1 <New York Times< bestselling author Carley Fortune returns with a sparkling new summer getaway.

Autorentext
Carley Fortune is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Every Summer After, Meet Me at the Lake, and This Summer Will Be Different. She is an award-winning Canadian journalist who’s worked as an editor for Refinery29, The Globe and Mail, Chatelaine, and Toronto Life. She lives in Toronto with her husband and two sons.

Klappentext

*THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER! &#8729; A radiant escape to the lake from #1 New York Times bestselling author of Every Summer After and This Summer Will Be Different*

As featured in The New York Times &#8729; People &#8729; Good Morning America &#8729; The Washington Post &#8729; Cosmopolitan &#8729; TODAY &#8729; USA Today &#8729; Harper's Bazaar &#8729; Glamour &#8729; E! News &#8729; Buzzfeed &#8729; ELLE &#8729; Us Weekly &#8729; The New York Post &#8729; FIRST for Women &#8729; Woman's World &#8729; Katie Couric Media &#8729; SheReads &#8729; and more!

*I never anticipated Charlie Florek.
***
Good things happen at the lake. That’s what Alice’s grandmother says, and it’s true. Alice spent just one summer there at a cottage with Nan when she was seventeen—it’s where she took that photo, the one of three grinning teenagers in a yellow speedboat, the image that changed her life.

Now Alice lives behind a lens. As a photographer, she’s most comfortable on the sidelines, letting other people shine. Lately though, she’s been itching for something more, and when Nan falls and breaks her hip, Alice comes up with a plan for them both: another summer in that magical place, Barry’s Bay. But as soon as they settle in, their peace is disrupted by the roar of a familiar yellow boat, and the man driving it.

Charlie Florek was nineteen when Alice took his photo from afar. Now he’s all grown up—a shameless flirt, who manages to make Nan laugh and Alice long to be seventeen again, when life was simpler, when taking pictures was just for fun. Sun-slanted days and warm nights out on the lake with Charlie are a balm for Alice’s soul, but when she looks up and sees his piercing green gaze directly on her, she begins to worry for her heart.

Because Alice sees people—that’s why she is so good at what she does—but she’s never met someone who looks and sees her right back.

Leseprobe
1

Friday, June 13

They are five of the most stunning women I've ever seen. It has nothing to do with the lighting or how much time they've spent in hair and makeup. It's the genuine smiles on their faces. The fan is blowing, the music is loud, and the photo editor oohs as she watches the images load onto my laptop screen. I don't need a glimpse to know they're spectacular. I feel it with every press of the shutter.

I'll crash later, alone in my empty condo, but right now I'm in my element. When I'm behind a lens, I can draw out a sly grin or a slight tilt of the chin. I'm in command. It's one of the reasons I've been working so much lately. I need this feeling. The buzz of a perfectly humming set is my high.

The youngest woman is in her twenties, the eldest in her seventies, and none of them are professional models. It took time to earn their trust when they arrived at my studio. If anyone understands how nerve-racking it can feel to have your photo taken, it's me. Now, the women dance and pose in bathing suits without a shred of self-consciousness. Their stretch marks, wrinkles, and cellulite are on display, emblems of their lives given due reverence in each frame.

"It's going to be impossible to make selects," Willa, the photo editor, says once we wrap. We're standing shoulder to shoulder, scrolling through the images on my computer. The best will run in Swish, a weekly style magazine that debuted this spring. "There are so many great shots, Alice."

"I'm glad you think so," I say, beaming. I've never worked with Willa before, and I want to wow her. Swish is distributed in the country's largest paper, and it's all my industry friends can talk about. This is my first gig for the magazine, and I want to nail it. Magazine work doesn't pay very well, but it's far more creative than what I get to do with my commercial clients-it's also increasingly rare.

I pause on a shot of Monica, a new mom who was the most nervous of the group. Her head is thrown back and her arms flung out. It's a moment of pure joy.

"We have two weeks for you to file," Willa says.

"No problem." This will be a low-touch edit. The assignment brief described it as a "refreshingly real" swimwear shoot with "regular people" showcasing the looks. It's another reason I was excited about the job: no aggressive photoshopping. "I'll just fix the flyaways and blemishes. It'll be fast."

"Well, you might have to do a little more than that." Willa lowers her voice. "I want to keep it authentic, but let's say the lumps and bumps are more like a suggestion of cellulite. I'm sure you can work your magic."

My smile vanishes. I've collected enough euphemisms for digitally altering the female body to fill a thesaurus. I've been told to make women look more flattering, appealing, engaging, enticing, attractive, and flat-out more fuckable. But I've never been asked to suggest cellulite.

"I thought you wanted this to be refreshingly real," I say calmly, like I'm not ready to throw my camera at the wall.

"I mean, yes, absolutely." Willa goes on. "It's great having different body types represented, but let's just clean it all up."

I don't bat an eye behind my tortoiseshell glasses. On the surface, I'm the picture of polished professionalism. I've quieted my auburn curls into a sleek ponytail. My makeup is minimal but effective. There isn't a single chip in my ruby red nail polish. But underneath, I'm crumbling.

It's not the first time I've been asked to do something I disagree with. Being a freelance photographer means I sometimes need to bend, compromise, and push my beliefs or vision to the side to please clients. It just happens more often than I'd like at this stage in my career.

"It's your call," I tell Willa, heart sinking. "It's your magazine."

I'm not a combative person, but even if I were, I'm too worn down to argue. It takes a lot of energy to be on all day, and I've been on for so long, I suspect my off button is broken.

And it's not just me who's noticed. I met Elyse, my brilliant instructor turned mentor and now friend, for coffee last week, and she told me I looked like a ghost. I'd had the dream the night before-the one where I'm being chased-and I was even more drained than usual.

"You excel at capturing inner light," she'd said. "But I worry you've lost your own. Get it back, Alice. I want to see you shine." Elyse told me to slow down.

For the first time ever, I ignored her advice. Work is what's kept me together these past six months. Or at least I thought so. But as soon Willa leaves, exhaustion slams in. I sit on the floor of my studio, rubbing my fingertips against my temples. I've taken on so many assignments to keep busy, but I took this one for me. And it backfired.

What I need is a night off. Just one night where I don't curl up with my laptop and color correct until my eyes burn. A few solid hours in which I pretend deadlines don't exist, where I can forget about the group show in August, and the look of concern that flashed across Elyse's face when she saw me. I need an evening where I definitely, one hundred percent will not think about Trevor, and that night is tonight. I'm going out with my big sister.

Eventually I peel myself off the floor. I'm locking up when my phone vibrates with a string of texts. I know it's her before I check the messages. Heather a…