Genre Fiction
![Emily Henry - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B01BW7AX4W.jpg)
Beach Read
THE INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER FROM THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF PEOPLE WE MEET ON VACATION!
"Original, sparkling bright, and layered with feeling."-Sally Thorne, author of The Hating Game
A romance writer who no longer believes in love and a literary writer stuck in a rut engage in a summer-long challenge that may just upend everything they believe about happily ever afters.
Augustus Everett is an acclaimed author of literary fiction. January Andrews writes bestselling romance. When she pens a happily ever after, he kills off his entire cast.
They're polar opposites.
In fact, the only thing they have in common is that for the next three months, they're living in neighboring beach houses, broke, and bogged down with writer's block.
Until, one hazy evening, one thing leads to another and they strike a deal designed to force them out of their creative ruts: Augustus will spend the summer writing something happy, and January will pen the next Great American Novel. She'll take him on field trips worthy of any rom-com montage, and he'll take her to interview surviving members of a backwoods death cult (obviously). Everyone will finish a book and no one will fall in love. Really.
"Original, sparkling bright, and layered with feeling."-Sally Thorne, author of The Hating Game
A romance writer who no longer believes in love and a literary writer stuck in a rut engage in a summer-long challenge that may just upend everything they believe about happily ever afters.
Augustus Everett is an acclaimed author of literary fiction. January Andrews writes bestselling romance. When she pens a happily ever after, he kills off his entire cast.
They're polar opposites.
In fact, the only thing they have in common is that for the next three months, they're living in neighboring beach houses, broke, and bogged down with writer's block.
Until, one hazy evening, one thing leads to another and they strike a deal designed to force them out of their creative ruts: Augustus will spend the summer writing something happy, and January will pen the next Great American Novel. She'll take him on field trips worthy of any rom-com montage, and he'll take her to interview surviving members of a backwoods death cult (obviously). Everyone will finish a book and no one will fall in love. Really.
Editorial Reviews
"Once I started Beach Read I legit did not put it down."-Betches
One of...
The New York Times Book Review's Summer Romance Reads
Entertainment Weekly's Hottest Summer Reads of 2020
Oprah Magazine's Best Beach Reads of Summer 2020
Betches' 20 Books to Read in 2020
SheReads' Most Anticipated Books of Summer 2020
Goodreads' Big Books of Spring
Popsugar's 25 Exciting New Books Coming Out in May
Bustle's Most Anticipated May Titles
Shondaland's Five Books to Read in May
TheSkimm's 11 Buzzy Books for Your Imaginary Beach Bag
Good Morning America's 25 Novels You'll Want to Read this Summer
The New York Post's Required Reading
Good Housekeeping's 25 Best Beach Reads
Huffington Post's Best Books to Read during Quarantine
CNN's Perfect Summer Reads
LitHub's Ultimate Summer 2020 Reading List
BookRiot's 6 Captivating New Books
"Reader, I swooned! Beach Read is a breath of fresh air. My heart ached for January, and Gus is to die for-a steamy, smart and perceptive romance. I was engrossed!"-Josie Silver, #1 New York Times bestselling author of One Day in December
"This is a touching and heartfelt book about love, betrayal, grief, failure, and learning how to love again. I adored going along on Gus and January's journey, and I closed this book with a satisfied sigh."-Jasmine Guillory, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Proposal
"Beach Read is original, sparkling bright, and layered with feeling. Has trying to see the world through your long time crush/rival's eyes ever been this potent and poignant? If whipcrack banter and foggy sexual tension is your catnip, you'll adore this book."-Sally Thorne, USA Today bestselling author of The Hating Game and 99 Percent Mine
"Beach Read is exactly the witty, charming, and swoony novel we always want; it also happens to be the unexpected wallop of emotional wisdom and sly social commentary we need right now. I adored it."-Julia Whelan, author of My Oxford Year
"[It] has everything the title promises-a romping plot, family secrets, and the thrill of falling in love, all set on the sweeping shores of eastern Lake Michigan. I cannot wait to read what Henry writes next."-Amy E. Reichert, author The Coincidence of Coconut Cake and The Optimist's Guide to Letting Go
"Delightfully romantic and slyly poignant, Beach Read is ...
One of...
The New York Times Book Review's Summer Romance Reads
Entertainment Weekly's Hottest Summer Reads of 2020
Oprah Magazine's Best Beach Reads of Summer 2020
Betches' 20 Books to Read in 2020
SheReads' Most Anticipated Books of Summer 2020
Goodreads' Big Books of Spring
Popsugar's 25 Exciting New Books Coming Out in May
Bustle's Most Anticipated May Titles
Shondaland's Five Books to Read in May
TheSkimm's 11 Buzzy Books for Your Imaginary Beach Bag
Good Morning America's 25 Novels You'll Want to Read this Summer
The New York Post's Required Reading
Good Housekeeping's 25 Best Beach Reads
Huffington Post's Best Books to Read during Quarantine
CNN's Perfect Summer Reads
LitHub's Ultimate Summer 2020 Reading List
BookRiot's 6 Captivating New Books
"Reader, I swooned! Beach Read is a breath of fresh air. My heart ached for January, and Gus is to die for-a steamy, smart and perceptive romance. I was engrossed!"-Josie Silver, #1 New York Times bestselling author of One Day in December
"This is a touching and heartfelt book about love, betrayal, grief, failure, and learning how to love again. I adored going along on Gus and January's journey, and I closed this book with a satisfied sigh."-Jasmine Guillory, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Proposal
"Beach Read is original, sparkling bright, and layered with feeling. Has trying to see the world through your long time crush/rival's eyes ever been this potent and poignant? If whipcrack banter and foggy sexual tension is your catnip, you'll adore this book."-Sally Thorne, USA Today bestselling author of The Hating Game and 99 Percent Mine
"Beach Read is exactly the witty, charming, and swoony novel we always want; it also happens to be the unexpected wallop of emotional wisdom and sly social commentary we need right now. I adored it."-Julia Whelan, author of My Oxford Year
"[It] has everything the title promises-a romping plot, family secrets, and the thrill of falling in love, all set on the sweeping shores of eastern Lake Michigan. I cannot wait to read what Henry writes next."-Amy E. Reichert, author The Coincidence of Coconut Cake and The Optimist's Guide to Letting Go
"Delightfully romantic and slyly poignant, Beach Read is ...
Readers Top Reviews
JTRaluca A.
I loved this book! I have been reading A LOT during lockdown and was craving something a bit different. I instantly warmed to this book and loved the two main characters. It has angst, love, insight and keeps things ticking along at a cracking pace! Will definitely re-read this!
KBa76
Beach Read has so many of the elements I’d expect of a light summer read, but there’s a glimpse of darkness within that actually makes this so much more engaging than you might expect it to be. Our main character, January, has always felt like someone who believes in love and its power to transform us. She writes romance and has always looked for her happy ending. But when we see her things aren’t going quite to plan. She is struggling to write, she is grieving her father and yet trying to reconcile herself to the discovery that her father had a secret second life. Upon arriving at his second hideaway home, January is nervous about what she’ll find. Nothing could prepare her for the discovery that her new neighbour is an old college acquaintance, Gus. Like January Gus is a writer. But we quickly see that, like January, things in his life aren’t quite going to plan. What follows is quite obvious - they slowly form a new bond, breaking down the barriers each had in place and eventually starting a relationship each has secretly harboured dreams of since they first met. The interaction between these two was great fun. Seeing two such different outlooks and the little bet to each write a book in the style of the other gave it an interesting twist. Not everything runs smoothly, but it always feels like we’ll end up where we hope. A huge thank you to NetGalley for granting me access to this prior to publication. I loved it!
sotron
It's hard to picture what you could want from a romcom that this book doesn't deliver. I have great love for this genre, that gets such a hard time but can be of such use if you let it. A book like this is perfect escapism when life is easy and you're on a beach with someone you like, and is necessary escapism when you're running away from the dark and being confronted with the harsher sides of humanity loses its appeal. Beach Read knows this, leans into it and makes some great jokes about it. Everything from the setup to the chemistry and secondary characters is enjoyable beginning to end, and I was rooting so hard for the leads I was practically bouncing up and down. If I have some *minor* qualms, they have to do with a little relationship pacing and feeling we should get a little more of a few characters, or at least earlier (Shadi, mom). However, that's easily forgiven when Henry easily tackles any worries I'm having about tropes just as they're popping up, and feels so often effortless, warm and funny. I loved living in her book for a few hours, and I can't imagine why anyone wouldn't.
Florida teacherSharo
This book is readable, but it’s not anything to do with the beach. The jacket is misleading. They are at a lake house, but don’t go to the lake. Suicide cult? Really? The plot is contrived, with some weird (and sometimes silly) episodes.
Tabby1249
I really wish Amazon allowed 1/2 stars for their reviews but since they don’t, you’ll just have to pretend to see the half star. Apart from being the closest thing I’ve read recently to a believable contemporary romance, this is just a good story of two mature adults with “baggage” that they both must work through in order to find refuge in each other. Their baggage is essentially the same, broken hearts, even if the context is a bit different. For January, the female protagonist, her broken heart is coupled with jarring, recent, doubly heartbreaking disillusionment and for Gus, his broken heart is confirmation of the disillusionment he’s known most his life. I won’t go into plot details, but there are a few things I’d like to point out. One, the story’s small cast of secondary characters is fleshed out enough to make them expansive additions to the story rather than just filler. Two, the “other woman” in the story delivers an interesting surprise element in the story line. Three, the author writes a good enough story making it easy for the reader to hang in there as the relationship “percolates” between January and Gus. It would have been so easy to make a quick trip to the bedroom early on as the attraction was certainly there but the author waited, knowing that the ultimate union would have much more impact. I thank her for that. So, why the half star deduction? The romance novel tropes began to fly fast and furious in the last 50 pages or so and I found them distracting. However, that is a fairly minor complaint from a reader who normally can’t finish a contemporary romance without gagging. Bottom line: this is a wonderful Beach Read.
Short Excerpt Teaser
9781984806734|excerpt
Henry / BEACH READ
1
The House
I have a fatal flaw.
I like to think we all do. Or at least that makes it easier for me when I'm writing-building my heroines and heroes up around this one self-sabotaging trait, hinging everything that happens to them on a specific characteristic: the thing they learned to do to protect themselves and can't let go of, even when it stops serving them.
Maybe, for example, you didn't have much control over your life as a kid. So, to avoid disappointment, you learned never to ask yourself what you truly wanted. And it worked for a long time. Only now, upon realizing you didn't get what you didn't know you wanted, you're barreling down the highway in a midlife-crisis-mobile with a suitcase full of cash and a man named Stan in your trunk.
Maybe your fatal flaw is that you don't use turn signals.
Or maybe, like me, you're a hopeless romantic. You just can't stop telling yourself the story. The one about your own life, complete with melodramatic soundtrack and golden light lancing through car windows.
It started when I was twelve. My parents sat me down to tell me the news. Mom had gotten her first diagnosis-suspicious cells in her left breast-and she told me not to worry so many times I suspected I'd be grounded if she caught me at it. My mom was a do-er, a laugher, an optimist, not a worrier, but I could tell she was terrified, and so I was too, frozen on the couch, unsure how to say anything without making things worse.
But then my bookish homebody of a father did something unexpected. He stood and grabbed our hands-one of Mom's, one of mine-and said, You know what we need to get these bad feelings out? We need to dance!
Our suburb had no clubs, just a mediocre steak house with a Friday night cover band, but Mom lit up like he'd just suggested taking a private jet to the Copacabana.
She wore her buttery yellow dress and some hammered metal earrings that twinkled when she moved. Dad ordered twenty-year-old Scotch for them and a Shirley Temple for me, and the three of us twirled and bobbed until we were dizzy, laughing, tripping all over. We laughed until we could barely stand, and my famously reserved father sang along to "Brown Eyed Girl" like the whole room wasn't watching us.
And then, exhausted, we piled into the car and drove home through the quiet, Mom and Dad holding tight to each other's hands between the seats, and I tipped my head against the car window and, watching the streetlights flicker across the glass, thought, It's going to be okay. We will always be okay.
And that was the moment I realized: when the world felt dark and scary, love could whisk you off to go dancing; laughter could take some of the pain away; beauty could punch holes in your fear. I decided then that my life would be full of all three. Not just for my own benefit, but for Mom's, and for everyone else around me.
There would be purpose. There would be beauty. There would be candlelight and Fleetwood Mac playing softly in the background.
The point is, I started telling myself a beautiful story about my life, about fate and the way things work out, and by twenty-eight years old, my story was perfect.
Perfect (cancer-free) parents who called several times a week, tipsy on wine or each other's company. Perfect (spontaneous, multilingual, six foot three) boyfriend who worked in the ER and knew how to make coq au vin. Perfect shabby chic apartment in Queens. Perfect job writing romantic novels-inspired by perfect parents and perfect boyfriend-for Sandy Lowe Books.
Perfect life.
But it was just a story, and when one gaping plot hole appeared, the whole thing unraveled. That's how stories work.
Now, at twenty-nine, I was miserable, broke, semi-homeless, very single, and pulling up to a gorgeous lake house whose very existence nauseated me. Grandly romanticizing my life had stopped serving me, but my fatal flaw was still riding shotgun in my dinged-up Kia Soul, narrating things as they happened:
January Andrews stared out the car window at the angry lake beating up on the dusky shore. She tried to convince herself that coming here hadn't been a mistake.
It was definitely a mistake, but I had no better option. You didn't turn down free lodging when you were broke.
I parked on the street and stared up at the oversized cottage's facade, its gleaming windows and fairy tale of a porch, the shaggy beach grass dancing in the warm breeze.
I checked the address in my GPS against the handwritten one hanging from the house key. This was it, all right.
For a minute, I stalled, like maybe a world-ending asteroid would take me out before I was forced ...
Henry / BEACH READ
1
The House
I have a fatal flaw.
I like to think we all do. Or at least that makes it easier for me when I'm writing-building my heroines and heroes up around this one self-sabotaging trait, hinging everything that happens to them on a specific characteristic: the thing they learned to do to protect themselves and can't let go of, even when it stops serving them.
Maybe, for example, you didn't have much control over your life as a kid. So, to avoid disappointment, you learned never to ask yourself what you truly wanted. And it worked for a long time. Only now, upon realizing you didn't get what you didn't know you wanted, you're barreling down the highway in a midlife-crisis-mobile with a suitcase full of cash and a man named Stan in your trunk.
Maybe your fatal flaw is that you don't use turn signals.
Or maybe, like me, you're a hopeless romantic. You just can't stop telling yourself the story. The one about your own life, complete with melodramatic soundtrack and golden light lancing through car windows.
It started when I was twelve. My parents sat me down to tell me the news. Mom had gotten her first diagnosis-suspicious cells in her left breast-and she told me not to worry so many times I suspected I'd be grounded if she caught me at it. My mom was a do-er, a laugher, an optimist, not a worrier, but I could tell she was terrified, and so I was too, frozen on the couch, unsure how to say anything without making things worse.
But then my bookish homebody of a father did something unexpected. He stood and grabbed our hands-one of Mom's, one of mine-and said, You know what we need to get these bad feelings out? We need to dance!
Our suburb had no clubs, just a mediocre steak house with a Friday night cover band, but Mom lit up like he'd just suggested taking a private jet to the Copacabana.
She wore her buttery yellow dress and some hammered metal earrings that twinkled when she moved. Dad ordered twenty-year-old Scotch for them and a Shirley Temple for me, and the three of us twirled and bobbed until we were dizzy, laughing, tripping all over. We laughed until we could barely stand, and my famously reserved father sang along to "Brown Eyed Girl" like the whole room wasn't watching us.
And then, exhausted, we piled into the car and drove home through the quiet, Mom and Dad holding tight to each other's hands between the seats, and I tipped my head against the car window and, watching the streetlights flicker across the glass, thought, It's going to be okay. We will always be okay.
And that was the moment I realized: when the world felt dark and scary, love could whisk you off to go dancing; laughter could take some of the pain away; beauty could punch holes in your fear. I decided then that my life would be full of all three. Not just for my own benefit, but for Mom's, and for everyone else around me.
There would be purpose. There would be beauty. There would be candlelight and Fleetwood Mac playing softly in the background.
The point is, I started telling myself a beautiful story about my life, about fate and the way things work out, and by twenty-eight years old, my story was perfect.
Perfect (cancer-free) parents who called several times a week, tipsy on wine or each other's company. Perfect (spontaneous, multilingual, six foot three) boyfriend who worked in the ER and knew how to make coq au vin. Perfect shabby chic apartment in Queens. Perfect job writing romantic novels-inspired by perfect parents and perfect boyfriend-for Sandy Lowe Books.
Perfect life.
But it was just a story, and when one gaping plot hole appeared, the whole thing unraveled. That's how stories work.
Now, at twenty-nine, I was miserable, broke, semi-homeless, very single, and pulling up to a gorgeous lake house whose very existence nauseated me. Grandly romanticizing my life had stopped serving me, but my fatal flaw was still riding shotgun in my dinged-up Kia Soul, narrating things as they happened:
January Andrews stared out the car window at the angry lake beating up on the dusky shore. She tried to convince herself that coming here hadn't been a mistake.
It was definitely a mistake, but I had no better option. You didn't turn down free lodging when you were broke.
I parked on the street and stared up at the oversized cottage's facade, its gleaming windows and fairy tale of a porch, the shaggy beach grass dancing in the warm breeze.
I checked the address in my GPS against the handwritten one hanging from the house key. This was it, all right.
For a minute, I stalled, like maybe a world-ending asteroid would take me out before I was forced ...
