A Sneak Peek at Max and Flynn

A quick book update

Hello, hello! How is it already May?

I am so grateful to everyone who’s reached out in the past few months, either about The Takedown or new motherhood (which is a wild ride!). Hearing from you always brightens my day.

A few weeks ago, I turned in the first round of structural edits for my second rom-com. Oh my goodness, was that a feat! It was edited exclusively during my baby’s nap times, typed slowly with one hand as he snoozed in my arms. I’m in love with the book now, partly because it was such a labor of love to get there.

So, to belatedly celebrate, I wanted to give you a little taste of Max and Flynn. You can find the prologue below! Watch this space for a cover reveal in the near future.

xo,

Carlie

Rome, Italy

Night air slaps my face. We’re speeding faster on the motorcycle, swerving around a restaurant with patio tables, and I accidently clip one, rattling several plates full of antipasti. A glass of Aperol spritz topples. Blood-orange liquid stains the napkins, and— “Sorry! Scusa!” I say, both words emerging with a wheeze. No time to stop, though. I’m too focused, too rattled, too aware of Flynn’s fingers, which are digging—harder now—into the curve above my hipbones.

“This may be a bad time to tell you!” I shout over my shoulder, unable to stem the terror in my voice. “But I’ve never driven a motorcycle before!”

“You think?” Flynn bleats out, and immediately I picture his face, how his pupils must be dilating with every dangerous zip of acceleration. “Make a left! Left, Max!”

“I’m trying!” I fire back, easing up on the throttle for just a second, and . . . where’s the turn signal on this thing? Don’t be stupid, Max. They shouldn’t know I’m turning! Makes it more difficult to follow me. Before the traffic light flashes green, I bite the inside of my cheek and just go, blasting across the intersection to a symphony of horns. A man stops short in his Fiat, yelling out the window, “Morire, signora!”

I don’t speak much Italian, but I know that one. Die, lady.

Unfortunately, Fiat man isn’t the only one who wishes me dead.

My grip tightens on the motorcycle handlebars. “Are they still following us?”

Flynn checks, the hard plane of his stomach pressed against my back. He’s warm, like Italian summer, and I feel the way his body moves: a sharp head-flick, a quick glance at the trailing cars. “Three of them now.”

Three? A peek at my mirrors reveals—Flynn’s right. Two black cars, probably bulletproof, and someone following them on a Vespa. Which almost makes me laugh. Driving a Vespa to an assassination is like bringing a loofah stick to a swordfight.

At least no one is shooting at us.

“Any second,” Flynn shouts over the traffic, “they’re going to start shooting at us.”

“Well . . . shit!” I say, because it’s the only thing I can get out. I’m usually more articulate than this. More composed than this. To be fair, though, it’s only seven o’clock at night—the summer sky has just turned a dusky pink; I haven’t even had my evening gelato—and two separate people have already tried to kill me.

Or rather, two people have tried to kill Sofia.

Flynn slips his hands tighter around my waist, gripping me closer, almost cradling me—and I’m not thinking about it. Not thinking about the heat of him; the crisp, clean scent of him; the look on his face two nights ago as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, letting the fabric pool in a puddle on the floor. At this moment, I know that Flynn is just holding on for the ride. Just praying that I don’t end the assignment this way. This can’t be how it ends. The two of us, crashing into a porchetta stand by the Campo de’ Fiori, or losing control outside of the Piazza del Paradiso, toppling into a group of tourists who’ll click, click, click their cameras. Then, front-page news. International news. PRIME MINISTER OF SUMMERLAND VICTIM OF TRAGIC ACCIDENT BEFORE EVEN MORE TRAGIC ASSASINATION. Or something snappier than that. That’s a terribly uncreative headline.

“Take the Via Dei Baullari.” Flynn’s breath caresses my ear, words almost eaten by the hum of the motorcycle.

“You say that like I know where that is!”

“On your right!”

“When on my right?” I bat back, weaving past a Lamborghini and a jewelry store, shiny gold rings winking at us in the windows.

Flynn’s chin is almost resting on my shoulder. “Now! Now!”

We make a hard turn, tires gripping the ancient road, and I have a flash of how others are seeing us—a woman in a bright-cream pantsuit and heels, a man in a dashing beige jacket, and busted-up bike that looks newly rescued from a second-rate junkyard. Cars and a Vespa chasing after them. Bullets soon to fly through the air. This isn’t how my Italian getaway was supposed to go, was it?

No. Not, it wasn’t.

It would be easy, they said. Straightforward, they said. Just sit there, and look polished, and don’t open your mouth. Shake hands with the right people. Smile politely but not like an American; not to wide, not with too many teeth. Do what you’re told, and it’ll feel like a vacation. Don’t you want a vacation, Max? A simple job in beautiful Italy.

That was before the disastrous TV broadcast. Before the incident at the museum gala. Before I met Flynn again, and my whole world turned upside-down.

“They’re gaining on us,” he says, once again into my ear. It’s obvious; Flynn is trying hard to steady his voice, trying to be the cool and calm one in this scenario. Despite this, something in his throat gutters. “Our best chance is to make a sharp turn somewhere, pull off where they can’t see. Confuse them. Let them pass us . . .”

“Where are the police?” I gasp out. “Where’s the armed escort? They should be—”

“There,” Flynn says, but he’s talking about a gap between buildings. A little nook by a flower shop, just large enough for a motorcycle. I take the chance, jamming on the brakes, back tire skidding to the left. My pulse hammers in my ears, climbs higher as we slip into the alleyway. I cut the engine. Thick stone walls bare down on us, and the air smells like . . . focaccia. Flowers and focaccia, yeasty and sweet, but I hold my breath. As if our hunters can hear me. As if one tiny sniffle will give me up.

Luckily, it’s a Saturday night in Rome. The streets are stuffed with distractions. Above the sound of tourists laughing, horns beeping, gallery doors squeaking open and closed, there’s the distinct noise of two armored cars rattling by the alleyway, fast. Followed by a Vespa, zzzz-zip, even faster.

Behind me, Flynn also seems to be holding his breath. His stillness is palpable, not a muscle moving. As soon as the vehicles pass, he loosens a little, whispering, “Close call.”

I swallow, gathering myself, feeling blood return to the tips of my fingers. I unclench my fists from the handlebars. “What now?”

I’m asking Flynn, although my body already knows. I’m already swinging my leg off the bike, stamping the ground, travelling forward on foot. We can’t stay here long. We can’t wait for them to reach the main road again, figure out what we’ve done, and throw their cars in reverse . . .

I shrug off the cream blazer, about to ditch it in the street, when—at the other end of the alleyway, no less than thirty feet ahead—someone appears. A shadowy silhouette in the dying sun, moving to block the exit.

My heart claws at my throat.

This person . . . there’s a knife in their hand.

And I know them.

(P.S. Here’s the book’s vibe, in two pictures. See you next month!)