was last-week me. This-week me feels different. I’ll be there.

By the time Ellie exited the barn, I locked my phone and put it back in my pocket. I stood waiting, and when she caught up, we fell into step along the well-worn dirt path leading to the main house.

“Did you think of a name for her yet?” I asked, glancing over.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, brightening. She picked up her pace until she was a few steps ahead of me, then spun around and started walking backward, her face lit with mischief.

“Hear me out.” She held up three fingers. “First contender: Dottie.” She dropped her ring finger. “Second: Sassafras.” Another finger down, this time her pointer. Which left one.

Her middle.

She grinned as she held it up proudly. “And finally, Whinny Houston.”

I blinked, laughing. “Whinny Houston? You serious?”

“Mm-hmm.” She turned back around, a smug little bounce in her step. “Penny helped with that one. I thought for sure it had to be a top contender.”

“Of course she did.”

My gaze dipped to her figure—the way her jeans hugged her hips, how her boots kicked up the dust, that messy hair spilling down her back. Ellie was wild and free, just like any of the horses she tamed.

She glanced back suddenly, almost catching me admiring her.

“Wanna race the rest of the way to the house?” she asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she crouched into a runner’s stance, one brow raised in challenge.

Ellie’s competitive streak could power the entire ranch. Everything was a game. A challenge. A win she had to claim. But I wasn’t all that competitive, unless it meant getting to see her smile. I’d fight tooth and nail to win that—that was mine.

“Oh, you’re on.”

“On your mark… get set… go!”

She took off like lightning, boots thudding against the earth. I yanked off my hat so it wouldn’t fly, blond curls whipping in the wind as I sprinted beside her. I gained the advantage briefly. My legs stretched long, my strides quick—but hers were quicker. She was catching up, maybe even gaining.

The main house sat just ahead.

I slowed a hair. Just enough that she passed me, triumphant.

That’s when I made my move.

With a grin, I jammed my hat back on, reached out, and caught her around the waist. She squealed as I hauled her over my shoulder like a sack of feed and spun us in a few tight circles, both of us laughing like fools.

“Logan!” she gasped between giggles. “Put me down!”

I did, placing her in front of the porch steps, setting her on the higher step like the queen she was.

She turned toward me, flushed and breathless, planting her hands on her hips. “I totally won.”

“Only because I let you,” I teased, grinning up at her.

With me being on the ground and Ellie higher, our position made us close enough that I felt her breath tickling my lips as she fought to catch it.

She narrowed her eyes, but her smile was all softness and spark. “You keep telling yourself that, Walker.”

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Matchmaker’s Cottage by Kat Sloane, which releases on August 11th 2026.

Julia Schaeffer might run the most romantic little bed-and-breakfast in Upstate New York, but as far as that infuriating Ethan Duchamp is concerned, this older, wiser Julia has a strict “no vacancy” policy. Sure, she’s teetering on the edge of a financial cliff, and his half-baked plan to pair up his celebrity clients at her inn will undoubtedly be good for business…but how much forced proximity with the man who abandoned her is she supposed to take?

Ethan needs this to work. The dreamy, autumnal—and blissfully secluded—cottage from his childhood summers is the ideal setting for playing matchmaker to Hollywood’s next power couple. It’s the only way to save his PR career from the tabloid toilet. He knew that the inn and Julia’s warm, comforting homemade touch would inspire real feelings—he just didn’t expect them to be his. Again.

But as old wounds reopen, and their connection rekindles, Julia and Ethan are forced to confront the truths they’ve both tried to bury. In a town where nothing stays hidden for long, they’ll have to decide if they can rebuild what was lost—or if their second chance will be derailed by scars that have yet to heal.

4

LIKE AN APPARITION—or a bad dream—Ethan Duchamp was on her property. Standing about ten feet in front of her. The closest he’d been in more than eight years.

He was clutching the handle of an expensive-looking suitcase in one hand, a gray blazer thrown over his opposite shoulder. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up halfway, exposing tan forearms that she knew were dusted with light brown hair even if she couldn’t see them from her vantage point.

He looked the same, basically. Perhaps his shoulders were a bit broader, looking like he’d filled out more across the chest and torso, his hair a little longer, now brushed back from his forehead in neatly curated waves. The most telling difference was the beard. Julia had only ever known Ethan to be clean-shaven, even in middle school when all the boys were growing out bad mustaches or in those early college years when goatees had unfortunately been a thing. Ethan had always defied the facial hair trends, claiming nobody wanted to see his poor excuse for a beard anyway.

It wasn’t a poor excuse, though, Julia noted, trying to stay as dispassionate as possible. It was certainly not sparse or inadequate in any way, nor was it unruly or overlong. Instead, it gave the appearance of a man who took care of himself. Perhaps he had some sort of kit that he maintained it with. Certainly a brush of some sort. Maybe even an oil.

She almost laughed at the ludicrous direction of her thoughts. Here she was, confronted with this man she’d known almost all her life, minus the last decade, and all she could think of was the presumed maintenance of his facial hair.

It was sick. Deranged.

Were there hints of auburn in there?

Stop.

“Hi, Gem.”

Ah. There it was.

She’d noticed how he’d avoided using the nickname over the phone, although at the time she’d thought maybe he had almost said it right at the beginning of their conversation, the J sound of her name lingering a bit too long before ending in –ulia. It had been a small blessing, honestly, a reminder that they were no longer Ethan and Gem but instead were now strangers. And how it needed to stay that way, if only for her sanity and all the work she had done to forget how much he had meant to her once upon a time.

Except now—

Now the bastard had shown up, interrupted her from getting the pillowcases off the clothesline in a timely manner, made the goddamn wind stop itself dead, and then, to top it all off, he’d called her Gem.

Don’t call me that! she wanted to scream.

Instead, she responded: “Hi, Ethan.”

Excerpted from THE MATCHMAKER’S COTTAGE by Kat Sloane, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2026

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