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Book Lovers: The newest laugh-out-loud summer romcom from Sunday Times bestselling author Emily Henry (English Edition) Format Kindle
One summer. Two rivals. A plot twist they didn't see coming...
'Her best yet' Taylor Jenkins Reid, Malibu Rising
'One of my favourite authors' Colleen Hoover, It Ends With Us
'Magical, delightful, and utterly one of a kind' Ali Hazelwood, The Love Hypothesis
Nora is a cut-throat literary agent at the top of her game. Her whole life is books.
Charlie is an editor with a gift for creating bestsellers. And he's Nora's work nemesis.
Nora has been through enough break-ups to know she's the one men date before finding their happy-ever-after. To prevent another dating dud, Nora's sister has persuaded her to swap her city desk for a month's holiday in Sunshine Falls.
It's a small town straight out of a romance novel, but instead of meeting sexy lumberjacks, handsome doctors or cute bartenders, Nora keeps bumping into...Charlie.
She's no heroine. He's no hero. So can they take a page out of an entirely different book?
Brimming with witty banter, characters you can't help but fall for and off-the-charts chemistry, BOOK LOVERS is Emily Henry's best novel yet.
'Emily Henry's books are a gift, the perfect balance between steamy and sweet' V. E Schwab, Gallant
'So smart, so funny, so sexy' Beth O'Leary, The No-Show
'Emily Henry has another hit on her hands' Sophie Cousens, Just Haven't Met You Yet
'A thoroughly modern yet classic romance' Sunday Times
'Heartfelt, funny, and full of joy. (Also, three cheers for Nora's super-relatable bangs journey!)' Tia Williams, Seven Days in June
'The master of witty repartee' Daily Mail
'Super fun, sassy, smart, sexy... Emily Henry is now an auto-buy author for me' Red Magazine
'Book Lovers is Schitt's Creek for book nerds' Casey Mcquiston, One Last Stop
'The most phenomenal portrayal of enemies to lovers I have ever read. . .' Laura Jane Williams, Our Stop
Description du produit
When books are your life—or in my case, your job— you get pretty good at guessing where a story is going. The tropes, the archetypes, the common plot twists all start to organize themselves into a catalogue inside your brain, divided by category and genre.
The husband is the killer.
The nerd gets a makeover, and without her glasses, she’s smoking hot.
The guy gets the girl—or the other girl does.
Someone explains a complicated scientific concept, and someone else says, “Um, in English, please?”
The details may change from book to book, but there’s nothing truly new under the sun.
Take, for example, the small-town love story.
The kind where a cynical hotshot from New York or Los Angeles gets shipped off to Smalltown, USA—to, like, run a family-owned Christmas tree farm out of business to make room for a soulless corporation.
But while said City Person is in town, things don’t go to plan. Because, of course, the Christmas tree farm—or bakery, or whatever the hero’s been sent to destroy—is owned and operated by someone ridiculously attractive and suitably available for wooing.
Back in the city, the lead has a romantic partner. Someone ruthless who encourages him to do what he’s set out to do and ruin some lives in exchange for that big promotion. He fields calls from her, during which she interrupts him, barking heartless advice from the seat of her Peloton bike.
You can tell she’s evil because her hair is an unnatural blond, slicked back à la Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, and also, she hates Christmas decorations.
As the hero spends more time with the charming baker/seamstress/tree farm . . . person, things change for him. He learns the true meaning of life!
He returns home, transformed by the love of a good woman. There he asks his ice-queen girlfriend to take a walk with him. She gapes, says something like, In these Manolos?
It will be fun, he tells her. On the walk, he might ask her to look up at the stars.
She snaps, You know I can’t look up right now! I just got Botox!
And then he realizes: he can’t go back to his old life. He doesn’t want to! He ends his cold, unsatisfying relationship and proposes to his new sweetheart. (Who needs dating?)
At this point, you find yourself screaming at the book, You don’t even know her! What’s her middle name, bitch? From across the room, your sister, Libby, hushes you, throws popcorn at your head without lifting her gaze from her own crinkly-covered library book.
And that’s why I’m running late to this lunch meeting.
Because that’s my life. The trope that governs my days. The archetype over which my details are superimposed.
I’m the city person. Not the one who meets the hot farmer. The other one.
The uptight, manicured literary agent, reading manuscripts from atop her Peloton while a serene beach scene screen saver drifts, unnoticed, across her computer screen.
I’m the one who gets dumped.
I’ve read this story, and lived it, enough to know it’s happening again right now, as I’m weaving through late-afternoon foot traffic in Midtown, my phone clutched to my ear.
He hasn’t said it yet, but the hairs on the back of my neck are rising, the pit opening in my stomach as he maneuvers the conversation toward a cartoon-style drop off a cliff.
Grant was only supposed to be in Texas for two weeks, just long enough to help close a deal between his company and the boutique hotel they were trying to acquire outside San Antonio. Having already experienced two post–work trip breakups, I reacted to the news of his trip as if he’d announced he’d joined the navy and was shipping out in the morning.
Libby tried to convince me I was overreacting, but I wasn’t surprised when Grant missed our nightly phone call three times in a row, or when he cut two others short. I knew how this ended.
And then, three days ago, hours before his return flight, it happened.
A force majeure intervened to keep him in San Antonio longer than planned. His appendix burst.
Theoretically, I could’ve booked a flight right then, met him at the hospital. But I was in the middle of a huge sale and needed to be glued to my phone with stable Wi-Fi access. My client was counting on me. This was a life-changing chance for her. And besides, Grant pointed out that an appendectomy was a routine procedure. His exact words were “no big deal.”
So I stayed, and deep down, I knew I was releasing Grant to the small-town-romance-novel gods to do with what they do best.
Now, three days later, as I’m practically sprinting to lunch in my Good Luck heels, my knuckles white against my phone, the reverberation of the nail in my relationship’s coffin rattles through me in the form of Grant’s voice.
“Say that again.” I mean to say it as a question. It comes out as an order.
Grant sighs. “I’m not coming back, Nora. Things have changed for me this past week.” He chuckles. “I’ve changed.”
A thud goes through my cold, city-person heart. “Is she a baker?” I ask.
He’s silent for a beat. “What?”
“Is she a baker?” I say, like that’s a perfectly reasonable first question to ask when your boyfriend dumps you over the phone. “The woman you’re leaving me for.”
After a brief silence, he gives in: “She’s the daughter of the couple who own the hotel. They’ve decided not to sell. I’m going to stay on, help them run it.”
I can’t help it: I laugh. That’s always been my reaction to bad news. It’s probably how I won the role of Evil Villainess in my own life, but what else am I supposed to do? Melt into a crying puddle on this packed sidewalk? What good would that do?
I stop outside the restaurant and gently knead at my eyes. “So, to be clear,” I say, “you’re giving up your amazing job, your amazing apartment, and me, and you’re moving to Texas. To be with someone whose career can best be described as the daughter of the couple who own the hotel?”
“There’s more important things in life than money and a fancy career, Nora,” he spits.
I laugh again. “I can’t tell if you think you’re being serious.”
Grant is the son of a billionaire hotel mogul. “Raised with a silver spoon” doesn’t even begin to cover it. He probably had gold-leaf toilet paper.
For Grant, college was a formality. Internships were a formality. Hell, wearing pants was a formality! He got his job through sheer nepotism.
Which is precisely what makes his last comment so rich, both figuratively and literally.
I must say this last part aloud, because he demands, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I peer through the window of the restaurant, then check the time on my phone. I’m late—I’m never late. Not the first impression I was aiming for.
“Grant, you’re a thirty-four-year-old heir. For most of us, our jobs are tied directly to our ability to eat.”
“See?” he says. “This is the kind of worldview I’m done with. You can be so cold sometimes, Nora. Chastity and I want to—”
It’s not intentional—I’m not trying to be cutting—when I cackle out her name. It’s just that, when hilariously bad things happen, I leave my body. I watch them happen from outside myself and think, Really? This is what the universe has chosen to do? A bit on the nose, isn’t it?
In this case, it’s chosen to guide my boyfriend into the arms of a woman named after the ability to keep a hymen intact. I mean, it is funny.
He huffs on the other end of the line. “These people are good people, Nora. They’re salt of the earth. That’s the kind of person I want to be. Look, Nora, don’t act upset—”
“You’ve never needed me—”
“Of course I don’t!” I’ve worked hard to build a life that’s my own, that no one else could pull a plug on to send me swirling down a cosmic drain.
“You’ve never even stayed over at my place—” he says.
“My mattress is objectively better!” I researched it for nine and a half months before buying it. Of course, that’s also pretty much how I date, and still, I end up here.
“—so don’t pretend you’re heartbroken,” Grant says. “I’m not sure you’re even capable of being heartbroken.”
Again, I have to laugh.
Because on this, he’s wrong. It’s just that once you’ve had your heart truly shattered, a phone call like this is nothing. A heart-twinge, maybe a murmur. Certainly not a break.
Grant’s on a roll now: “I’ve never even seen you cry.”
You’re welcome, I consider saying. How many times had Mom told us, laughing through her tears, that her latest beau had told her she was too emotional?
That’s the thing about women. There’s no good way to be one. Wear your emotions on your sleeve and you’re hysterical. Keep them tucked away where your boyfriend doesn’t have to tend to them and you’re a heartless bitch.
“I’ve got to go, Grant,” I say.
“Of course you do,” he replies.
Apparently my following through with prior commitments is just more proof that I am a frigid, evil robot who sleeps in a bed of hundred-dollar bills and raw diamonds. (If only.)
I hang up without a goodbye and tuck myself beneath the restaurant’s awning. As I take a steadying breath, I wait to see if the tears will come. They don’t. They never do. I’m okay with that.
I have a job to do, and unlike Grant, I’m going to do it, for myself and everyone else at Nguyen Literary Agency.
I smooth my hair, square my shoulders, and head inside, the blast of air-conditioning scrubbing goose bumps over my arms.
It’s late in the day for lunch, so the crowd is thin, and I spot Charlie Lastra near the back, dressed in all black like publishing’s own metropolitan vampire.
We’ve never met in person, but I double-checked the Publishers Weekly announcement about his promotion to executive editor at Wharton House Books and committed his photograph to memory: the stern, dark brows; the light brown eyes; the slight crease in his chin beneath his full lips. He has the kind of dark mole on one cheek that, if he were a woman, would definitely be considered a beauty mark.
He can’t be much past his midthirties, with the kind of face you might describe as boyish, if not for how tired he looks and the gray that thoroughly peppers his black hair.
Also, he’s scowling. Or pouting. His mouth is pouting. His forehead is scowling. Powling.
He glances at his watch.
Not a good sign. Right before I left the office, my boss, Amy, warned me Charlie is famously testy, but I wasn’t worried. I’m always punctual.
Except when I’m getting dumped over the phone. Then I’m six and a half minutes late, apparently.
“Hi!” I stick out my hand to shake his as I approach. “Nora Stephens. So nice to meet you in person, finally.”
He stands, his chair scraping over the floor. His black clothes, dark features, and general demeanor have the approximate effect on the room of a black hole, sucking all the light out of it and swallowing it entirely.
Most people wear black as a form of lazy professionalism, but he makes it look like a capital-c Choice, the pairing of his relaxed merino sweater, trousers, and brogues giving him the air of a celebrity caught on the street by a paparazzo. I catch myself calculating how many American dollars he’s wearing. Libby calls it my “disturbing middle-class party trick,” but really it’s just that I love pretty things and often online window-shop to self-soothe after a stressful day.
I’d put Charlie’s outfit at somewhere between eight hundred and a thousand. Right in the range of mine, frankly, though everything I’m wearing except my shoes was purchased secondhand.
He examines my outstretched hand for two long seconds before shaking it. “You’re late.” He sits without bothering to meet my gaze.
Is there anything worse than a man who thinks he’s above the laws of the social contract just because he was born with a decent face and a fat wallet? Grant has burned through my daily tolerance for self-important asshats. Still, I have to play this game, for my authors’ sakes.
“I know,” I say, beaming apologetically but not actually apologizing. “Thank you for waiting for me. My train got stopped on the tracks. You know how it is.”
His eyes lift to mine. They look darker now, so dark I’m not sure there are irises around those pupils. His expression says he does not know how it is, re: trains stopping on the tracks for reasons both grisly and mundane.
Probably, he doesn’t take the subway.
Probably, he goes everywhere in a shiny black limo, or a Gothic carriage pulled by a team of Clydesdales.
I shuck off my blazer (herringbone, Isabel Marant) and take the seat across from him. “Have you ordered?”
“No,” he says. Nothing else.
My hopes sink lower.
We’d scheduled this get-to-know-you lunch weeks ago. But last Friday, I’d sent him a new manuscript from one of my oldest clients, Dusty Fielding. Now I’m second-guessing whether I could subject one of my authors to this man.
I pick up my menu. “They have a goat cheese salad that’s phenomenal.”
Charlie closes his menu and regards me. “Before we go any further,” he says, thick black brows furrowing, his voice low and innately hoarse, “I should just tell you, I found Fielding’s new book unreadable.”
My jaw drops. I’m not sure what to say. For one thing, I hadn’t planned on bringing the book up. If Charlie wanted to reject it, he could’ve just done so in an email. And without using the word unreadable.
But even aside from that, any decent person would at least wait until there was some bread on the table before throwing out insults.
I close my own menu and fold my hands on the table. “I think it’s her best yet.”
Dusty’s already published three others, each of them fantastic, though none sold well. Her last publisher wasn’t willing to take another chance on her, so she’s back in the water, looking for a new home for her next novel.
And okay, maybe it’s not my favorite of hers, but it has immense commercial appeal. With the right editor, I know what this book can be.
Charlie sits back, the heavy, discerning quality of his gaze sending a shock wave through me. It feels like he’s looking right through me, past the shiny politeness to the jagged edges underneath. His look says, Wipe that frozen smile off your face. You’re not that nice.
He turns his water glass in place. “Her best is The Glory of Small Things,” he says, like three seconds of eye contact was enough to read my innermost thoughts and he knows he’s speaking for both of us.
Frankly, Glory was one of my favorite books in the last decade, but that doesn’t make this one chopped liver.
I say, “This book is every bit as good. It’s just different—less subdued, maybe, but that gives it a cinematic edge.”
“Less subdued?” Charlie squints. At least the golden brown has seeped back into his eyes so I feel less like they’re going to burn holes in me. “That’s like saying Charles Manson was a lifestyle guru. It might be true, but it’s hardly the point. This book feels like someone watched that Sarah McLachlan commercial for animal cruelty prevention and thought, But what if all the puppies died on camera?”
An irritable laugh lurches out of me. “Fine. It’s not your cup of tea. But maybe it would be helpful,” I fume, “if you told me what you liked about the book. Then I know what to send you in the future.”
Liar, my brain says. You’re not sending him more books.
Liar, Charlie’s unsettling, owlish eyes say. You’re not sending him more books.
This lunch—this potential working relationship—is dead in the water.
Charlie doesn’t want to work with me, and I don’t want to work with him, but I guess he hasn’t entirely abandoned the social contract, because he considers my question.
“It’s overly sentimental for my taste,” he says eventually. “And the cast is caricatured—”
“Quirky,” I disagree. “We could scale them back, but it’s a large cast—their quirks help distinguish them.”
“And the setting—”
“What’s wrong with the setting?” The setting in Once in a Lifetime sells the whole book. “Sunshine Falls is charming.” --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition kindle_edition.
Biographie de l'auteur
Détails sur le produit
- ASIN : B09DS6YMZP
- Éditeur : Penguin (3 mai 2022)
- Langue : Anglais
- Taille du fichier : 1575 KB
- Synthèse vocale : Activée
- Lecteur d’écran : Pris en charge
- Confort de lecture : Activé
- X-Ray : Activé
- Word Wise : Activé
- Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 379 pages
- Pagination - ISBN de l'édition imprimée de référence : 0593440870
- Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon : 1,811 en Boutique Kindle (Voir les 100 premiers en Boutique Kindle)
- Commentaires client :
À propos de l'auteur
Meilleurs commentaires provenant d’autres pays
As expected, a beautifully written story with crystal clear descriptions that arent ridiculously flowery (thankfully) nor are they overused (she let out the breath she didn't know she was holding... Am I right?). As you can imagine, I'm not a big fan of long descriptions. I like action and lively diologue. But here Emily gives us LOL and heart breaking actions, superb diologue and descriptions that you've never read before and you wonder "how have these words never been used to describe this situation/characters/story before by another author?!".
Emily was good before. But here she's a genius! A master of her craft! Someone to aspire to be like (or just become friends with). She doesn't need to get any better than this, but if she does, that would be a lottery winning ticket to us readers/her bank account and all the people behind the scenes that make this happen and get paid to do so. Apologies for all the rambling. I'm just so in love with this book/these characters/the tears she made me cry/the HEA!
You probably read the blurb already, so now just jump right in. THIS is what 80% of the books should be like but aren't. Emily is magic!
Having said all this, I have a small warning for you (regarding the content): one of the characters suffers from Parentification (if you are a new mom you may have come across this on IG or else you may identify with this character and understand why you behave the way that you do). I'm not going to explain this here as I'm not a therapist and it's not my place (but I would suggest a quick search to understand it). Some people may find it slightly (psychologically) triggering. It is beautifully done and not just a gimmick.
Now buy it, stay up late reading it, cry over it and thank Emily later :)
Admittedly, I struggled to warm to Nora in the opening chapters, and found those same chapters a little slow going. But from the second the sisters arrived in Sunshine Falls, I really warmed to her. By chapter nine I was totally invested and beginning to understand why Nora had become the woman she was now. Nora has lived her life putting herself last. It was heartbreaking reading about how she had been compartmentalising her feelings for so long.
I loved Charlie. In many ways he's like me. A stranger in his own family. He has the same dry sense of humour as Nora (and myself), and I found myself rooting for them almost immediately. Their banter was top tier: simultaneously hilarious with wicked sharp retorts but also hot as sin; and it always felt authentic (I have entire pages annotated). The chemistry was incredible. This is slow burn, enemies-to-lovers/soulmates done right. But more than that, this is a story of self-acceptance, and of sisterhood. I probably cried non-stop for the final ten chapters. That, for me, is the sign of a great book. Book Lovers is a story of two of them trying to find that perfect last page.
My first book by this author, I will definitely be catching up on Emily Henry's previous books!
Overall Rating: ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Heat Rating: 🔥🔥 and a half
Emotional Rating: 😂😂🥰😍💔💔😢😢
*Thanks to NetGalley for the opportunity to leave an honest review*
Henry writes beautifully about how life changes, never to be the same again; accepting the pain of that and embracing the hope of new memories and exciting adventures. At the heart of it all, is the bonds of family and what makes home, home.
Furthermore, the characterisation of Nora was impeccable. She’s a workaholic, struggles to become emotionally attached (in all of her ex-boyfriends opinions) and cares more for pragmatism instead of whimsical romance. Henry takes character traits typically reserved for a villain in the romance genre, and gives them the limelight in a very refreshing and satisfying spin.
As for the romance… Charlie and Nora’s chemistry sizzled off the page. They illustrated a very believable portrayal of an initial liking filled with banter and flirtation, into kindred spirits and love. They intellectually challenged each other and emotionally unravelled and supported the other, all of which provided fluffy feels, so many laughs and made me smile like the Cheshire Cat lord knows how many times. You know a romance delivers everything it ought to when the reader is left thinking: where’s MY Charlie Lastra????
All in all, Book Lovers delivers a perfect contemporary romance. It’s a humorous and emotional warm hug of a book. I thoroughly loved it.
There is a real bond between Nora and her sister which was endearing to read. I don’t have a sister but it made me wish I had one with how close these two are. Both sisters are very different in terms of what they want out of life and there are some ups and downs on their trip. Charlie makes a great love interest and boy, do things get more than a bit hot under the collar! The sparks between the two were leaping from the pages!
Book Lovers was a fun, charming and heartfelt read that had me wholly engaged. It’s light-hearted with some meaningful parts as well as plenty of zest. The title couldn’t be anymore suited as book lovers of this genre will adore the whole storyline. Can’t believe that this is my first book by the author and will definitely be checking out her others.