In Amy Lea’s latest rom-com, fashion influencer Melanie Karlsen ventures to a Canadian fishing village to revive her brand. When fisherman Evan Whaler’s accident leads to a mistaken engagement with Mel, they agree to fake it for a week. As emotions grow, Mel faces a choice: city glamour or wild love. Will she trade her picture-perfect life for a chance at true romance? The third spicy, swoon-worthy rom-com from Amy Lea, author of Set on You and Exes and O's.
If I were a character in a classic slasher film, I'd be the first to die. That sounds morbid, but hear me out.
First, I lack the necessary endurance to run long distances without being caught. I have no sense of direction, to the point where I regularly get lost in my own condo parking garage. On any given day, I’m usually alone, leaving the killer ample time to strike when I’m vulnerable. And when placed in high-pressure situations, I tend to make rash, ill-advised decisions.
Case in point: when being pursued, my first instinct is to trap myself inside the tight confines of the condo elevator. Rookie mistake.
“Melanie! Meeelanieee, wait for me!” calls an all-too-familiar, ear-piercing voice.
I frantically press the Close button no less than eleven times, heart hammering against my chest wall. Picture the slasher scene where the woman hides in a closet as the killer ponders his next move, mouth- reathing heavily on the other side of the door.
As the click-clack of footsteps on marbled tiles grows dangerously near, the elevator doors begin to close. Bless.
Just one more inch.
Half an inch.
And then they stop.
A sliver shy of sealing shut, the doors abruptly reopen like a record scratch. My whole body folds inward, desperate to seek refuge like a turtle avoiding all reality in its protective shell. On second thought, turtles do not have the gift of speed. And in the face of my pursuer’s demented smile, one needs to run, or at least power walk.
“I have the charisma of a potato compared to James Bond.”
One could say I’m being a touch dramatic. See, he isn’t really a crazed, axe-wielding serial killer who wants to hack me into tiny pieces. He’s my prepubescent neighbor—Ian Montgomery.
“Melanie. You look ravishing.”
“Hi, Ian.” I summon a sweet smile, taking stock of his short-sleeved button-down. It hangs off his lithe frame, juxtaposed with his creased khakis, which are two inches too short since his winter growth spurt.
A man in tapered joggers takes advantage of the holdup, rushing in behind Ian before the door closes, sealing us in together.
“The color of your top brings out your suntan,” Ian tells me, his gaze hovering dangerously close to my cleavage. To be fair, it’s at his eye level since he’s approximately four feet nine.
I respond to Ian with a low “Thank you,” shifting a thick lock of hair over my chest like a protective blanket before shuffling to the right, my Greek take-out bag tucked snugly under my arm.
Ian wastes zero time reclaiming the dead space. “I also liked your bikini photo from the other day.”
My cheeks burst into flame when Joggers shoots me an accusatory look over his meaty shoulder. Ian is referring to my latest post—beach photo shoot wherein I attempted to channel the raw sex appeal of Daniel Craig in Casino Royale. Particularly that slo‑mo scene where he emerges seductively from the water, beads of moisture shimmering over his taut, suspiciously hairless bod. As it turns out, I have the charisma of a potato compared to James Bond.
Extracted from The Catch by Amy Lea, out now.
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