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Code Word Romance - Softcover

Walker, Carlie

 
9780593640418: Code Word Romance
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593640411 ISBN 13: 9780593640418
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

One fake prime minister, one ridiculously hot handler, and one Italian summer collide in this thrilling adventure rom-com.

Max is just your average girl. She works odd jobs, has a soul-crushing amount of debt, and happens to bear an uncanny resemblance to Europe's youngest female prime minister, Sofia Christensen. Sofia is powerful, beautiful--and unfortunately, someone is trying quite hard to assassinate her.

When the CIA approaches Max with a deal, a life-changing amount of money if she pretends to be Sofia on the prime minister's annual Italian vacation, Max packs her bags for the Amalfi Coast. The delicious food, the breathtaking views--this trip would be a dream if it weren't for those pesky assassins and Flynn, the handler assigned to Max's case. Flynn, who has an unexpected history with Max, from another sun-drenched summer years and years ago. Now he's instructed to stay in Max's suite to protect her, as old passions and assassins collide.

Losing herself in the role of a prime minister is one thing. But losing her heart to Flynn again? Now that's a risk she isn't willing to take . . .

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Carlie Walker attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she first majored in Peace, War and Defense, a feeder program for intelligence services--before realizing that she is way too anxious to be a spy. Having gone on to study at Oxford University and at City, University of London, she worked briefly in publishing before becoming the bestselling author of seven books for children and young adults. She has a registered 250-pound dead lift, volunteers in a cat shelter, and used to spend her Saturdays practicing Krav Maga. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and their American dingo.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

Kennebunkport, Maine

Six Days Earlier

Food has always been my life. The rush of the kitchen, browned butter sizzling in a cast-iron pan, the hard crack of a lobster claw. I've never wanted to be anything other than a chef. My dad bought me my first chef's coat when I was ten years old, and I wore that thing everywhere-until the starch white took on this Dijon mustard hue, and Mom insisted that maybe the other kids at school would pick on me a little less if I wore, say, overalls.

Come to think of it, she had a point, but I had a wildly optimistic dream. I'd open a restaurant by the water, serve hot cups of chowder on snowy days. I'd spend late nights in the kitchen, batch-testing new recipes, and in the morning, I'd whip up potato doughnuts with fresh, local ingredients.

In short, I'd be happy.

"You don't look so good," my boss observes. He's giving me the once-over from across the rough-cut lawn, face a mask of sympathy, and I wonder what he's referring to specifically: the holey Boston Terriers sweatshirt I've had since college, the thick sheen of sweat on my forehead, or the general vibe I've been giving off lately, that I may or may not scream into my throw pillows at night. I'm almost thirty years old, so far in debt that it makes my eyes water, and I've spent the last hour lugging cheap boxed wine from the catering van.

Peeling off the sweatshirt, sticky in the heat, I readjust my tee and give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. "Just got a little warm."

"You sure that's all?" he asks. "You really look terrible."

"Yeah, thanks, Andy," I say, puffing my bangs from my eyes. I'm gentle about it, because I'm always gentle-and honestly, after the year I've had, I'd be concerned for me, too.

The breeze cools me off a little as I zigzag around the outdoor bar, pour a glass of ice water from a pitcher, and take a swig.

This is my twenty-seventh wedding of the summer, and it's only June. Each one goes something like this: beautiful couple, ceremony on the waterfront, reception on the lawn outside the picture-perfect inn. Charcuterie boards, glasses clinking, the flash of a hundred photographs. And me, rushing around, making sure that everyone's having a good time. I'm front of house now, a task rabbit, the person who freshens your drink, asks if you'd like cocktail sauce with that shrimp, and occasionally breaks up fights between groomsmen when they've had too much champagne. (Excuse me, can you guys hug it out?)

Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly grateful for this job. I'm also incredibly aware that it's the only work I could find-at a second-rate catering company, for an hourly wage that hasn't chipped away a dollar of my debt. For the past three months, I've been living off discount macaroni, expired blueberry pancake mix, and whatever's left over on the catering trays at the end of the night.

Gary, the inn's resident goose, starts squawking by the waterfront, and it reminds me to check my watch. I'll have to shoo him back to hell before the guests arrive in an hour. Gary is what you might call an instrument of chaos (during two of our May weddings, he bit the brides), and these seaside weddings are already chaotic enough. Something about the salt air, I think? During my last shift, the maid of honor gave a heartfelt speech about how she once made out with Nicolas Cage at a bat mitzvah, before ramming her Kia Soul straight into the side of the inn.

When I clunk down my water glass, I notice that one of the guests has already arrived. Way early. She's hovering several yards from the bar, by the empty cake table, and she is full-out staring at me. I corral a few strawberry blonde strands into a bun on the top of my head, adding a polka-dotted headband that I keep behind the bar. Do I really look that bad today? Do I have something on my face?

Or does she know me from somewhere?

She's in her early forties, with short chestnut hair, and has a gaze that could crack eggs. No one else is around-everyone's disappeared inside the inn, prepping for the reception-so it's just me and her on the sun-drenched lawn, like two cowboys facing off at daybreak.

"Can I . . . help you?" I ask, a tingle running down my neck.

The soft grass bends under her footsteps. "Are you aware," she asks, making up the distance between us, hands in the pockets of her trench coat, "that you look exactly like Sofia Christiansen?"

Ah, okay, so that's what this is about. The tiny fist in my stomach unclenches.

I get this question a lot. Sofia and I have the same body shape-moderately tall, rounded hips. Our faces are essentially identical: square jaw, light brown eyes, with a look that sometimes says, I'm more powerful than you give me credit for. The only minor difference is, at thirty, Sofia Christiansen is the youngest female prime minister in history. Magazine spreads across Europe herald how glam, assertive, and competent she is at leading a country. I'm, as has been established, ferrying two-dollar boxed wine across a lawn that gives me ankle hives, after my life exploded into flames. Right now, I'm also wearing frayed jean shorts and a Maine State Fair T-shirt with a talking raccoon on it. World-leader material? Perhaps not.

I offer a polite nod and a muted shrug. "So they tell me."

"It's uncanny," the woman says, stepping closer. Too close. "You're like twins. Are you related?"

"Nope, it's just one of those random look-alike things . . ." My shoulders scrunch together as I scooch around the bar, then past her, hoping to leave it there. I need to change into my catering uniform, set out the lobster roll trays, and deal with Gary before he starts pooping all over the lawn chairs.

Unfortunately, trench-coat woman doesn't get the hint. "We're rather low on time, so I think it's best if I speak for a short while, and you don't speak, and then we can move on from there. We've established that you're familiar with Sofia Christiansen, prime minister of Summerland. What you might not know is someone would very much like to assassinate her."

My chest starts to prickle with heat, little pops of red under the collar of my tee. I half spin around in my Birkenstocks, thinking What kind of conversation is this? Summerland, I do know. It's a small island nation off the coast of Norway: rocky cliffs, slate blue sea, puffins. That's where my grandmother was from. Those are the pictures I grew up with, black-and-white snaps of the ocean, a coast I'd visited only in my imagination. But everything else-the prime minister bit, the assassination bit-makes me wonder if this woman's dipped into something a little harder than the boxed wine.

"I say someone," she continues, "although we've narrowed down the suspects, logically, to a Summerlandian crime family. Imagine the Hells Angels but more Scandinavian; they ride actual bicycles. The first attempted hit came directly after the prime minister cracked down on their illegal gambling and weapons trafficking networks in April. Did you catch the hospital incident on the news?"

I blink, long and slow, eyelashes flicking in the sunlight. Who didn't see that news story? It was everywhere, a constant video loop of the prime minister ducking and covering outside of a children's hospital, a bullet lodged in her bodyguard's arm; after a moment, she ran over to put pressure on the wound, shielding him. The footage gave me a lump in my throat, all of those kids peeking out of their windows, checking if the prime minister was all right-if she was still coming inside to read them a book.

My mom even texted me about one of the news clips: Can't believe how much she looks like you. Scary to watch as your mother!

"You're probably wondering what this has to do with you," the stranger says, over the sound of Gary, honking. "Normally we'd spend months cultivating an...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593640411
ISBN 13 
9780593640418
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
320
Kontakt zum Hersteller
BERKLEY
https://www.penguin.com/?s=BERKLEY

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