Gran loves him. She likes me fine （definitely more when I talk about finance, less when I talk about Dad or Tennessee or basically anything other than finance）， and we get a meal together once every couple of weeks at very stuffy restaurants where I am required to wear something nicer than I wear to work. Once, she even invited a few other distant relatives, who are seriously awesome and therefore also on her shit list. But that woman fully thinks Alex Harrison is the best thing to happen to her since her daughter deserted their family thirty years ago. If Alex can’t come, Gran is not interested. If we ever move again, I’ll have to pry him from her cold, dead hands.
Like most other things, I grow into my job with time, and I think the job grows into me, too. I get to write a travel budget in the May issue. Alex prints it out and frames my first byline （which contains fewer than one hundred words but does include many numerical figures）， then surprise-books the exact trip I budgeted—to Morocco—so we can take it in October.
There is one day at a pub near Bethnal Green where I have an allergic reaction and have to stick myself in the ass with my Epi Pen, right there at the lunch table. Alex is scarred so badly from it he stares into space for the rest of the day, even though I fully recover after twenty minutes.
We learn to cook together—because our apartment’s stove actually works, and because we’re trying to save for vacations. The result is a lot of burned things （burnt, if you’re British） and bursts of laughter, and occasionally even a take-out order. But we forge ahead meal by meal, since every trip we take leaves us hungry for more. High on the list is a visit to Korea so Alex can show me another part of himself, but in the meantime, I’ve gotten to see the White Cliffs of Dover. I got a headache trying to keep up with an outdoor play of Macbeth on Oxford’s spring grounds. Last month, we took a weekend-long flower-arranging class in Bath.
And no matter where we are, or how many times I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, Alex always pulls me back against him so we can fall asleep in each other’s arms.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I feel profoundly overwhelmed to be writing acknowledgments for my first published novel. Mostly, because this might be the first time I’ve allowed myself to pause and consider just how many people believed in this book, and in me.
The first round of thanks goes to Melissa Edwards, my tireless agent, who pulled a manuscript with a voice and a concept out of her slush pile and gave that manuscript a desperately needed plotline. I frequently think back to that early draft and marvel at your ability to see potential and nurture it until it shines. Your guidance, advocacy, and understanding, before and after we sold this book, have blown me away. I can’t wait to see what we achieve next!
Sallie Lotz, my inspirational editor—can I tell you a secret? When Melissa sent me the submission list for Love Interest, your name was right at the top. You pulled a manuscript with a voice, concept, and plotline out of your slush pile and gave it the lion’s share of what makes a book compelling: emotion. I knew from the first time we spoke that you were the perfect editor to head into the trenches with. It isn’t lost on me how diligently you worked on this book to make it the very best version of itself that it can be. I can’t thank you enough for believing in the characters, and in me.
I have so much gratitude for the sensitivity readers who provided thoughtful feedback and invaluable insight!
To the entire team at St. Martin’s Publishing Group, those I know by name and those whom I’ve never met but who still had a hand in bringing this novel to life: thank you from the bottom of my heart. Special thanks to Marissa, Austin, Brant, and Meghan, as well as to the production team, my fabulous copy editor, and any other sneaky helpers out there who are working hard behind the scenes.
Hannah Bonam-Young, my first author friend, the first person to scream in my DMs when she read my book: your friendship means a heck of a lot to me, and I’m proud of us both.
Thank you to every author that has shown me kindness on social media. I have felt so touched by you all for rooting me on, congratulating me, encouraging me, and showing excitement over my work.
Special thanks to my agent siblings, who welcomed me into professional writerdom with open arms, and to the Writing with the Soul community; the next time we get together in person I will try not to cry while spouting complicated metaphors about how much the community means to me, but no promises.
Endless love to my family:
Mom, who read my first novel （a thief-spy mystery adventure） when I was sixteen.
Dad, who told me I should read more books since I didn’t know what “insouciant” meant （I overcorrected）。
My sisters, Maddie and Amy, with whom I am the weirdest version of myself.
Grandma, who kept journals in my hand when I stopped writing, books in my hand when I stopped reading.
To my Charlotte friends, including but not limited to Mary Caten, Sally, Maddy, Jenny, and Caroline: I adore you all. To my college friends, Lanna, Caroline, Katie, and Jordan: you guys are my literal heartbeat.
To Liza and Erin, two more of my best friends, who both inspired Miriam’s character and are also the entire reason I can pretend to know anything about what it’s like to live in New York City as a twenty-four-year-old with bigger dreams for tomorrow than five years from now. I hope I did you proud.
Lastly, to Morgan, my very own love interest. Romance readers joke all the time that nothing in real life can ever live up to a book boyfriend. But you prove that theory wrong all the time. Thank you for taking my writing career more seriously than even I did, in the beginning. I love you quite a bit.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CLARE GILMORE lives in Nashville, Tennessee. She spends her moonlight hours cooking excessively elaborate meals and planning more vacations than she’ll ever be able to take. You can sign up for email updates here.