Emily Henry has your new favorite romance novel!
Read an excerpt of her next novel ‘Happy Place.’
Except, nowfor reasons they’re still not discussingthey don’t.
‘Happy Place’ by Emily Henry.
They broke up six months ago.
And still haven’t told their best friends.
Emily Henry’sHappy Placehits bookstores April 25, 2023, but EW has an exclusive sneak peek.
Excerpt from Happy Place, by Emily Henry
Mattingly, Vermont
He looks up.
His voice is velvety.
It sends a zing of surprise down my spine, like a zipper undone.
This close, something about him seems different.
Less handsome, maybe, but more striking.
His eyes look paler, in the cell phone’s glow.
There are premature crows' feet forming at their corners.
Soft, full, one side of his cupid’s bow noticeably higher.
I shiver as a breeze slips down the collar of my shirt.
“Sorry you got stuck with pick-up duty.
I could’ve scheduled a cab.”
“I didn’t mind.
Been dying to see if the famous Harriet Kilpatrick lives up to the hype.”
Being the object of his full focus makes me feel like a deer in headlights.
Or maybe like I’m a deer being stalked by a coyote.
The kind of confidence reserved for those who skipped their awkward phases entirely.
“Sabrina,” I say, “tends to embellish.”
Weirdly, though, her descriptions ofhimdidn’t come close to capturing him.
Someone more polished, suave.
Someone more like Parth, his best friend.
The corners of his mouth tick as he ambles forward.
But he’s only taking my bag from my shoulder.
“They said you were a brunette.”
My own snort-laugh surprises me.
“I’m glad they spoke so highly of me.”
Which you’re not."
“I am definitely a brunette.”
He tosses my bag into the backseat then faces me again, his hips sinking against the door.
His head tilts thoughtfully.
“Your hair’s almost black.
In the moonlight it looks blue.”
“You think my hair is blue?”
“Not, like, Smurf blue,” he says.
you might’t tell in pictures.
You look different."
“It’s true,” I say.
“In real life, I’m three-dimensional.”
“The painting,” he says thoughtfully.
“That looks like you.”
I instantly know which painting he must be referring to.
The one of me and Sabrina strewn out like God and Adam, Cleo’s old figure drawing final.
“Very discreet way of letting me know you’ve seen my boobs,” I say.
He glances away, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I sort of forgot it was a nude.”
“Words most women only ever dream of hearing,” I say.
“I in no way forgot you were naked in the painting,” he clarifies.
“This is going really well,” I say.
He groans and drags a hand down his face.
“I swear I’m normally better at this.”
“Better at what?”
I say through laughter.
He rakes one hand through his hair.
“First impressions.”
“It’s always worked for me.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” he says.
“You don’t look like a Wyndham Connor.”
“How am I supposed to look?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Navy blue jacket with gold buttons.
A big white beard and a huge cigar?”
“So Santa, on a yacht,” he says.
Monopoly, on vacation," I say.
“For what it’s worth, you’re not the stereotypical image of a Harry Kilpatrick either.”
“I know,” I say.
“I’m not a Dickensian street orphan in a newsboy hat.”
His laugh makes his eyes flash again.
They look more pale green than gray now, likewater under fog rather than the fog itself.
He rounds the front of the car and pulls the passenger door open.
“So Harriet.”
He looks up, and my heart stutters from the surprise of his full attention, back on me.
“You ready?”
For some reason, it feels like a lie when I say, “yes.”
Wyn makes driving the Jaguar along those dark, curving roads seem like a sport or an art form.
He glances at me as a bar of moonlight passes over him.
“So I hear you’re some kind of genius, Harriet Kilpatrick.”
“What did I tell you about Sabrina and embellishment?”
“So you’renotan aspiring brain surgeon?”
“Aspiring’s the operative word,” I said.
“What about you?
What’s your major?”
He ignores my question.
“I would’ve assumedsurgeonwas the operative word.”
This coaxes another snort of laughter out me.
I look out the window.
“What about you?”
After several seconds of silence, he says, “What about me?”
He sounds vaguely displeased by the question.
“Is what I’ve been told aboutyouaccurate?”
He checks the mirror again, teeth scraping over his full bottom lip.
“Depends what you’ve been told.”
“What do you think I’ve been told,” I say.
“I’d rather not guess, Harriet.”
He uses my name a lot.
Every time, it’s like his voice plucks a too-tight string in a piano deep in my stomach.
There are no butterflies fluttering through my gut.
Just blood vessels constricting and contracting around my organs.
“Why not?”
“Do you think they said something bad?”
His jaw squares, eyes back on the headlights slicing through the dark.
I don’t want to know."
“They told me it would be impossible to tell whether you were flirting or not.”
“Now you’retryingto embarrass me.”
I’m not sure what’s come over me.
“But they did say that.”
It would’ve disrupted their living situation too much.
“Either way,” Wyn says.
“I’mmuchbetter at flirting than that makes me sound.”
“Flirting never killed anybody, Harriet.”
“Clearly you’re unfamiliar with the concept of the Regency-era duel,” I say.
“You think we’re just going to skate over you being well-versed in Regency customs?”
“Harriet, I don’t get the feeling you skate overanything,” he says.
I give another involuntary snort of laughter, and his dimples deepen.
“No,” I say, “that has to be bred into you across centuries.”
“I’m sure,” he says.
“I’m not like that, by the way.”
“Gently bred to laugh through your nose?”
His chin tips, his gaze knowing.
“The impression you have of me.
I don’t play with people’s feelings.
I have rules.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, never tell the rules to someone you’ve just met.”
“Oh, come on,” I say.
“We’re step-friends now.
You might as well tell me.”
“Well, for one thing Parth and I made a pact to never date our friends.
Or each other’s friends.”
He casts me a sidelong glance.
“As for step-friends, I’m not sure what the policy is.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say.
“You don’t date yourfriends?
Who do you date, Wyn?
Malevolent spirits who died in your apartment building?”
“It’s a good policy,” he says.
“It keeps things from getting messy.”
“It’s dating, not an all-you-can-eat barbecue buffet,” I say.
“Although, from what I’ve heard, maybe for you, they’re the same thing.”
He looks at me through his lashes and tuts.
“Are you slut-shaming me, Harriet?”
“Not at all,” I say.
“I love sluts!
Some of my best friends are sluts.
I’ve dabbled in sluttery in myself.”
Another bar of moonlight briefly lights his eyes, paling them to smoky silver.
“Didn’t suit you?”
“Never got the chance to find out,” I say.
“Because you fell in love,” he says.
“Because men never really picked me up.”
“I’m not being self-deprecating,” I say.
I’ve made peace with it."
His gaze slides down me and back up.
“So you’re saying you’re slow-release hot.”
“That’s right.
I’m slow-release hot.”
He considers me for a moment.
“You’re not what I expected.”
“Three-dimensional and blue-haired,” I say.
“Among other things,” he says.
“I expected you to be Parth 2.0,” I admit.
“You thought I’d be better dressed.”
“Than a torn sweatshirt and jeans?”
“No such thing.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me, instead studying me with a furrowed brow.
“You’re not slow-release hot.”
I look away, fumble the radio on as heat scintillates across my chest.
“It’s not about that,” he says.
A door has opened, and I know I’ll never get it shut again.
Regency era or not, in a lot of ways, he ruins me.
Copyright 2023
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