{"product_id":"book-lovers-isbn-9780593440872","title":"Book Lovers","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eAn insightful, delightful, instant #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller from the author of \u003ci\u003eFunny Story\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of my favorite authors.”—Colleen Hoover\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eOne summer. Two rivals. A plot twist they didn't see coming...\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNora Stephens' life is books—she’s read them all—and she is \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e that type of heroine. Not the plucky one, not the laidback dream girl, and especially not the sweetheart. In fact, the only people Nora \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e a heroine for are her clients, for whom she lands enormous deals as a cutthroat literary agent, and her beloved little sister Libby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is why she agrees to go to Sunshine Falls, North Carolina for the month of August when Libby begs her for a sisters’ trip away—with visions of a small town transformation for Nora, who she’s convinced needs to become the heroine in her own story. But instead of picnics in meadows, or run-ins with a handsome country doctor or bulging-forearmed bartender, Nora keeps bumping into Charlie Lastra, a bookish brooding editor from back in the city. It would be a meet-cute if not for the fact that they’ve met many times and it’s never been cute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf Nora knows she’s not an ideal heroine, Charlie knows he’s nobody’s hero, but as they are thrown together again and again—in a series of coincidences no editor worth their salt would allow—what they discover might just unravel the carefully crafted stories they’ve written about themselves.\"[\u003ci\u003eBook Lovers\u003c\/i\u003e] is multilayered and the characters' familial challenges are complex. . . . [T]his novel delivers an insightful comedic meditation on love, family and going your own way.\"—\u003cb\u003eNPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Emily Henry] is a master at witty repartee.\"\u003cb\u003e—Associated Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is humanly impossible for Emily Henry to write a bad book. . . . Whatever Henry decides to spear, be it literary posturing or vacation rom-com, she subverts her subjects in the most delicious ways.\"\u003cb\u003e—Entertainment Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBook Lovers\u003c\/i\u003e is a treat from start to finish, flipping the conventional small-town love story trope on its head.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of my favorite authors.”—\u003cb\u003eColleen Hoover\u003c\/b\u003e, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBook Lovers\u003c\/i\u003e is a rom-com lover's dream of a book. . . . Readers know that Emily Henry never fails to deliver great banter and a romance to swoon over but this may just be her best yet.”—\u003cb\u003eTaylor Jenkins Reid\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMalibu Rising\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBook Lovers\u003c\/i\u003e is sexy, funny, and smart. Another perfectly satisfying read from the unstoppable Emily Henry.”—\u003cb\u003eEmma Straub\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eAll Adults Here\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Emily Henry's books are a gift, the perfect balance between steamy and sweet. The prose is effortless, the characters charming. The only downside is reaching the end.\"—\u003cb\u003eV.E. Schwab\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author \u003ci\u003eThe Invisible Life of Addie LaRue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Charming, earnest, and clever, \u003ci\u003eBook Lovers\u003c\/i\u003e is Schitt's Creek for book nerds. A total delight . . . Nobody does it quite like Emily Henry.”—\u003cb\u003eCasey McQuiston\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eOne Last Stop\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I could not devour Book Lovers fast enough. Emily Henry is pure delight. I’m utterly enchanted by her wry, self-aware sense of humor, the relish that she brings to every cleverly crafted sentence, and her irrepressible love for love.”—\u003cb\u003eKatherine Center,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThings You Save in a Fire\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHow to Walk Away\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Emily Henry writes romantic comedy with such sass and humour, she has that gift for making you laugh and cry within the space of a few sentences. . . . Her characters fizz like good champagne, they leap off the page and into your heart.\"—\u003cb\u003eJosie Silver,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eOne Night on the Island\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Magical, delightful, and utterly one of a kind: Emily Henry's writing is a gift to the world.\"—\u003cb\u003eAli Hazelwood\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Love Hypothesis\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Heartfelt, funny, and full of joy.”\u003cb\u003e—Tia Williams,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSeven Days in June \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I loved every page, every line. It's so smart, so funny and so sexy.”— \u003cb\u003eBeth O’Leary, \u003c\/b\u003einternational bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe No-Show\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] fun and flirty romance.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eCosmopolitan\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Book Lovers \u003c\/i\u003euses classic romance tropes with purpose and intention . . . a smart, charming and dazzling book.”\u003cb\u003e—Shelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eEmily Henry\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eGreat Big Beautiful Life\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eFunny Story\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHappy Place\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBook Lovers\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePeople We Meet on Vacation\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eBeach Read\u003c\/i\u003e. She studied creative writing at Hope College, and now spends most of her time in Cincinnati, Ohio, and the part of Kentucky just beneath it. Find her on Instagram @emilyhenrywrites.PROLOGUE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe husband is the killer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe nerd gets a makeover, and without her glasses, she’s smoking hot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe guy gets the girl—­or the other girl does.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone explains a complicated scientific concept, and someone else says, “Um, in English, please?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe details may change from book to book, but there’s nothing truly new under the sun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTake, for example, the small-­town love story.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBack 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the hero spends more time with the charming baker\/seamstress\/tree farm . . . person, things change for him. He learns the true meaning of life!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt will be fun, he tells her. On the walk, he might ask her to look up at the stars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe snaps, You know I can’t look up right now! I just got Botox!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd 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?)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd that’s why I’m running late to this lunch meeting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause that’s my life. The trope that governs my days. The archetype over which my details are superimposed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m the city person. Not the one who meets the hot farmer. The other one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe uptight, manicured literary agent, reading manuscripts from atop her Peloton while a serene beach scene screen saver drifts, unnoticed, across her computer screen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m the one who gets dumped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrant 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLibby 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then, three days ago, hours before his return flight, it happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA force majeure intervened to keep him in San Antonio longer than planned. His appendix burst.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheoretically, 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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Say that again.” I mean to say it as a question. It comes out as an order.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrant sighs. “I’m not coming back, Nora. Things have changed for me this past week.” He chuckles. “I’ve changed.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA thud goes through my cold, city-­person heart. “Is she a baker?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’s silent for a beat. “What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter 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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There’s more important things in life than money and a fancy career, Nora,” he spits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI laugh again. “I can’t tell if you think you’re being serious.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrant 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor Grant, college was a formality. Internships were a formality. Hell, wearing pants was a formality! He got his job through sheer nepotism.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is precisely what makes his last comment so rich, both figuratively and literally.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI must say this last part aloud, because he demands, “What’s that supposed to mean?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Grant, you’re a thirty-­four-­year-­old heir. For most of us, our jobs are tied directly to our ability to eat.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who’s acting?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’ve never needed me—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’ve never even stayed over at my place—­” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“—­so don’t pretend you’re heartbroken,” Grant says. “I’m not sure you’re even capable of being heartbroken.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgain, I have to laugh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrant’s on a roll now: “I’ve never even seen you cry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou’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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve got to go, Grant,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of course you do,” he replies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eApparently 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.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have a job to do, and unlike Grant, I’m going to do it, for myself and everyone else at Nguyen Literary Agency.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI smooth my hair, square my shoulders, and head inside, the blast of air-­conditioning scrubbing goose bumps over my arms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlso, he’s scowling. Or pouting. His mouth is pouting. His forehead is scowling. Powling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe glances at his watch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExcept when I’m getting dumped over the phone. Then I’m six and a half minutes late, apparently.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hi!” I stick out my hand to shake his as I approach. “Nora  Stephens. So nice to meet you in person, finally.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe examines my outstretched hand for two long seconds before shaking it. “You’re late.” He sits without bothering to meet my gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProbably, he doesn’t take the subway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProbably, he goes everywhere in a shiny black limo, or a Gothic carriage pulled by a team of Clydesdales.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shuck off my blazer (herringbone, Isabel Marant) and take the seat across from him. “Have you ordered?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No,” he says. Nothing else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy hopes sink lower.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pick up my menu. “They have a goat cheese salad that’s phenomenal.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharlie 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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut even aside from that, any decent person would at least wait until there was some bread on the table before throwing out insults.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI close my own menu and fold my hands on the table. “I think it’s her best yet.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDusty’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharlie 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrankly, Glory was one of my favorite books in the last decade, but that doesn’t make this one chopped liver.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI say, “This book is every bit as good. It’s just different—­less subdued, maybe, but that gives it a cinematic edge.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn 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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLiar, my brain says. You’re not sending him more books.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLiar, Charlie’s unsettling, owlish eyes say. You’re not sending him more books.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis lunch—­this potential working relationship—­is dead in the water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharlie 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s overly sentimental for my taste,” he says eventually. “And the cast is caricatured—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Quirky,” I disagree. “We could scale them back, but it’s a large cast—­their quirks help distinguish them.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And the setting—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s wrong with the setting?” The setting in Once in a Lifetime sells the whole book. “Sunshine Falls is charming.”","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300034072805,"sku":"NP9780593440872","price":30.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593440872.jpg?v=1767722941","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/book-lovers-isbn-9780593440872","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}