We're a Bad Idea, Right?

This stunning first edition of The business of love gets messy when two best friends decide to fake a romantic relationship in this uproarious and swoony novel by the bestselling author of Audrey Barbour has had enough of following the rules. Eighteen years of being the perfect daughter--exceptional grades, enviable college acceptances, tame dating history--and still, her parents don’t trust her enough to let her study her passion, glassblowing, on a prestigious fellowship. So when her best friend Henry proposes an outrageous fake-dating scheme to win back his ex-girlfriend, it feels like the first step to shaking up her perfect life. And the second? That comes when Audrey’s parents go out of town, sparking a high-risk, high-reward solution to pay for her fellowship--renting out her family’s Connecticut mansion online.;With the help of her new fake-boyfriend, it shouldn’t be hard to pull off… right?;; But when her best intentions start to unravel, Audrey will have to reckon with who she is, what she wants, and what it really means to play life by <her< rules--all with her heart on the line.

Autorentext

K.L. Walther is the bestselling author of The Summer of Broken Rules and While We’re Young. Born and raised in the rolling hills of Bucks County, Pennsylvania, she is happiest when reading a romance on the beach or bantering with her better half.

Klappentext

**NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • The business of love gets messy when two best friends decide to fake a relationship in this uproarious and swoony novel by the New York Times bestselling author of The Summer of Broken Rules.

“As always, Walther’s characters leap off the page. Come for the perfectly executed fake dating romance and stay for the endearing cast of weirdos who feel like real friends.”—Becky Albertalli, bestselling author of Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda
**
Audrey Barbour has had enough of following the rules. Eighteen years of being the perfect daughter—exceptional grades, enviable college acceptances, tame dating history—and still, her parents don’t trust her enough to let her study her passion, glassblowing, on a prestigious fellowship.

So when her best friend Henry proposes an outrageous fake-dating scheme to win back his ex-girlfriend, it feels like the first step to shaking up her perfect life. And the second? That comes when Audrey’s parents go out of town, sparking a high-risk, high-reward solution to pay for her fellowship—renting out her family’s Connecticut mansion online. With the help of her new fake-boyfriend, it shouldn’t be hard to pull off… right?

But when her best intentions start to unravel, Audrey will have to reckon with who she is, what she wants, and what it really means to play life by her rules—all with her heart on the line.

Leseprobe
CHAPTER 1

The hot shop was not the place to zone out, but I couldn’t stop myself from doing it anyway. “Holly?” I heard Henry’s voice, as if from a distance, while I stared into the furnace at the mesmerizing melting pot of sand, soda, and lime—­or, in one word: glass. Molten glass, which had taken hours to heat to a balmy two thousand degrees. Sweat was beading on my forehead even though I hadn’t technically started working.

Henry, again: “Holly? Are you okay?”

Don’t you have something else to ask me? I thought, but in­stead I blinked, as if I’d looked at the sun too long. “That’s not my name,” I said, for only the millionth time.

“Oh, right,” Henry said from behind me. His voice suggested a smirk. “Sorry, Sabrina.”

“Try again, Hank,” I replied, sliding the furnace’s hatch shut before turning to look at Henry perched on the nearby workbench’s stool. His thick black hair was tousled, ready for his GQ photo shoot, but his mouth had thinned into a straight line.

Because if there was one thing my dear friend Henry Chen hated in this world, it was being called Hank. We’d only known each other a year and change, but from the way we teased each other, it felt like much longer.

“What’s up?” he asked after I drained my dented water bottle in three glugs. “You seem pretty out of it.”

“I had a nightmare last night.” I rolled my tense shoulders back. “And I can’t seem to shake it.”

“Really? I always kick mine the second I wake up.”

I gave him a look. Henry had once told me that as soon as his head hit the pillow at night, his eyelids didn’t flutter until his alarm went off in the morning. If only I were that lucky.

“Okay, okay.” Henry shifted on the stool, offering me his full and undivided attention. “What was your nightmare about, Princess Anne?”

That one took me a second. I wasn’t well versed in Audrey Hepburn’s filmography, the source of Henry’s ridiculous nicknames. It turned out sharing a name with the Old Hollywood star made for endless quips from my best friend.

Roman Holiday? I guessed silently, then said, “It’s not just the plot; it’s that this is now the third time I’ve had this nightmare.”

Henry lifted an eyebrow. “Down to the last detail?”

“Down to the last detail,” I confirmed, crouching on the hot shop’s concrete floor. I traced the chalk drawing of a strawberry-­shaped paperweight—­what I’d fired up the furnace to blow—­then spoke. “It always starts with Griff calling—­”

Henry raised his hand.

“What?”

“You’re categorizing this as a nightmare,” he said. “But it’s al­ready sounding more like a dream.”

I rolled my eyes but felt a thrill at the thought of Griffin Keeler’s name popping up on my phone, the same thrill I always felt when we texted. Not only was he our school’s star quarter­back, he was also our coworker at the local catering company . . . and blissfully unaware of my crush on him.

The whole scenario fell just short of cliché, but I couldn’t help it.

Hey, Audrey! I could almost hear Griff’s upbeat voice in my ear, a flirtatious lilt to it. I have the house to myself . . .

Losing a battle with a blush, I said, “He asks if I want to come over and try the sugar cookies he’s baking.”

“Ah, so it is a nightmare.” Henry nodded. “Griff’s sugar cookies taste like sand, remember?”

How could I forget? Back in the fall, Griff had made a batch of atrocious cookies for the football team’s bake sale. “They were blander than bland,” I agreed. “So then I drive over to his house—­”

“In Brigitta? Or the Spider?”

I groaned. “Will you shut up and listen?”

Henry held up his hands, as if to say, Well, excuse me.

“The Spider,” I answered, another sign that this was a dream gone wrong. Unlike Brigitta, my beloved VW station wagon (named after one of the Sound of Music children), my parents’ Fiat Spider was a manual. And driving stick was not my forte.

Finally satisfied with the visual, Henry dropped his hands and settled in for story time.

The nightmare goes like this: I drive Brigitta over to Griff’s house. On the phone, he said he was home alone, but my stomach sinks when I pull up and see two cars in the driveway. Maybe his family just got back . . . ? I hesitate before unbuckling my seat belt. It isn’t that I don’t like the Keelers; I’m just not used to…