Genre Fiction
![Ashley Poston - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00H7KAML8.jpg)
The Seven Year Slip
"A gorgeous love story from one of the finest romance writers out there." -Carley Fortune, New York Times bestselling author of Every Summer After
A Most Anticipated Book by Entertainment Weekly ∙ Harper's Bazaar ∙ PopSugar ∙ Real Simple ∙ BookRiot ∙ and more!
An overworked book publicist with a perfectly planned future hits a snag when she falls in love with her temporary roommate…only to discover he lives seven years in the past, in this witty and wise new novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Dead Romantics.
Sometimes, the worst day of your life happens, and you have to figure out how to live after it.
So Clementine forms a plan to keep her heart safe: work hard, find someone decent to love, and try to remember to chase the moon. The last one is silly and obviously metaphorical, but her aunt always told her that you needed at least one big dream to keep going. And for the last year, that plan has gone off without a hitch. Mostly. The love part is hard because she doesn't want to get too close to anyone-she isn't sure her heart can take it.
And then she finds a strange man standing in the kitchen of her late aunt's apartment. A man with kind eyes and a Southern drawl and a taste for lemon pies. The kind of man that, before it all, she would've fallen head-over-heels for. And she might again.
Except, he exists in the past. Seven years ago, to be exact. And she, quite literally, lives seven years in his future.
Her aunt always said the apartment was a pinch in time, a place where moments blended together like watercolors. And Clementine knows that if she lets her heart fall, she'll be doomed.
After all, love is never a matter of time-but a matter of timing.
A Most Anticipated Book by Entertainment Weekly ∙ Harper's Bazaar ∙ PopSugar ∙ Real Simple ∙ BookRiot ∙ and more!
An overworked book publicist with a perfectly planned future hits a snag when she falls in love with her temporary roommate…only to discover he lives seven years in the past, in this witty and wise new novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Dead Romantics.
Sometimes, the worst day of your life happens, and you have to figure out how to live after it.
So Clementine forms a plan to keep her heart safe: work hard, find someone decent to love, and try to remember to chase the moon. The last one is silly and obviously metaphorical, but her aunt always told her that you needed at least one big dream to keep going. And for the last year, that plan has gone off without a hitch. Mostly. The love part is hard because she doesn't want to get too close to anyone-she isn't sure her heart can take it.
And then she finds a strange man standing in the kitchen of her late aunt's apartment. A man with kind eyes and a Southern drawl and a taste for lemon pies. The kind of man that, before it all, she would've fallen head-over-heels for. And she might again.
Except, he exists in the past. Seven years ago, to be exact. And she, quite literally, lives seven years in his future.
Her aunt always said the apartment was a pinch in time, a place where moments blended together like watercolors. And Clementine knows that if she lets her heart fall, she'll be doomed.
After all, love is never a matter of time-but a matter of timing.
Editorial Reviews
"I ADORED this book. Ashley is such a talent. The worlds she creates are so warm and specific and beautifully rendered. The Seven Year Slip is a gorgeous love story from one of the finest romance writers out there. I laughed, I cried, I didn't want it to end. Consider me Ashley Poston's greatest admirer!"
-Carley Fortune, New York Times bestselling author of Every Summer After
"Ashley Poston has again created a world that is off-kilter, romantic, and irresistible. If you love The Lake House but also want some top notch make out scenes, this is the book for you."
-Emma Straub, New York Times bestselling author of This Time Tomorrow
"Warm, funny and heartbreakingly hopeful, The Seven Year Slip is a magical love story, a devastating portrait of grief, and a loving ode to what it means to grow, evolve and blossom."
-Sangu Mandanna, bestselling author of The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches
-Carley Fortune, New York Times bestselling author of Every Summer After
"Ashley Poston has again created a world that is off-kilter, romantic, and irresistible. If you love The Lake House but also want some top notch make out scenes, this is the book for you."
-Emma Straub, New York Times bestselling author of This Time Tomorrow
"Warm, funny and heartbreakingly hopeful, The Seven Year Slip is a magical love story, a devastating portrait of grief, and a loving ode to what it means to grow, evolve and blossom."
-Sangu Mandanna, bestselling author of The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches
Readers Top Reviews
Victoria
The Dead Romantics was one of my favourite books of 2022 and so I was eagerly anticipating Ashley Poston's next novel The Seven Year Slip. I was not disappointed as once I began reading I didn’t want to put it down until it was finished and then wanted to read it all over again. The main story follows Clementine and Iwan as they meet in the NYC magical apartment Clementine inherited from her aunt, which happens to bend time in such that present and past come together. Much like The Dead Romantics themes of love and loss are wonderfully explored as we see how grief has impacted both Clementine and Iwan while falling for each other at different points and a wonderful plus we stay within the publishing world and get a special treat of a cameo from Benji! Overall while the story was bit predictable at times I thoroughly enjoyed this romance, Ashley writes so beautifully that it’s as easy as pie to be so invested in these characters and it's dash of magic!
Barb
The Seven Year Slip by Ashley Poston is a unique standalone novel. We meet Clementine, our heroine, who is still grieving her aunt’s death, as she was extremely close to her aunt, who travelled a lot, and took Clementine on many trips. She spent a lot of times at her aunt’s apartment, which Clementine learned that the stories her aunt told her were magical, but as she grew up, Clementine stopped believing the stories. Now with her aunt’s passing, Clementine inherited the apartment, and after she moved into the apartment, she wakes up with a handsome stranger in her kitchen. Clementine remembers the stories that her aunt told her about the apartment moving in time on occasion, either seven years ahead or backwards. Iwan, our hero, was the stranger, who was told that he could stay at her apartment, and Clementine realizes that the time frame is now 7 years ago. Iwan was a great cook, and hoped to one day be a chef. In a short time, they both enjoyed each-others company, as Iwan was sweet, caring, understanding and great to be around; and Clementine knew she was falling in love with him. When Clementine went to work, she was in her own time, being a successful publicist, who was on track to replace the publisher for Strauss & Adder Publishers; she is good at her job, and has some good friends who work there. She looks forward to going home and to see Iwan, as he cooks her fajitas, lemon cake, dances with her, gives her a kiss, and then one day when she rushes home, he is no longer there. With her working hard at her job in the present time (only in the apartment magic did she see Iwan seven years previous); to her surprise, she discovers that her publishing house in trying to bid for the famous new chef’s book, which happens to be Iwan (now seven years later in the present time). To say too much more would spoil the book, and I suggest you read this from start to finish, in order to understand the story line. The Seven Year Slip was an interesting and different story, with a bit of paranormal, as well as complex. The Seven Year Slip was very well written by Ashley Poston. It was very heartwarming, witty second chance romance. I suggest you read this book.
K0RI.P
“love is never a matter of time—but a matter of timing” - The Seven Year Slip When I get all up in my feels I need to heavily dose myself with a “chill pill” aka a sweet ole romance that will warm my little black heart. Drum roll please… The Seven Year Slip I was all about this book from page one. Hook, line, sinker, Ashley Poston, took hold of my emotions until the very last page. I laughed, I cried, I rooted for a happy ending. Did I get one? Your going to have to get yourself a copy to find out, until then, enjoy this little teaser: An overworked book publicist with a perfectly planned future hits a snag when she falls in love with her temporary roommate…only to discover he lives seven years in the past, in this witty and wise new novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Dead Romantics. Sometimes, the worst day of your life happens, and you have to figure out how to live after it. So Clementine forms a plan to keep her heart safe: work hard, find someone decent to love, and try to remember to chase the moon. The last one is silly and obviously metaphorical, but her aunt always told her that you needed at least one big dream to keep going. And for the last year, that plan has gone off without a hitch. Mostly. The love part is hard because she doesn’t want to get too close to anyone—she isn’t sure her heart can take it. And then she finds a strange man standing in the kitchen of her late aunt’s apartment. A man with kind eyes and a Southern drawl and a taste for lemon pies. The kind of man that, before it all, she would’ve fallen head-over-heels for. And she might again. Except, he exists in the past. Seven years ago, to be exact. And she, quite literally, lives seven years in his future. Her aunt always said the apartment was a pinch in time, a place where moments blended together like watercolors. And Clementine knows that if she lets her heart fall, she’ll be doomed. After all, love is never a matter of time—but a matter of timing. Thank you Berkley, NetGalley and Ashley Poston, for gifting me a copy of The Seven Year Slip in exchange for an honest (and lovable) review! Y’all rock and I am so excited for the big release and for all to love on up to this book as much as I did
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Publisher's Lunch
My aunt used to say, if you don't fit in, fool everyone until you do.
She also said to keep your passport renewed, to pair red wines with meats and whites with everything else, to find work that is fulfilling to your heart as well as your head, to never forget to fall in love whenever you can find it because love is nothing if not a matter of timing, and to chase the moon.
Always, always chase the moon.
It must have worked for her, because it never mattered where she was in the world, she was home. She waltzed through life like she belonged at every party she was never invited to, fell in love with every lonely heart she found, and found luck in every adventure. She had that air about her-tourists asked her for directions when she went abroad, servers asked her opinion on wines and fine whiskeys, celebrities asked her about her life.
Once, when we were at the Tower of London, my aunt and I accidentally found ourselves at an exclusive party at the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula and managed to stay with a well-placed compliment and a knockoff statement necklace. There, we met a prince of Wales or Norway or somewhere, moonlighting as the DJ. I didn't remember much of the rest of that night since I overestimated my tolerance for too-expensive scotch.
But every adventure with my aunt was like that. She was the master of belonging.
If you aren't sure which fork to use at a fancy dinner? Go along with the person beside you. Lost in a city you've lived in for most of your life? Pretend you're a tourist. Listening to an opera after never hearing one ever before? Nod and comment on the chilling vibrato. Sitting in a Michelin-starred restaurant drinking a bottle of red wine that costs more than your monthly apartment rent? Comment on the body and act like you've tasted better.
Which, in this case, I had.
The two-dollar bottle of wine from Trader Joe's tasted better than this, but the delicious small plates made up for it. Bacon-wrapped dates and fried goat cheese drizzled in lavender honey and smoked trout fritters that melted in your mouth. All the while sitting in a charming little restaurant with soft yellow lightning, the front windows open to let in the sounds of the city, vines of pothos plants and evergreen ferns hanging from the sconces above us, as central air brushed across our shoulders. The walls were trimmed in mahogany, the booths a supple leather that, in this early June heat, would peel the skin off my thighs if I wasn't careful. The place was intimate, the tables spaced just far enough apart that we couldn't hear the hushed conversations of anyone else in the restaurant over the constant soft murmur from the kitchen.
If a restaurant could romance, I was utterly enchanted.
Fiona, Drew, and I sat at a small table in the Olive Branch, a Michelin-starred restaurant down in SoHo Drew had been begging to go to for the last week. I'm not usually one for long lunches, but it was a Friday in the summer, and to be fair I owed Fiona, Drew's wife, a favor, since I'd had to bail on a play last week that Drew wanted to see. Drew Torres was an editor and hungry to find unique and talented authors, so she'd dragged both me and Fiona along to the weirdest concerts, plays, and places I'd ever been to. And that was saying a lot, because I'd been to forty-three countries with my aunt and she excelled at finding weird places.
This, however, was very-very-nice.
"This is officially the fanciest lunch I've ever been to," Fiona announced, popping another bacon-wrapped date into her mouth. It was the only thing we'd ordered so far that she could eat-the rare wagyu slices were out of the question for a person seven months pregnant. Fiona was tall and waifish, with dyed-periwinkle hair and pale white skin. She had dark freckles across her cheeks and always wore kitschy earrings she found at flea markets on the weekends. Today's flavor was metal snakes with signs in their mouths that read Fuck off. She was Strauss & Adder's best in-house designer.
Beside her sat Drew, spearing another wagyu slice. She was a newly minted senior editor at Strauss & Adder, with long, curly black hair and warm brown skin. She always dressed like she was about to go on an excavation in Egypt in 1910-and today was no different: supple tan trousers and a pressed white button-down and suspenders.
Sitting with them, I felt a little underdressed in my free Eggverything Café T-shirt from my parent's favorite diner, light-wash jeans, and red flats I'd had since college, duct tape on the soles because I couldn't bear to part with them. I was going on three days without washing my hair, and the dry shampoo only did so much, but I'd been late to work this mor...
Publisher's Lunch
My aunt used to say, if you don't fit in, fool everyone until you do.
She also said to keep your passport renewed, to pair red wines with meats and whites with everything else, to find work that is fulfilling to your heart as well as your head, to never forget to fall in love whenever you can find it because love is nothing if not a matter of timing, and to chase the moon.
Always, always chase the moon.
It must have worked for her, because it never mattered where she was in the world, she was home. She waltzed through life like she belonged at every party she was never invited to, fell in love with every lonely heart she found, and found luck in every adventure. She had that air about her-tourists asked her for directions when she went abroad, servers asked her opinion on wines and fine whiskeys, celebrities asked her about her life.
Once, when we were at the Tower of London, my aunt and I accidentally found ourselves at an exclusive party at the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula and managed to stay with a well-placed compliment and a knockoff statement necklace. There, we met a prince of Wales or Norway or somewhere, moonlighting as the DJ. I didn't remember much of the rest of that night since I overestimated my tolerance for too-expensive scotch.
But every adventure with my aunt was like that. She was the master of belonging.
If you aren't sure which fork to use at a fancy dinner? Go along with the person beside you. Lost in a city you've lived in for most of your life? Pretend you're a tourist. Listening to an opera after never hearing one ever before? Nod and comment on the chilling vibrato. Sitting in a Michelin-starred restaurant drinking a bottle of red wine that costs more than your monthly apartment rent? Comment on the body and act like you've tasted better.
Which, in this case, I had.
The two-dollar bottle of wine from Trader Joe's tasted better than this, but the delicious small plates made up for it. Bacon-wrapped dates and fried goat cheese drizzled in lavender honey and smoked trout fritters that melted in your mouth. All the while sitting in a charming little restaurant with soft yellow lightning, the front windows open to let in the sounds of the city, vines of pothos plants and evergreen ferns hanging from the sconces above us, as central air brushed across our shoulders. The walls were trimmed in mahogany, the booths a supple leather that, in this early June heat, would peel the skin off my thighs if I wasn't careful. The place was intimate, the tables spaced just far enough apart that we couldn't hear the hushed conversations of anyone else in the restaurant over the constant soft murmur from the kitchen.
If a restaurant could romance, I was utterly enchanted.
Fiona, Drew, and I sat at a small table in the Olive Branch, a Michelin-starred restaurant down in SoHo Drew had been begging to go to for the last week. I'm not usually one for long lunches, but it was a Friday in the summer, and to be fair I owed Fiona, Drew's wife, a favor, since I'd had to bail on a play last week that Drew wanted to see. Drew Torres was an editor and hungry to find unique and talented authors, so she'd dragged both me and Fiona along to the weirdest concerts, plays, and places I'd ever been to. And that was saying a lot, because I'd been to forty-three countries with my aunt and she excelled at finding weird places.
This, however, was very-very-nice.
"This is officially the fanciest lunch I've ever been to," Fiona announced, popping another bacon-wrapped date into her mouth. It was the only thing we'd ordered so far that she could eat-the rare wagyu slices were out of the question for a person seven months pregnant. Fiona was tall and waifish, with dyed-periwinkle hair and pale white skin. She had dark freckles across her cheeks and always wore kitschy earrings she found at flea markets on the weekends. Today's flavor was metal snakes with signs in their mouths that read Fuck off. She was Strauss & Adder's best in-house designer.
Beside her sat Drew, spearing another wagyu slice. She was a newly minted senior editor at Strauss & Adder, with long, curly black hair and warm brown skin. She always dressed like she was about to go on an excavation in Egypt in 1910-and today was no different: supple tan trousers and a pressed white button-down and suspenders.
Sitting with them, I felt a little underdressed in my free Eggverything Café T-shirt from my parent's favorite diner, light-wash jeans, and red flats I'd had since college, duct tape on the soles because I couldn't bear to part with them. I was going on three days without washing my hair, and the dry shampoo only did so much, but I'd been late to work this mor...
