A hopeless romantic meets&#160;a demoralized radio host in this cozy, <Sleepless in Seattle&ndash;<inspired love story from beloved author B.K. Borison.

Aiden Valentine has a secret: he&rsquo;s fallen out of love with love. And as the host of Baltimore&rsquo;s romance hotline, that&rsquo;s a bit of a problem. But when a young girl calls in to the station asking for dating advice for her mom, the interview goes viral, thrusting Aiden and <Heartstrings <into the limelight.&#160;

Lucie Stone thought she was doing just fine. She has a good job; an incredible family; and a smart, slightly devious kid. But when all of Baltimore is suddenly scrutinizing her love life&mdash;or lack thereof&mdash;she begins to question if she&rsquo;s as happy as she thought. Maybe a little more romance wouldn&rsquo;t be such a bad thing.&#160;

Everyone wants Lucie to find her happy ending&hellip;even the handsome, temperamental man calling the shots. But when sparks start to fly behind the scenes, Lucie must make the final call between the radio-sponsored happily ever after or the man in the headphones next to her.

Autorentext

B.K. Borison lives in Baltimore with her sweet husband, vivacious toddler, and giant dog. She started writing in the margins of books when she was in middle school and hasn’t stopped.

Klappentext

*INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES* BESTSELLER

A hopeless romantic meets a jaded radio host in this cozy, Sleepless in Seattle–inspired love story from beloved author B.K. Borison.**

Aiden Valentine has a secret: he’s fallen out of love with love. And as the host of Baltimore’s romance hotline, that’s a bit of a problem. But when a young girl calls in to the station asking for dating advice for her mom, the interview goes viral, thrusting Aiden and Heartstrings into the limelight.

Lucie Stone thought she was doing just fine. She has a good job; an incredible family; and a smart, slightly devious kid. But when all of Baltimore is suddenly scrutinizing her love life—or lack thereof—she begins to question if she’s as happy as she believed. Maybe a little more romance wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Everyone wants Lucie to find her happy ending…even the handsome, temperamental man calling the shots. But when sparks start to fly behind the scenes, Lucie must make the final decision between the radio-sponsored happily ever after or the man in the headphones next to her.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

AIDEN

LOVE IS A LIE.

At least, that's what the sign above the door tells me. It's written in large looping letters. Little hearts dotted along the edges and a lipstick mark in the bottom left corner. It looks like a sign that should be hanging crooked in the hallway of a high school, not boldly declaring the decline of humanity during the morning rush at a coffee shop.

There are streamers too. Red and white and dangling from the hanging baskets by the window. They twist back and forth violently every time someone slips in from the street, relaxing back to their sad, wilted loops as soon as the door shuts again.

I frown at a red balloon with an X drawn over it in Sharpie, scratching at the scruff along my jaw as I wait for Jackson to come back to our table. A woman with a satchel the size of a small country smacks into the back of my head and I cross my arms over my chest, kicking my legs out halfway into the aisle to protect my peace. If Jackson doesn't come back soon, I might start eating the saltshaker. I demanded a croissant, two bagels, and a coffee the size of my face as soon as we sat down. Payment for pulling me out of bed at this ungodly hour.

I'm usually too tired from a late-night shift to drag myself from bed any earlier than ten. But Jackson had insisted, and then switched to threats when his insistence didn't work. I'd been too shocked at his language to come up with an appropriate excuse. In our four years of working together at the radio station, I've never heard Jackson raise his voice, let alone threaten bodily harm if I didn't agree to meet him at the tiny bookshop café two blocks from his house.

Be at Skullduggery at eight, he said. Or I'm coming for you.

I was so distracted by the underlying threat, I didn't bother to ask what sort of café has a name like Skullduggery. A pirate ship, maybe. Not a café.

Jackson elbows his way through the small crowd jostling for position at the counter and slides into the seat across from mine, a tray balanced in one hand. He's wearing a gray sweater over a plaid button-up, his sleeves rolled to his forearms. He's polished and put together, not a single hair out of place. I bet he was up at five, done with his workout by six, and making some of his hipster coffee by seven. Meanwhile, I'm wearing a sweatshirt I found draped over the edge of my bed. I'm pretty sure there's pasta sauce on it.

We managed to grab a booth as soon as we got here, though the overstuffed armchairs on the second floor look appealing, surrounded by shelves stacked floor to ceiling with used books. Not only does Skullduggery celebrate the downfall of love; it apparently has a robust collection of literature and the best cruffins in the city. Whatever a cruffin is.

Jackson hands me a cup of coffee, his face eager. "Did you see the sign?"

"You can't exactly miss it." I lift my eyes back to the sign above the door and the decorations floating around it. "The headless cupids are a nice touch."

He unloads the rest of the tray. "They celebrate anti-Valentine's Day every year. I thought you'd like it."

Like feels like a strong word for the demonic cupids dangling from the ceiling. I can't stop staring at the one closest to us. It somehow maintained its head in the massacre and its eyes keep following me. "Do people like . . . whatever this is?"

"I thought it suited your mood." He raises both eyebrows and nudges his glasses up his nose with his knuckles. "You know. Your shitty mood."

When Jackson started at 101.6 LITE FM, he never would have used the word shitty in casual conversation. I guess our spending every night together for the past three years has made a lasting impact.

"Subtle," I grumble. I reach for a bagel, then change my mind and go for the croissant instead. "Is that why I'm here? You want to have a conversation about my attitude?"

"What else would this conversation be about?"

"I don't know." I poke at my baked good. "I thought you wanted to get breakfast. Catch up. Do things that friends do."

"It's convenient how you remember we're friends when you're trying to wiggle out of something."

"I'm not wiggling," I mutter, petulant.

"You're absolutely wiggling. And what I wanted was a cruffin, but they sold out an hour ago."

There's a heavy pause. An implication that if we had met at seven thirty like he suggested, he would happily be eating his baked good of choice. I clear my throat and tear my croissant in half. "Apologies for your lost cruffin."

"Accepted." Jackson snatches the discarded half of my croissant. "Now let's talk about why you sound like your soul is being sucked from your body every night between the hours of six and midnight when you're supposed to be handing out advice on love. My weather reports are suffering because of you."

"Your weather reports are doing just fine," I mumble. I'm pretty sure Jackson's hourly traffic and weather update is the most popular part of our show. "And I don't know what to tell you. I'm fresh out of advice." I'm a glorified answering machine. A sentient blob that listens to people vent. After six years of hosting Heartstrings, Baltimore's romance hotline, I've discovered people don't want to be told how to fix their lives or be held accountable. They just want to hear themselves talk…