The Rewind - Softcover

Scotch, Allison Winn

 
9780593546536: The Rewind
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593546539 ISBN 13: 9780593546536
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

A Good Morning America Buzz Pick
One of Amazon's Best Romances of November!

Two exes wake up together with wedding bands on their fingers—and no idea how they got there. They have just one New Year’s Eve at the end of 1999 to figure it out in this big-hearted and nostalgic rom-com from New York Times bestselling author Allison Winn Scotch.

When college sweethearts Frankie and Ezra broke up before graduation, they vowed to never speak to each other again. Ten years later, on the eve of the new millennium, they find themselves back on their snowy, picturesque New England campus together for the first time for the wedding of mutual friends. Frankie’s on the rise as a music manager for the hottest bands of the late ’90s, and Ezra’s ready to propose to his girlfriend after the wedding. Everything is going to plan—they just have to avoid the chasm of emotions brought up when they inevitably come face to face.
 
But when they wake up in bed next to each other the following morning with Ezra’s grandmother’s diamond on Frankie’s finger, they have zero memory of how they got there—or about any of the events that transpired the night before. Now Frankie and Ezra have to put aside old grievances in order to figure out what happened, what didn’t happen...and to ask themselves the most troubling question of all: what if they both got it wrong the first time around?

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Allison Winn Scotch is the New York Times bestselling author of eight novels, including Time of My Life, In Twenty Years, and Cleo McDougal Regrets Nothing. A cum laude graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, where she studied history and marketing, Winn Scotch now lives in Los Angeles.

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ONE

Frankie

Frankie awoke to a headache that felt akin to a leech sucking the blood straight from her spinal cord. The throbbing started low in her skull, right at the nape of her neck, and reverberated out with each heartbeat, each pulse, into every vein, every cerebral fold, every nerve. She squeezed her eyes closed, willing for sleep for one more moment, but the pain was unbearable, too much to allow for rest to settle back in. This, certainly, was one of a hundred hangovers she had endured, and yet this one felt different. Harrowing.

She allowed her eyes to flutter open and found herself staring at a white wall. To be sure, this was not the first wall she had woken in close proximity to, but certainly, she knew immediately that it wasn't her own. She'd painted one of her bedroom walls a vibrant purple last year, and though all her friends in LA thought it was a little much, Frankie had yet to grow weary of it, unlike so many other things in her life. (Really, she only had, like, three friends in LA, and mostly, those friendships were work friendships, but still. They really all did think she'd get sick of the purple wall.)

Frankie rolled to her back, emitted a groan, and noticed a heat emanating from beside her. The naked back of a man rose and fell next to her. This was also not a highly unusual experience for Frankie, who often took advice from Prince and partied like it was the end of the world, or at least the end of the century. Who could blame her: hot men and tequila went with her business.

This morning, however, Frankie narrowed her crusty eyes and took stock. The room was dim, the shades still pulled, and low light filtered in. The bed was small, very small. True, she occasionally woke up in a shabby studio with an aspiring drummer or the like (Frankie did prefer drummers, as they knew what to do with their hands; guitarists were pretty all right, too), but as adults, nearly everyone had at least a decent-sized bed. Sometimes, yes, there were futons involved. She rarely even bothered to give those aspirings her number. Futon-guys were fun, but they were not on Frankie's long-term radar. Laila would argue that Frankie didn't have long-term radar, while April would urge Frankie to find her long-term radar. "It's very fulfilling once you do," she'd once said, while Frankie made groaning noises over the phone that she hoped April could interpret three thousand miles away.

Frankie pushed up to her elbows and glanced around. The furnishings were . . . She tried to place them. The furnishings were familiar but only in a vague, back-of-her-mind way. They were utilitarian, basic, standard-issue beige wood. Frankie squinted, her brain running in the way that it sometimes did before she either had a brilliant epiphany or needed to take an Ativan.

This did not seem right. This did not feel right, and if Frankie Harriman was good at anything, it was tapping into a feeling and riding that wave. That's how she discovered Night Vixen in a dank club off Sunset and brought them from bickering post-high school na•fs to the A-lister girl band who currently had the number two record and five singles on the charts. No small thing for a girl band in the late '90s, when- despite the success of, well, Frankie would just say it: ugh, the Spice Girls-girl bands still had to fight for both respect and airplay. It was how she'd navigated the boys' club of her industry and landed on Hollywood Reporter's 30 Under 30 at twenty-eight: by tapping into feelings about up-and-comers and massaging egos and wiping tears and sending ridiculously large bottles of champagne to front doors when a single got its first spin on 102.7 KISS FM.

This morning, with alarming and rapid acuity, Frankie realized that her feelings bleated, Something is not right.

Gingerly, she eased closer to the man beside her, craning her neck until she hovered just above his face.

She recognized him both too slowly and too quickly, in the way that you might when you slam on your brakes before you hit a biker who runs a light. How quickly you react determines everything that comes next. An adrenaline rush but nothing except tire marks in the street or a man dead in the crosswalk. Half a second makes all the difference.

Frankie Harriman, who was accustomed to finding herself in plenty of oncoming traffic, did not react well. She stared at the stubble and the chestnut hair and the long eyelashes and the straight nose, and she screamed.

TWO

Ezra

Ezra woke to someone screaming, so loud, too loud. Oh God. Why was it so loud?

"Stop," he mumbled, his eyes still closed. "Stop."

The screaming abated, and he curled into the fetal position, tugging the sheets closer. A tug back. He yanked in reply and cocooned himself further in the bed.

Then, an unwanted poking at his hip. Poke. Poke. Poke.

He groaned and exhaled, his eyes still shut.

"You," he heard, and felt hot breath in his ear. "You!"

Now his eyes were open, and he took a sliver of a beat to process where he had unceremoniously woken.

A dorm room? His brain discarded the notion. Then revisited it.

He tilted his head up an inch from the pillow. No, this was definitely a dorm room.

His heart accelerated in a way he could feel acutely in his chest. Did he actually go home with a college student last night? He did the math: while one hundred percent disgusting, it would not be illegal. Ezra had gone to law school and knew that while there were plenty of things that were unsavory, they could not land you in prison.

He felt the finger pressing his hip again. Please don't be eighteen. Please be clothed. Please be Mimi. Please please please be Mimi.

"You! What are you doing here?" From behind him. And then he instantly knew the voice; he'd heard it a million times back when he was young enough to live in a dorm room. In fact, when he did. When she did. Their junior and senior years. They'd lived together even if it hadn't been official.

Oh shit. It hadn't occurred to him to plead for a reprieve from Frankie Harriman because never in ten billion years-no, more than that-would it have occurred to him that she could be the woman next to him.

He didn't want to turn around to face her, and yet, it appeared to be too late to slink out unnoticed, to leave a note and a promise to call. Not that Ezra had ever done such a thing even once in his life. He was a Big Brother. He spearheaded a free legal aid group in law school. He was a monogamous commitment-fiend who'd never had a one-night stand because he valued the relationship, not just the sex.

He steeled himself before he turned to face her. How he'd ended up in a twin bed in a dorm room with Frankie Harriman was truly beyond him at the moment. But turn he must.

So he did.

And she screamed again.

And he, startled at both the decibel and the proximity of her face for the first time in ten years, screamed back. Louder. Louder. Because he'd vowed the last time he'd seen her that she would never get the better of him again.

THREE

Frankie

What are you doing here?" Frankie shrieked, pushing her palms flat against Ezra's bare chest, then pulling them back as if she incurred an electric shock. "Why are you in bed with me?"

Her head throbbed with each syllable, so she quieted and waited for what she hoped was a suitable explanation. How could there be a suitable explanation? She had pledged never to speak to him again, never to think of him again, and now, here they were, skin to skin, tucked under his sheets as if they still knew each other in the ways that they used to.

She watched Ezra blanch and swallow. He scrunched his face, a habit from back in the time when they were crazy in love and he was tackling an Eastern European history paper...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2022
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593546539
ISBN 13 
9780593546536
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
368
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
preigu
mail@preigu.de

Lengericher Landstr. 19
Osnabrück
49078
Deutschland

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