Informationen zum Autor Victoria Lee Klappentext NATIONAL BESTSELLER • A passionate and powerful romance featuring a transgender man and an ex-Orthodox woman who find each other through their devotion to art, and fall in love despite all odds, from bestselling author Victoria Lee A sensual love story about art and passion . . . emotional and heart-aching.Ashley Poston, New York Times bestselling author of The Dead Romantics A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: PopSugar, She Reads, Publishers Weekly Elisheva Cohen has just returned to New York after almost a decade away. The wounds of her past haven't fully healed, but four years of sobriety and a scholarship to study photography with art legend Wyatt Cole are signs of good things to come, right? They could be, as long as Ely resists self-sabotage. She's lucky enough to hit it off with a handsome himbo her first night out in the city. But the morning after their mind-blowing hookup, reality comes knocking. When Wyatt Cole walks into the classroom, Ely realizes the man she just spent the night with, the man whose name she couldn't hear over the loud club music, is her teacher. Everyone in the art world is obsessed with Wyatt Cole. He's immensely talented and his notoriously reclusive personal life makes him even more compelling. But behind closed doors, Wyatt's past is a painful memory. After coming out as transgender, Wyatt was dishonorably discharged from the military and disowned by his family. Since these traumatic experiences, Wyatt has worked hard for his sobriety and his flourishing art career. He can't risk it all for Ely, no matter how attracted to her he is or how bad he feels about insisting she drop his class in exchange for a strictly professional mentorship. Wyatt can help with her capstone photography project, but he cannot, under any circumstances, fall in love with her in the process. Through the lens of her camera, Ely must confront the reason she left New York in the first place: the Orthodox community that raised her, then shunned her because of her substance abuse. Along the way, Wyatt's walls begin to break down, and each artist fights for what's right in front of thema person who sees them for all that they are and a love that could mean more than they ever imagined possible. Leseprobe Ely My problem, generally speaking, is that I care too much. I'm an artist, so maybe I'm supposed to. That's the stereotype, right? The prodigy obsessed with perfection, shivering in a frigid garret, huddled over their masterpiece, bourbon drenched and brilliant. If I didn't care so much, maybe I wouldn't be able to see the true shape of things, how lines and shapes smudge together perfectly in the light. I wouldn't be willing to spend hours in the darkroom with my lungs full of chemicals or waiting in the park with my tripod for hours until that split second right before the sun goes down when the world is cast in shades of rose and red, shadows stretched out long and skinny like bones. I should have listened the first time someone told me it was a problem, that time Chaya Levy and I had our big fight when we were fifteen and she told me that I was a threat to her Yiddishkeit and we needed a friendship break. You're just a little too intense, she said, and the accusation flung me into the kind of immediate, reactive rage that pretty much proved her point. I can't stop myself from caring, though, no matter how many times it gets me in trouble. Which is why it's incredibly stupid of me to be here at all, standing at the baggage claim in LaGuardia with my backpack digging into my shoulder, watching the carousel grind by. I've been waiting over half an hour already, long enough that that I'm starting to worry my luggage didn't make it, because the baggage guys at LGA are nothing if not efficient and it's just me and this one...

Autorentext

Victoria Lee

Klappentext

**NATIONAL BESTSELLER • A passionate and powerful romance featuring a transgender man and an ex-Orthodox woman who find each other through their devotion to art, and fall in love despite all odds, from bestselling author Victoria Lee

“A sensual love story about art and passion . . . emotional and heart-aching.”—Ashley Poston, New York Times bestselling author of The Dead Romantics**

A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: PopSugar, She Reads, Publishers Weekly

Elisheva Cohen has just returned to New York after almost a decade away. The wounds of her past haven’t fully healed, but four years of sobriety and a scholarship to study photography with art legend Wyatt Cole are signs of good things to come, right? They could be, as long as Ely resists self-sabotage. She’s lucky enough to hit it off with a handsome himbo her first night out in the city. But the morning after their mind-blowing hookup, reality comes knocking. When Wyatt Cole walks into the classroom, Ely realizes the man she just spent the night with, the man whose name she couldn’t hear over the loud club music, is her teacher.

Everyone in the art world is obsessed with Wyatt Cole. He’s immensely talented and his notoriously reclusive personal life makes him even more compelling. But behind closed doors, Wyatt’s past is a painful memory. After coming out as transgender, Wyatt was dishonorably discharged from the military and disowned by his family. Since these traumatic experiences, Wyatt has worked hard for his sobriety and his flourishing art career. He can’t risk it all for Ely, no matter how attracted to her he is or how bad he feels about insisting she drop his class in exchange for a strictly professional mentorship. Wyatt can help with her capstone photography project, but he cannot, under any circumstances, fall in love with her in the process.

Through the lens of her camera, Ely must confront the reason she left New York in the first place: the Orthodox community that raised her, then shunned her because of her substance abuse. Along the way, Wyatt’s walls begin to break down, and each artist fights for what’s right in front of them—a person who sees them for all that they are and a love that could mean more than they ever imagined possible.

Leseprobe
Ely
****
My problem, generally speaking, is that I care too much.

I’m an artist, so maybe I’m supposed to. That’s the stereotype, right? The prodigy obsessed with perfection, shivering in a frigid garret, huddled over their masterpiece, bourbon drenched and brilliant. If I didn’t care so much, maybe I wouldn’t be able to see the true shape of things, how lines and shapes smudge together perfectly in the light. I wouldn’t be willing to spend hours in the darkroom with my lungs full of chemicals or waiting in the park with my tripod for hours until that split second right before the sun goes down when the world is cast in shades of rose and red, shadows stretched out long and skinny like bones.

I should have listened the first time someone told me it was a problem, that time Chaya Levy and I had our big fight when we were fifteen and she told me that I was a threat to her Yiddishkeit and we needed a friendship break. You’re just a little too intense, she said, and the accusation flung me into the kind of immediate, reactive rage that pretty much proved her point.

I can’t stop myself from caring, though, no matter how many times it gets me in trouble. Which is why it’s incredibly stupid of me to be here at all, standing at the baggage claim in LaGuardia with my backpack digging into my shoulder, watching the carousel grind by. I’ve been waiting over half an hour already, long enough that that I’m starting to worry my luggage didn’t make it, because the baggage guys at LGA are nothing if not efficient and it’s just me and this one family left waiting. Their five-­year-…