{"product_id":"the-rewind-isbn-9780593546536","title":"The Rewind","description":"\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eGood Morning America\u003c\/i\u003e Buzz Pick\u003cbr\u003eOne of Amazon's Best Romances of November!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo exes wake up together with wedding bands on their fingers—and no idea how they got there. They have just one New Year’s Eve at the end of 1999 to figure it out in this big-hearted and nostalgic rom-com from \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Allison Winn Scotch.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When college sweethearts Frankie and Ezra broke up before graduation\u003cb\u003e,\u003c\/b\u003e they vowed to never speak to each other again. Ten years later, on the eve of the new millennium, they find themselves back on their snowy, picturesque New England campus together for the first time for the wedding of mutual friends. Frankie’s on the rise as a music manager for the hottest bands of the late ’90s, and Ezra’s ready to propose to his girlfriend after the wedding. Everything is going to plan—they just have to avoid the chasm of emotions brought up when they inevitably come face to face.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But when they wake up in bed next to each other the following morning with Ezra’s grandmother’s diamond on Frankie’s finger, they have zero memory of how they got there—or about any of the events that transpired the night before. Now Frankie and Ezra have to put aside old grievances in order to figure out what happened, what \u003ci\u003edidn’t\u003c\/i\u003e happen...and to ask themselves the most troubling question of all: what if they both got it wrong the first time around?“A charming love story rich with nineties nostalgia, \u003ci\u003eThe Rewind\u003c\/i\u003e is Allison Winn Scotch’s best book yet.”\u003cb\u003e—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Emily Giffin\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Rewind\u003c\/i\u003e is as much an endearing love story about the one that got away as it is a love letter to all things 90s, including Doc Martens, Y2K and dial-up Internet. Fresh, original and compelling, this book is Allison Winn Scotch at her absolute best.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Colleen Oakley\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Sassy, engaging and warm, \u003ci\u003eThe Rewind\u003c\/i\u003e is a sharp and witty rom-com about the road not taken—and the people who find their way back to us anyway. Ezra and Frankie are magic together. You won’t be able to put this down until happily-ever-after.”\u003cb\u003e—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Laura Dave\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A dazzling second-chance romance…This is the Y2K new-millennium story I didn’t know I needed.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eWashington Independent Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nineties nostalgia is alive and well in this moving story of a lost first love and second chances. Readers will enjoy piecing together both the story of the forgotten night and the reasons behind the relationship’s disastrous first ending.\"--\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAllison Winn Scotch\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of eight novels, including \u003ci\u003eTime of My Life\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eIn Twenty Years\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eCleo McDougal Regrets Nothing\u003c\/i\u003e. A cum laude graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, where she studied history and marketing, Winn Scotch now lives in Los Angeles.ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie awoke to a headache that felt akin to a leech sucking the blood straight from her spinal cord. The throbbing started low in her skull, right at the nape of her neck, and reverberated out with each heartbeat, each pulse, into every vein, every cerebral fold, every nerve. She squeezed her eyes closed, willing for sleep for one more moment, but the pain was unbearable, too much to allow for rest to settle back in. This, certainly, was one of a hundred hangovers she had endured, and yet this one felt different. Harrowing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She allowed her eyes to flutter open and found herself staring at a white wall. To be sure, this was not the first wall she had woken in close proximity to, but certainly, she knew immediately that it wasn't her own. She'd painted one of her bedroom walls a vibrant purple last year, and though all her friends in LA thought it was a little much, Frankie had yet to grow weary of it, unlike so many other things in her life. (Really, she only had, like, three friends in LA, and mostly, those friendships were work friendships, but still. They really all did think she'd get sick of the purple wall.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie rolled to her back, emitted a groan, and noticed a heat emanating from beside her. The naked back of a man rose and fell next to her. This was also not a highly unusual experience for Frankie, who often took advice from Prince and partied like it was the end of the world, or at least the end of the century. Who could blame her: hot men and tequila went with her business.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This morning, however, Frankie narrowed her crusty eyes and took stock. The room was dim, the shades still pulled, and low light filtered in. The bed was small, very small. True, she occasionally woke up in a shabby studio with an aspiring drummer or the like (Frankie did prefer drummers, as they knew what to do with their hands; guitarists were pretty all right, too), but as adults, nearly everyone had at least a decent-sized bed. Sometimes, yes, there were futons involved. She rarely even bothered to give those aspirings her number. Futon-guys were fun, but they were not on Frankie's long-term radar. Laila would argue that Frankie didn't have long-term radar, while April would urge Frankie to find her long-term radar. \"It's very fulfilling once you do,\" she'd once said, while Frankie made groaning noises over the phone that she hoped April could interpret three thousand miles away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie pushed up to her elbows and glanced around. The furnishings were . . . She tried to place them. The furnishings were familiar but only in a vague, back-of-her-mind way. They were utilitarian, basic, standard-issue beige wood. Frankie squinted, her brain running in the way that it sometimes did before she either had a brilliant epiphany or needed to take an Ativan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This did not seem right. This did not feel right, and if Frankie Harriman was good at anything, it was tapping into a feeling and riding that wave. That's how she discovered Night Vixen in a dank club off Sunset and brought them from bickering post-high school na•fs to the A-lister girl band who currently had the number two record and five singles on the charts. No small thing for a girl band in the late '90s, when- despite the success of, well, Frankie would just say it: ugh, the Spice Girls-girl bands still had to fight for both respect and airplay. It was how she'd navigated the boys' club of her industry and landed on Hollywood Reporter's 30 Under 30 at twenty-eight: by tapping into feelings about up-and-comers and massaging egos and wiping tears and sending ridiculously large bottles of champagne to front doors when a single got its first spin on 102.7 KISS FM.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This morning, with alarming and rapid acuity, Frankie realized that her feelings bleated, Something is not right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gingerly, she eased closer to the man beside her, craning her neck until she hovered just above his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She recognized him both too slowly and too quickly, in the way that you might when you slam on your brakes before you hit a biker who runs a light. How quickly you react determines everything that comes next. An adrenaline rush but nothing except tire marks in the street or a man dead in the crosswalk. Half a second makes all the difference.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie Harriman, who was accustomed to finding herself in plenty of oncoming traffic, did not react well. She stared at the stubble and the chestnut hair and the long eyelashes and the straight nose, and she screamed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e TWO\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ezra\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ezra woke to someone screaming, so loud, too loud. Oh God. Why was it so loud?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Stop,\" he mumbled, his eyes still closed. \"Stop.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The screaming abated, and he curled into the fetal position, tugging the sheets closer. A tug back. He yanked in reply and cocooned himself further in the bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then, an unwanted poking at his hip. Poke. Poke. Poke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He groaned and exhaled, his eyes still shut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You,\" he heard, and felt hot breath in his ear. \"You!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now his eyes were open, and he took a sliver of a beat to process where he had unceremoniously woken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A dorm room? His brain discarded the notion. Then revisited it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He tilted his head up an inch from the pillow. No, this was definitely a dorm room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His heart accelerated in a way he could feel acutely in his chest. Did he actually go home with a college student last night? He did the math: while one hundred percent disgusting, it would not be illegal. Ezra had gone to law school and knew that while there were plenty of things that were unsavory, they could not land you in prison.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He felt the finger pressing his hip again. Please don't be eighteen. Please be clothed. Please be Mimi. Please please please be Mimi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You! What are you doing here?\" From behind him. And then he instantly knew the voice; he'd heard it a million times back when he was young enough to live in a dorm room. In fact, when he did. When she did. Their junior and senior years. They'd lived together even if it hadn't been official.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Oh shit. It hadn't occurred to him to plead for a reprieve from Frankie Harriman because never in ten billion years-no, more than that-would it have occurred to him that she could be the woman next to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He didn't want to turn around to face her, and yet, it appeared to be too late to slink out unnoticed, to leave a note and a promise to call. Not that Ezra had ever done such a thing even once in his life. He was a Big Brother. He spearheaded a free legal aid group in law school. He was a monogamous commitment-fiend who'd never had a one-night stand because he valued the relationship, not just the sex.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He steeled himself before he turned to face her. How he'd ended up in a twin bed in a dorm room with Frankie Harriman was truly beyond him at the moment. But turn he must.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So he did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And she screamed again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And he, startled at both the decibel and the proximity of her face for the first time in ten years, screamed back. Louder. Louder. Because he'd vowed the last time he'd seen her that she would never get the better of him again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e THREE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What are you doing here?\" Frankie shrieked, pushing her palms flat against Ezra's bare chest, then pulling them back as if she incurred an electric shock. \"Why are you in bed with me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her head throbbed with each syllable, so she quieted and waited for what she hoped was a suitable explanation. How could there be a suitable explanation? She had pledged never to speak to him again, never to think of him again, and now, here they were, skin to skin, tucked under his sheets as if they still knew each other in the ways that they used to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She watched Ezra blanch and swallow. He scrunched his face, a habit from back in the time when they were crazy in love and he was tackling an Eastern European history paper or a group project he'd wind up doing the bulk of the work on. A decade ago, she found this perplexed look endearing. Now, its breezy intimacy made her ill. But that could have been the hangover too. How could he be so familiar to her, so exactly the same?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Of course, Ezra had grown up (she heard things, ok?)-law school, Manhattan, last she'd been told. But she hadn't really kept up with him over the years. Had never once been tempted to seek out his phone number, had never whiled away late evening hours (even when tipsy) in an AOL search spiral. When she and Ezra split the day of their graduation, Frankie put it behind her entirely. She had barely given a second thought to Ezra Jones, except to occasionally consider how much she hated him, how deeply he had offended her, how gravely he had misunderstood her. That was the one that really stung. That after two years, he'd gotten her all wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Of course, Laila and April occasionally couldn't help themselves-April would mention that Connor had crashed with him for a boys' weekend in New York; Laila would say that she heard he was single again, as if Frankie had known that he wasn't single in the first place. There was one trip to New York about five years after graduation when the record company put Frankie up at the Gramercy Park Hotel, so Laila had come up from North Carolina and April had trained down from her graduate studies in Boston, and they were at the lobby bar, and Laila gasped and said, \"Holy shit, is that Ezra?\" And Frankie froze like a cornered animal, her adrenaline seizing her intestines, and then Laila said, \"Oh, no, my bad, not him,\" but Frankie was already shaking. Later, they were tipsy and flopped on the king bed, and Frankie said, \"Guys, please, I don't want to hear his name again, like, ever, ok?\" And she saw a look pass between them, but they nodded all the same. That's how Frankie did it, that's how she organized her life, and that's how she left Ezra Jones behind. By any means necessary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now, Ezra's face unwound, and he hiccupped, his breath smelling like day-old alcohol. Then his features comported themselves again. He didn't look much different than he had back in college, Frankie thought. His cheeks had shed the last of their baby fat, and his stubble was fuller now, as if he really could grow an actual beard, which had seemed just out of reach at twenty-one. But he was still boyish, his dark eyes still protected by full lashes, the line of freckles that ran from his left eye to his ear still prominent and shaped like the curve of a moon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie remembered running her fingers over that curve, awed by the perfect crescent on what she used to think was a perfect face. Though she hated to acknowledge it, even under the veil of sleep and in need of a shower, Ezra Jones was beautiful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Why are you in bed with me?\" Ezra responded, bringing her back. \"And what . . . I mean . . . Are we in a dorm room?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A dorm room?\" Frankie snapped. \"I'm staying at the Inn. Why would we be in a-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She stopped, as something clicked into place. The beige furniture, the vague familiarity, the generic blandness of it all. They had, indeed, inexplicably landed in bed together in a dorm room. If this were a rom-com, someone in the audience would squeal. This was not a rom-com, however. Neither of them squealed. Both of them were horrified.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie arched and tilted her head back. The wall behind them was covered in posters. The Backstreet Boys. The Cranberries. Nirvana. Night Vixen. (Hooray, Frankie thought, despite everything else.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yeah,\" she said. \"I guess this is a dorm room. What the fuck.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She thought about pointing out that her clients were on the wall above them but decided she didn't care about impressing Ezra. She regretted that she even had the instinct to impress Ezra Jones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Did we . . . ?\" Ezra gestured back and forth between them. \"I mean, do you remember what happened? Like, with us? Was there-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh my God, no!\" Frankie said, though she honestly had no idea if they did or didn't. She sure as shit hoped they didn't though. Frankie had a motto that if something was over, it was over, which wasn't to equate that motto with the fact that she had zero inkling of what happened last night. Still, it felt more solid, more concrete to simply rule it out. \"No,\" she said again. \"For sure not. We did not.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She ran her hands down to her waist. She still had on her underwear, so that was . . . promising. She raised the sheets and sighed: though Ezra's flannel shirt was flung to the floor, he was also still in his jeans, although his belt, disturbingly, was undone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She focused on the positive: \"Your belt's still on,\" she said. \"And I'm in my tank top. I'll take that as a good sign.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He stared at her for a beat, as if he were going to argue, but instead, let it wash over him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Well, well, Frankie thought, a little annoyed that he didn't take her bait, a little relieved too. Back then, he'd rarely pushed back, and they'd never argued. Until they finally did in the archway of Burton Library on a clear day in May when their divide became a crevasse, when she'd said goodbye to Ezra forever and didn't lay eyes on him again until now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Are we in Homer?\" Ezra asked. \"Doesn't this look like Homer?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Homer. Their freshman dorm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie screwed up her face into something that she hoped connoted: That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Inarguably, Ezra was almost always the smartest person in the room-he'd gotten a full merit scholarship to Middleton and was easily the brains of their group, so she never minded one-upping him when she had the chance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She wanted to prove to him that she'd grown up too. And yet, she heard herself saying:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How would we be in Homer?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ezra rubbed his eyes. \"I don't remember anything from last night.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frankie considered this. To be honest, she didn't either. She remembered getting ready in her hotel room; she remembered getting a call from Laila; she remembered-a jolt ran through her-locking eyes with Ezra as the elevator door closed. But then, well, she tried to find the rest of the night somewhere hidden in her cerebral folds. Nothing. There was nothing else there.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305233666277,"sku":"NP9780593546536","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593546536.jpg?v=1767741236","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-rewind-isbn-9780593546536","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}