PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
Christina Lauren
“What a joyful, warm, touching book! I laughed so hard I cried more than once, I felt the embrace of Olive’s huge, loving, complicated, hilarious family, and my heart soared at the ending. This is the book to read if you want to smile so hard your face hurts.”
—Jasmine Guillory, New York Times bestselling author of The Proposal, on The Unhoneymooners
“Witty and downright hilarious, with just the right amount of heart, The Unhoneymooners is a perfect feel-good romantic comedy. Prepare to laugh and smile from cover to cover.”
—Helen Hoang, author of The Bride Test, on The Unhoneymooners
“Sassy and appealing, writing duo Lauren’s (My Favorite Half-Night Stand) latest endeavor is sure to please. A perfect read for the beach or poolside, this is one hot summer story not to miss!”
—Library Journal on The Unhoneymooners (starred review)
“A funny, sexy page-turner that warns: Keep your friends close and their avatars closer.”
—Kirkus Reviews on My Favorite Half-Night Stand
“This is a messy and sexy look at digital dating that feels fresh and exciting.”
—Publishers Weekly on My Favorite Half-Night Stand (starred review)
“You can never go wrong with a Christina Lauren novel… a delectable, moving take on modern dating reminding us all that when it comes to intoxicating, sexy, playful romance that has its finger on the pulse of contemporary love, this duo always swipes right.”
—Entertainment Weekly on My Favorite Half-Night Stand
“With exuberant humor and unforgettable characters, this romantic comedy is a standout.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating (starred review)
“The story skips along… propelled by rom-com momentum and charm.”
—The New York Times Book Review on Josh and
Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating
“Lauren has penned a hilariously zany and heartfelt novel… the story is sure to please readers looking for a fun-filled novel to escape everyday life with.”
—Booklist on Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating
“From Lauren’s wit to her love of wordplay and literature, to swoony love scenes [and] heroines who learn to set aside their own self-doubts… Lauren writes of the bittersweet pangs of love and loss with piercing clarity.”
—Entertainment Weekly on Love and Other Words
“A triumph… a true joy from start to finish.”
—Kristin Harmel, internationally bestselling author of The Room on Rue Amélie, on Love and Other Words
“Lauren’s standalone brims with authentic characters and a captivating plot.”
—Publishers Weekly on Roomies (starred review)
“Delightful.”
—People on Roomies
“At turns hilarious and gut-wrenching, this is a tremendously fun slow burn.”
—The Washington Post on Dating You / Hating You (a Best Romance of 2017 selection)
“Truly a romance for the twenty-first century.… A smart, sexy romance for readers who thrive on girl power.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Dating You / Hating You (starred review)
“Christina Lauren hilariously depicts modern dating.”
—Us Weekly on Dating You / Hating You
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one
JUNE
Fourteen Years Ago
NANA TURNED TO INSPECT the hotel room. Behind her, the curtains drifted closed with a whisper. With her dark, sharp eyes, she surveyed the cream and red decor, the generic paintings, and the television she no doubt thought gaudily perched on the otherwise beautiful dresser. Never in my life had I been in a room this fancy, but her gaze, as it touched everything, read Given the cost, I expected more.
Mom had always described this expression as pruney. It fit. My grandmother—only sixty-one—totally looked like a piece of soft, dried fruit when she got mad.
As if on cue, she grimaced like she’d just smelled something sour. “Our view is the street. If I wanted to stare at a street I could have stayed in Guerneville.” She blinked away from the dresser to the telephone on the desk, moving toward it with purpose. “We aren’t even on the right side of the building.”
Oakland, to New York, to London, landing just over an hour ago. For the longest leg, our seats were in the middle of a group of five, on the bulkhead row, where we were flanked on one side by a frail older man who fell immediately asleep on Nana’s shoulder and a mother with an infant on the other. By the time we were finally situated in the room, I just wanted a meal, and a nap, and a tiny patch of quiet away from Nana the Prune.
Mom and I had lived with Nana since I was eight. I knew she had it in her to be a good sport; I’d seen it every day for the past ten years. But right then we were far from home, way out of our comfort zone, and Nana—owner of a small town café—detested spending her hard-earned money and not getting exactly what she was promised.
I nodded to the window as a very European black taxi zoomed by. “It is a pretty great street, though.”
“I paid for a view of the Thames.” She ran a blunt fingertip down the list of hotel extensions, and my stomach clenched into a ball of guilt at the reminder that this vacation was way more lavish than anything we’d ever done. “And Big Ben.” The tremble of her hand told me exactly how quickly she was calculating what she could have done with that money if we’d stayed somewhere cheaper.
Out of habit, I tugged at a string on the hem of my shirt, wrapping it around my finger until the tip pulsed. Nana batted my hand away before she sat at the desk, heaving an impatient breath as she lifted the phone from its cradle.
“Yes. Hello,” she said. “I’m in room 1288 and I have brought my granddaughter all the way here from—yes, that’s correct, I am Judith Houriet.”
I looked up at her. She said Judith, not Jude. Jude Houriet baked pies, served the same regular customers she’d had since she opened her café at nineteen, and never made a fuss when someone couldn’t afford their meal. Judith Houriet was apparently much fancier: she traveled to London with her granddaughter and certainly deserved the view of Big Ben she’d been promised.
“As I was saying,” she continued, “we are here to celebrate her eighteenth birthday, and I specifically booked a room with a view of Big Ben and the Tham—yes.” She turned to me, stage-whispering, “Now I’m on hold.”
Judith didn’t even sound like my nana. Was this what happened when we left the cocoon of our town? This woman in front of me had the same soft curves and stout, worker’s hands, but wore a structured black jacket I knew Jude could barely afford, and was missing her ubiquitous yellow gingham apron. Jude wore her hair in a bun with a pencil dug through it; Judith wore her hair blown out and tidy.
When whoever was on the other end returned, I could tell it wasn’t with good news. Nana’s “Well that’s unacceptable,” and “I can assure you I am going to complain,” and “I expect a refund of the difference in room rates,” told me we were out of luck.