What If I Never Get over You - Softcover

Toon, Paige

 
9780593718735: What If I Never Get over You
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593718739 ISBN 13: 9780593718735
Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

“Five giant stars. Propulsive and gut-wrenching…An all-consuming, epic love story.”—Annabel Monaghan, bestselling author of Summer Romance

One Day meets a contemporary Bridgerton in this high-drama, escapist wonder of a love story, Paige Toon’s best yet.

Three days to fall in love. Six years to try to forget.

Ellie didn’t expect to fall in love while interrailing through Europe. But she also didn’t expect to meet a man like Ash. Three blistering days in Lisbon is all it takes to form an unforgettable connection—a bond deep enough for them to scrap their itineraries and plan to meet again in Spain. But Ellie arrives late, and Ash is nowhere to be found.

Six years later, Ellie has landed her dream job working as a gardener for a viscount and viscountess on their sprawling five-hundred-year-old estate in Wales. She finds peace amongst the towering topiary hedges and colorful gardens, but her idyll is shattered when Ash crashes back into her life. And when it becomes clear why he didn’t show in Madrid, her heart breaks anew—for what the truth means for their fate.

But they have never been able to resist each other, and when the sparks of their attraction fly, Ellie’s life will catch flame. She will have to make a choice.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Paige Toon grew up among England, Australia, and America and has been writing emotional love stories since 2007. She has published sixteen novels, a three-part spin-off series for young adults, and a collection of short stories. Her books have sold more than 2 million copies worldwide. She lives in Cambridgeshire, England, with her husband and their two children.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

Is this seat taken?"

I'm so caught up in the action on the page that it's an effort to drag my eyes from my book to the face of the guy in front of me. His hair falls in shaggy, dark gold waves to a defined jawline that hasn't seen a razor in days, but it's his warm, clear, light brown eyes that make my heart trip and stumble. I have no idea what he just read in my expression, but he does a small double take as our gazes collide.

"Go for it," I say, returning my eyes to the novel, though at the edge of my vision I watch him shrug a big army-green rucksack off his broad shoulders and drop it to the ground with a thud.

"Nice view from up here," he comments casually as he folds his tall frame into the seat.

We're on the crowded rooftop of a hostel in Lisbon, Portugal, under the shade of a bamboo canopy that's creating a barcode of light and dark stripes over the table. Across the adjacent terra-cotta-tiled rooftops looms a red suspension bridge carrying a steady hum of traffic from one side of the wide green river to the other, where a towering monument of Jesus Christ stands with his arms outstretched in the hazy late-afternoon sunshine. The bridge has Golden Gate vibes while the monument is directly inspired by Rio de Janeiro's Christ the Redeemer, as my earlier Google search revealed.

"I don't know if I'm in San Francisco or Brazil," I respond, reaching for my peach iced tea and taking a sip.

His small huff of laughter and lovely smile cause my glass to hitch against my bottom lip.

"I'm Ash," he says with the ease of someone who has had no trouble making friends on his travels.

"Ellie," I reply.

"Are you staying here too?" he asks.

"Yep." I give up on finishing the chapter and fold over the corner of my page.

"Sorry, I'm interrupting," he realizes as I close the book.

"It's fine."

"But you're right near the end," he notices.

"Two chapters and one page left," I confirm.

"I can just sit here while you finish."

The thought of this is so ludicrous that I laugh. His corresponding grin makes me feel giddy.

"Actually, I'm gonna grab a beer." He flattens his palms on the table. "Can I get you something? It's happy hour," he adds temptingly.

I hesitate for all of two seconds. "Go on, then, I'll have a rosé. Thanks. I owe you one."

I try to read while I'm waiting, but where minutes ago I was riveted, now I can't seem to digest the words. I glance over to Ash at the bar, standing with his back to me as the barman takes his order. My eyes skate over the breadth of his shoulders and along the length of his arms, lean and golden. He must be six foot three or four.

The irony of it hasn't escaped my notice: the fact that someone is being nice to me right after I decided to quit interrailing. And not just any someone: him.

I grab my phone and tap out a quick text to Stella: I think I might have been thrown a curveball.

Ash returns to the table with our drinks. "Is it hard going?" he asks as I fold over the exact same corner as earlier and close my book.

"No, I'm just trying to stretch it out."

He reads the title aloud: "A Court of Thorns and Roses. What's it about?"

"It's about a girl who basically gets kidnapped by a sexy faerie," I reply with a grin. "My best friend recommended it."

"Sounds like the sort of thing my best friend used to read," he says fondly, taking a sip of his beer.

"Where are you from?" I ask as he brushes away the foam on his upper lip.

"Wales."

I'd guessed as much from his accent and the way he rolls his r's.

"Which part?"

"North Wales, near Wrexham. You?"

"North London."

"How long have you been in Lisbon?" The tip of his nose is sunburnt, which is oddly endearing.

"I've only just arrived."

"Same. Are you interrailing?"

"Yep."

"Where have you traveled from?"

"Coimbra, and before that, Porto," I tell him.

"You came across the north of Spain?"

"Yeah." I reach up to lift my hair from where it's clinging to my neck. It's after five, but the air is close and sticky.

"I came along the south," he replies, tracking the movement of my hand with his eyes. "I'm heading to Porto next."

"It's great-you'll love it. I'm off to the Algarve."

My parents are meeting me there, and a week later, I'll be flying home. The thought of this filled me with relief earlier, but now the reality is setting in and suddenly I feel flat.

"What's your favorite thing you've done so far?" Ash interrupts my thoughts.

"Um . . . Probably visiting my great-grandfather's war grave at Bayeux. It was surprisingly emotional."

"I'm pretty sure I've got a great-uncle who's buried there. Why was it surprisingly emotional?"

"I didn't think I'd be affected by it, I just thought I'd see a whole bunch of graves and feel, I don't know, good that I'd gone. But actually, the enormity of so many people losing their lives and one of those people being an ancestor of mine . . . My granddad was only a year old when his dad died. He came so close to not even existing, and if he hadn't, well, where would I be?" I shrug self-consciously, but he's staring at me with a small, steady smile on his face, seeming genuinely interested in what I have to say. This conversation is already so different to every other casual chat I've had while traveling.

"I wasn't even planning on going there," I admit, our intense eye contact making me feel edgy. "But it's definitely one of my highlights."

"What are your other highlights?" he asks.

I like the way he's looking at me and it's on the tip of my tongue to tell him about the château I visited in the Loire Valley, with its stunning formal gardens and the nearby zoo built out of a quarry where you could hand-feed giraffes. Or the bike ride I took on the Île de Ré near La Rochelle, or the bar I sat at, drinking sangria, overlooking San Sebastián's sparkling La Concha Bay. But the truth is that I was lonely as hell doing those things on my own and I can't quite bring myself to lie to him about how awesome it was.

"We should just exchange Instagram details," I reply lightly. "All my highlights are on there."

"Great idea. I'd much rather stare at a screen than speak to a fellow human." I laugh at his gentle sarcasm and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he says, "Alas, I don't have a phone. Or Instagram."

I give him a baffled look. "You don't have a phone? Have you lost it?"

He shakes his head and takes another sip of his beer, a smile playing about his lips. "No, it was a conscious decision to come away without one."

My jaw drops. "You've been traveling around Europe without a phone?"

He nods. "It's nice being off-grid."

"What about maps? And music? And calling home?" I ask with astonishment.

"I have paper maps," he replies, leaning back in his chair so his tanned face is out of the shade of the canopy. "And I use hostel phones to call home. I do miss music, though."

His eyes are the same color as the peach iced tea I've been drinking: they catch the sunlight too, and sparkle with it.

"Do you fancy getting something to eat?" he asks out of the blue.

Definitely been thrown a curveball . . .


“I really need to go to a launderette tomorrow. This is my last clean dress,” I say to Ash about my little black number as we wander along the cobbled streets of the LX Factory, between buildings plastered with posters and street art.

Our hostel is about three kilometers from the city center in an area that used to house a thriving textiles industry, but now the old warehouses have been converted into artsy shops, cafés, bars, galleries, and hip restaurants filled with beautiful...

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Verlag
G.P. Putnam's Sons
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593718739
ISBN 13 
9780593718735
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
402
Kontakt zum Hersteller
G.P. Putnam's Sons
https://www.penguin.com/putnam/

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Softcover