Cover

Praise

Praise for Talk Bookish to Me

“A fun and sexy romp, with chemistry that gave me all the feels!”

—Jennifer Probst, New York Times bestselling author of Our Italian Summer

“An engaging romp of a story about what happens when a romance writer uses her novel’s checkpoints to win back her first love and her life becomes stranger and better than fiction. Thoroughly enjoyable.”

—Shelley Noble, New York Times bestselling author of Imagine Summer

“Talk Bookish to Me is your new favorite comfort read! More than a romance novel, it’s an ode to the genre itself. With loveable characters, charming banter, and sizzling sexual tension, Talk Bookish to Me is an adorable escapist romp that’s sure to put a smile on your face.”

—Kristin Rockaway, author of She’s Faking It

“Chemistry that will captivate readers from the very first encounter!”

—Sajni Patel, author of The Trouble with Hating You

“Add this book to your TBR list immediately!”

—Sarah Smith, author of Faker

“It had me laughing, it had me shouting, it had me from the get-go.”

—Pernille Hughes, author of Probably the Best Kiss in the World

Dedication

For my mom, as with everything else good in my life, I couldn’t have done this without you

About the Author

Kate Bromley lives in New York City with her husband, son and her somewhat excessive collection of romance novels. (It’s not hoarding if it’s books, right?) She was a preschool teacher for seven years and is now focusing full-time on combining her two great passions—writing swoon-worthy love stories and making people laugh. Talk Bookish to Me is her first novel.

1

“Wait, was I supposed to bring a gift?”

I turn my gaze from the floor to the well-dressed man standing beside me. There are only two of us in the elevator, so he must be talking to me.

“I think it’s a matter of personal preference,” I answer. “I’m the maid of honor so I had to be excessive.”

His eyebrows bob up as I adjust my grip on the Great-Dane-sized gift basket I’m carrying. The cellophane wrapping paper crinkles each time I move, echoing through the confined space just loudly enough to keep things weird. Because if everyone isn’t uncomfortable for the entire ride, are you even really in an elevator?

I’m low-key ecstatic when the doors glide open ten seconds later. With my basket now on the cusp of breaking both my arms and my spirit, I beeline it out of there and stride into the rooftop lounge where my best friend is hosting her pre-wedding party, drinking in the scent of heat and champagne as I maneuver through the sea of guests.

Like most maids-of-honor, I flung myself down the Etsy rabbit hole headfirst and ordered an obscene amount of decorations for tonight’s event. Burlap “Mr. & Mrs.” banners dangle from floating shelves behind the bar as twinkle lights weave around the balcony railings like ivy. Lace-trimmed mason jars filled with pink roses sit on every candlelit cocktail table. Cristina and I worked with the tenacity of two matrimonial Spartans to get everything ready this morning, and it’s clear that our blood, sweat and tears were very much worth it.

It’s then that I spot Cristina mingling near the end of the bar. Beautiful, petite and come-hither curvy, I’d hate her if she weren’t one of my favorite people ever. Her caramel hair spills down her back and her white high-low dress sets her apart from the crowd in just the right way—she’s a princess in the forest and we’re her adoring woodland animals. I’m her feisty chipmunk sidekick to my core.

I place my gift on a nearby receiving table and give a little wave when I catch her eye. She’s waiting for me with a huge grin when I arrive at her side.

“Hey, lady!” she says, pulling me in for a hug. “Look at you, rolling in here looking all gorgeous.”

We step apart and I stand up a bit taller. “Why, thank you. I feel pretty good.”

It’s also very possible that Cristina is just so used to me dazzling the world with yoga pants and sweaters every day that my transformation seems more dramatic than it is.

“Were you able to get any writing done this afternoon?” she asks, handing me a glass of champagne from off the mahogany bar top.

I get a twisting knot in my gut at the mention of my writing, or lack thereof. Having been dying a slow literary death for almost a year, I’m never without some stomach-turning sensation for long. The final deadline for my next romance novel is officially a month away and if I don’t deliver a bestseller by then—

“Okay, you’re making your freak-out face,” Cristina interjects. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

I inhale a shallow breath and force a smile. “It’s fine. I’m good.”

“Let’s switch gears—are you sure it’s not weird that I’m having a pre-wedding party? Was booking the salsa band too much since I’m having one at the wedding, too?”

Beyond grateful for the booming trumpet and bongos that are drowning out my own thoughts, I turn to the corner and find the ten-piece group playing with addictive abandon. Cristina’s relatives, who are essentially non-trained professional salsa dancers, dominate the dance floor, and rightfully so. Cristina’s brother, Edgar, once tried to teach me the basics but I’m fairly confident I looked like a plank of wood that was given the gift of limbs. Cristina recommended dance lessons. Edgar suggested a bottle of aguardiente and prayer.

“The band is amazing,” I say as I swing back around, “and of course people have pre-wedding parties.” I’ve actually never heard of a pre-wedding party. An engagement party, yes. A bachelorette party, absolutely. But what’s going down tonight is basically a casual reception days before the mega-reception.

“Jason and I just have so many people coming in from out of town, plus we wanted the bridal party to get acquainted. We figured a little get-together would be fun.”

“I’m all for it. Who doesn’t want to pre-game for a wedding a week in advance?”

“I know I do,” Cristina says, lifting her own champagne and taking a sip. “Everyone is here except Jason and some groomsmen. Can you believe that creep is late to his own party?”

“Should you really be calling your fiancé a creep?”

“He’s my creep so it’s okay.”

“Valid point.”

“Picture please! Will you girls get together?”

I look to my right and find a teenage boy with wildly curly hair pointing a camera at us. He’s dressed in all black and looks so eager to take our photo that I can’t help but find him endearing.

“Absolutely! Big smile, Kara.” Cristina throws her arm around my waist and after we withstand an intense flash, the young man is gone before my eyes can readjust. “That was Jason’s cousin, Rob. He wants to be a photographer, so I hired him for the night.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” I say, still recovering from my momentary blindness. “By the way, where is Jason?”

“He’s at home. Two of his groomsmen are driving up and he wanted to wait for them since, apparently, grown men can’t find their way to a party by themselves.”

“Driving in Manhattan is intimidating. He probably didn’t want them to get lost.”

“Right, because neither of them has GPS? Jason should be here.”

I’m honestly shocked that Jason isn’t here. I love Cristina and Jason both to death but they’re one of those couples that rarely go out socially without each other. Even when I invite Cristina over to my apartment for a wine night, she asks to bring Jason. I’ve always thought it was a bit much, but I guess it works for them.

“Okay, forget everyone else, let’s toast.” I clear my throat and hold up my champagne. “When we were both waitressing at McMahon’s Pub in grad school, I had no idea it would lead to nine amazing years of friendship. Now I’d be lost without you. Here’s to you having a magical night. I’m so glad I’m here to celebrate with you.”

We smile and tap our glasses together, the ding of the crystal echoing my words.

I take a sip and the bubbly drink slips easily down my throat. Still savoring the sweetness, I ask, “So, who are these mystery groomsmen Jason’s waiting for?”

“One is named Beau and I can’t remember the other one. They’re two guys he grew up with when his family lived in North Carolina.”

“North Carolina? I thought Jason was from Texas.”

“He spent most of his life in Texas, but he lived in North Carolina until he was ten. He somehow kept in contact with these two through the years.”

“That’s nice, him staying friends with them for so long.”

“Yeah, it’s adorable, but they still should have gotten their asses here on their own.” Cristina is poised to elaborate when her gaze locks on something across the room. She tries and fails to look annoyed instead of excited.

“I’m guessing the groom has arrived,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. My suspicions are confirmed as I see Jason making his way towards us, smiling at Cristina like a fifth grader saying “cheese” on picture day. He’s tilting his head and everything.

“There she is! There’s my incredibly forgiving future wife.” Jason leans down and kisses Cristina before she can verbally obliterate him. He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek next and then shifts back to his fiancée’s side, sneaking an arm around her waist and pulling her to his hip.

“So, I’m going to go ahead and disregard all the semi-violent text messages you’ve sent me over the past hour. Bearing that in mind, how’s everything going?”

Cristina looks up at him, feigning disinterest. “It’s going great. Since you weren’t here, I talked to several nice men. Turns out, pre-wedding parties are a great place to meet guys.”

“I’m so happy for you.”

“I appreciate that. Four contenders, specifically, really piqued my interest.”

“Are they taller than me?” Jason asks. “Do they make a lot of money?”

“Obviously. They’re way taller and all of them are independently wealthy.”

“Nice. Kara, did you meet these freakishly tall and rich men?”

“I did and spoiler alert, I’m engaged now, too! Double wedding, here we come!”

Jason smiles and pulls Cristina in even closer, his gaze holding hers. “I guess this is where being late gets you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. Do you forgive me?”

“Don’t I always?”

He leans down and gives her another picture-perfect kiss.

It’s official. I’m dying alone. Just putting that out there.

“Now, where are these friends of yours? Oh! Let’s set one of them up with Kara!” Cristina looks at me with a dangerous matchmaker gleam in her eyes.

“Actually, I already mentioned Kara, and one of my buddies said he went to college with her.”

Went to college with me?

Jason looks towards the entrance and waves. “Hey, Ryan! Come over here!”

And then I go catatonic. I can’t move. I stand stock-still, looking at Cristina like she sprouted a third arm out of her forehead and it’s giving me the middle finger.

Someone walks past me and a soft breeze ghosts across my overheating skin. I stare in a state of utter disbelief as Ryan Thompson steps into view beside Jason.

“It’s been a while, Sullivan,” he says, his voice and light Southern drawl as steady and tempting as ever.

My champagne glass falls from my fingers and shatters against the floor.

“Kara?” Cristina’s voice rings with concern as she nudges us away from the broken glass that’s now littered around our feet. She grasps my elbow, but I don’t feel it. She could backhand me across the face with a polo mallet and I wouldn’t feel it. My mind is spiraling, plummeting inwards as I come to grips with the realization that Ryan is standing two feet away from me.

Dressed in a navy suit, a crisp white button-down and brown dress shoes, he’s come a long way from the sweatshirts and jeans that were his unofficial uniform in college. His dirty-blond hair is on the shorter side, but a few wayward strands still fall across his forehead. Ten years ago, I would have reached up and brushed them aside without a thought. Now my hand curls into a tight, unforgiving fist at my side.

If we were another former couple, seeing each other for the first time in a decade might be a dreamy, serendipitous meet-cute—a Nancy Meyers movie in pre-production. We’d have a few drinks and spend hours reminiscing about old times before picking up right where we left off. It would be comfortable and familiar as anything, like a sip of hot chocolate at Christmas with Nat King Cole crooning on vinyl in the background.

But we are not that kind of former couple, and I’m convinced that if Nat King Cole were here and knew my side of the story, he would grab Ryan by the scruff of his shirt and hold him steady as I roundhouse-kicked him in the throat.

It’s a tough pill to swallow but Ryan looks good. Like, really good. His face is harder than it was when he was twenty-one and the stubble on his chin tells me he hasn’t shaved in a few days, making him seem like he just rolled out of bed. And not rolled out of bed in a dirty way, but in a I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-yet-I-still-look-ruggedly-handsome-and-you-fully-want-to-make-out-with-me kind of way.

The bastard.

“Ryan,” Cristina says, always the first to jump in, “Jason mentioned that you and Kara went to college together.”

“We did.” His eyes don’t move from mine for even a second. “It’s got to be what, ten years now?”

“Yeah, it’s been a long, long time,” I say quickly, turning to face Cristina. “I think I may have mentioned him before. Remember my friend from North Carolina?”

If someone were to look up “my friend from North Carolina” in the Dictionary of Kara, they would find the following: My friend from North Carolina (noun): 1. Ryan Thompson. 2. My college boyfriend. 3. My first real boyfriend ever. 4. My first love. 5. Taker of my virginity. 6. Guy who massacred my heart with a rusty sledgehammer and fed the remains to rabid, ravenous dogs.

Cristina is well versed in the Dictionary of Kara and recognition washes over her. “No way,” she says, her voice dropping.

“Yes way,” I answer happily, overcompensating.

Now it’s Cristina’s turn to panic. “Wow. Okay, wow, what a small world, huh?” She grabs Jason’s hand in an iron grip, making him wince as she blasts an over-the-top smile. “Well, we should give you guys a chance to catch up. My abuelita just got here so Jason and I are going to say hello.”

“Your abuelita died two years ago,” I hiss.

“I know, it’s a miracle. See you two later!” She drags her soon-to-be husband away before he can get a word out.

I watch them go, sailing away like the last lifeboat as I stand on deck with the string quartet, the cheerful Bach melody only further confirming that this ship is going down.

2

“So,” Ryan says, drawing my attention back to him. “We meet again.”

“We meet again,” I answer.

He tilts his head, scrutinizing my expression. “I have to say, you don’t look happy to see me, Sullivan.”

I exhale out a bitter laugh. “Oh, no. I absolutely am. I’m downright joyful.”

“Your demolished champagne flute tells a different story. Not to mention your monotone voice and the subtle, murderous glint in your eyes.”

“Yeah, well, it was a slippery flute.”

“Now, there’s a line you don’t hear every day.”

His voice and words slip under my skin with sickening ease. I can already feel my patience wearing thin, a guitar string being tuned so tight that it snaps.

“Okay, fine. I’m shocked to see you and not in a good way. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Ryan continues to study me with his unrelenting gaze. “It’s not necessarily what I want to hear,” he admits, “but I’d prefer that to polite lies. You never used to have a problem being honest with me.”

“How we acted in the past isn’t relevant to who we are now. You don’t know anything about me anymore.”

“Sure, I do,” he says easily, too easily for my liking.

“Really, like what?”

“Well, for one thing, you still can’t hide your emotions to save your life. Like right now, you probably think you’re playing it cool but I’m definitely noticing an aggressive rage vein that’s pulsing in the center of your neck.”

I run my fingers across the front of my throat, then wish I hadn’t. How can an open-roof deck suddenly feel suffocating? “You wish you were affecting me that much.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious I am. You seem five seconds away from hopping the guardrail and rappelling down the building.”

“Trust me, after another five seconds with you, I won’t need to rappel. I’ll straight-up jump.”

Ryan seems like he’s about to grin, but stops himself. I gaze off to the side, spying a waitress making the rounds in the distance. My laser-focused eyes try to distinguish which appetizer she has on her tray, and I can tell from their shape that they’re the mini empanadas. I try to will her closer via telekinesis but it doesn’t work. A shame. I level a look back at Ryan with resigned defeat.

“Something else that hasn’t changed about you,” he goes on, “you’re still melodramatic.”

“Why are you so difficult? Why can’t we just have a normal verbal exchange like other former acquaintances would have?” I feel someone’s shoulder bump into my back and turn to see a group of Jason’s work friends. I take a small step forward to give them more space.

“Hey, I’m perfectly composed,” Ryan says. “You’re the one who can’t control your raging hate fire.”

I squeeze my little black clutch with both hands as I glare into his irritatingly green eyes. “You always did bring out the worst in me.”

“Aw, that’s sweet of you to say. Have you been holding on to that little nugget for the past ten years or was it a spur-of-the-moment thought?”

“Sorry if the truth hurts.”

“Yes, it does. Another lesson you taught me the last time we spoke.”

I say nothing as I wait for Ryan to smirk or flash a sarcastic grin. Neither arrives and I’m a little rattled by their absence. Jason’s colleague accidentally bumps into me again, making me move forward to keep my balance. I’m about to shift to the side to position myself more comfortably when Ryan’s fingers suddenly brush my wrist.

“Switch with me,” he says. He grips my hand and starts to pull me forward.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.” I adjust my stance to stand firmly in front of him but now there’s only a foot of space between us. I’m also trying to pretend I’m not entirely aware that he’s still touching my hand.

“Come on, let’s just switch.” He gives me another light pull and I decide to go with it, moving forward into his place while he takes my former spot. If Jason’s work friend bumps into him next, he’ll find a six-foot-two wall. Ryan doesn’t seem to mind, though. He never did. He used to do the same thing in college. If we were ever at a crowded bar, he always positioned himself in such a way to block any overly boisterous party guests from bumping into me. It was sweet back then, and, unfortunately, it still is now.

“Look, let’s both just take a break for a second,” he says. “It’s obvious neither of us is thrilled to see each other, but for Jason and Cristina’s sake, I’m sure we can make it through one night in the same room.”

“Fine,” I agree, suspicious but willing.

“And if you’re worried that I’m going to lose my mind and beg you to take me back like I did when I was a kid, rest assured, I’ve moved on.”

I’m not sure if his words are meant to cut, but I still feel a sting.

“Glad to hear it,” I say simply.

Ryan claps his hands together in front of him. “In other news, you look well.”

“Thanks,” I answer. As someone who uses all of their money to buy books instead of clothes, this little black dress was a splurge for me. It’s off the shoulder, smooth as silk and the boning inside makes me appear much smaller than my usual size eight. That made the price tag easier to accept. I was paying for skinny fashion sorcery.

I even got my hair and makeup done. My deep brown hair, normally pin straight, is curled into soft waves, and my makeup looks alluring but tasteful. The whole beautification process was genuinely fun until I told the makeup artist that I didn’t own foundation. The woman looked so offended, I half expected her to slap me across the face with a glove and challenge me to a duel.

“You also look...healthy,” I eventually add. Ryan’s eyes scrunch up at my choice of compliment, sparking me to go on. “And old. You look healthy and old.”

“All right,” he says, looking down at his impressive leather watch, “and our cease-fire lasted a whole ten seconds.”

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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