“McKinlay proves she is also a master at romantic women’s fiction with this dazzling novel that delivers everything McKinlay’s fans expect—deliciously acerbic wit, delightfully relatable characters, and deeply funny dialogue—all deftly poured into a plot that also thoughtfully examines what true happiness really means.”

—Booklist

TITLES BY JENN McKINLAY

Paris Is Always a Good Idea

Wait For It

Happily Ever After Romances

The Good Ones

The Christmas Keeper

Bluff Point Romances

About a Dog

Barking Up the Wrong Tree

Every Dog Has His Day

Cupcake Bakery Mysteries

Sprinkle with Murder

Buttercream Bump Off

Death by the Dozen

Red Velvet Revenge

Going, Going, Ganache

Sugar and Iced

Dark Chocolate Demise

Vanilla Beaned

Caramel Crush

Wedding Cake Crumble

Dying for Devil’s Food

Pumpkin Spice Peril

For Batter or Worse

Library Lover’s Mysteries

Books Can Be Deceiving

Due or Die

Book, Line, and Sinker

Read It and Weep

On Borrowed Time

A Likely Story

Better Late Than Never

Death in the Stacks

Hitting the Books

Word to the Wise

One for the Books

Hat Shop Mysteries

Cloche and Dagger

Death of a Mad Hatter

At the Drop of a Hat

Copy Cap Murder

Assault and Beret

Buried to the Brim

Dedication

For Susan Norris McKinlay, the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known. Our family couldn’t ask for a stronger, wiser, or more loving matriarch. We are lucky to have you, and I’m so proud that you’re my mom.

Annabelle

1

“Annabelle, please tell me you are not meeting Jeremy at the Top of the Hub for your annual un-anniversary celebration,” Sophie Vasquez, my former college roommate, life partner in all shenanigans, and best friend forever, said.

“Fine, I won’t tell you,” I muttered into my cell phone. My breath came out in a plume of steam in the freezing February air.

I was walk-jogging because I was late. Little-known fact, I, Annabelle Martin, am always late. As my father liked to say, “Sunshine, you were born late.” He’s not even joking. According to my mother, I was two weeks late and wouldn’t leave the womb without an eviction notice. Having since learned that life is hard, I think in utero me was onto something.

In my defense, my lateness is not on purpose. I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just that my comprehension of the human construct of time is marginal at best. Like, I know that it takes at least twenty minutes to walk to the Prudential Center from my studio apartment on Marlborough Street, and while I had every intention of leaving twenty-five minutes ahead of time, I got sidelined by an idea for a sketch because of the way the moonlight shone through my windowpane, making patterns on the floor.