When in Rome

**Opposites certainly attract for the stranded pop star and small-town baker in this charming slice of romance from the author of the TikTok sensation/b> b>The Cheat Sheet./b>Amelia Rose, known as Rae Rose to her adoring fans, is burned-out from years of maintaining her “princess of pop” image. Inspired by her favorite Audrey Hepburn film, Roman Holiday, she drives off in the middle of the night for a break in Rome . . . Rome, Kentucky, that is. When Noah Walker finds Amelia on his front lawn in her broken-down car, he makes it clear he doesn’t have the time or patience for celebrity problems. He’s too busy running the pie shop his grandmother left him and reminding his nosy but lovable neighbors to mind their own damn business. Despite his better judgment, he lets her stay in his guest room--but only until her car is fixed--then she’s on her own. Then Noah starts to see a different side of Rae Rose--she’s Amelia: kindhearted and goofy, yet lonely from years in the public eye. He can’t help but get close to her. Soon she’ll have to return to her glamorous life on tour, but until then, Noah will show Amelia all the charming small-town experiences she’s been missing, and she’ll help him open his heart to more. Amelia can’t resist falling for the cozy town and her grumpy tour guide, but even Audrey had to leave Rome eventually.

Auteur
Sarah Adams is the author of The Cheat Sheet. Born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee, she loves her family, warm days, and making people smile. Sarah has dreamed of being a writer since she was a girl, but finally wrote her first novel when her daughters were napping and she no longer had any excuses to put it off. Sarah is a coffee addict, a British history nerd, a mom of two daughters, married to her best friend, and an indecisive introvert. Her hope is to write stories that make readers laugh, maybe even cry—but always leave them happier than when they started reading.

Échantillon de lecture
**Chapter 1

Amelia

This is okay, right? I m okay?

I take a deep breath and wrap my fingers a little tighter around the steering wheel.

Yes, Amelia, you re okay. You re fantastic actually. You re just like Audrey Hepburn, taking your life into your own hands, annnnnd . . . you re talking to yourself . . . so maybe not completely okay, but given the circumstances, semiokay, I say, squinting at the dark road outside my windshield. Yes. Semiokay is good.

Except, it s completely dark, and my car is making this noise that sounds like loose coins tumbling around a dryer drum. I m not a car whiz, but I m thinking that s not a good sound for it to be making. My favorite little Toyota Corolla, the car that has been with me since I was in high school, the car I was sitting in when I first heard my song on the radio at age eighteen, the car that I drove to Phantom Records and signed my recording deal ten years ago is reaching its expiration date. It can t die, it still has the smell of my old volleyball kneepads ingrained in the fabric.

No, not today, Satan.

I rub the dashboard like there might be a hidden genie inside waiting to pop out and grant me three wishes. Instead of wishes, I m granted the loss of cell service. The music I m streaming cuts off, and my Google Maps is no longer registering the little arrow that s supposed to lead me out of this middle-of-nowhere-serial-killer-backwoods road.

Yikes, this feels like the start of a horror film. I think I m the girl in the movie people yell you re an idiot! at, while popcorn crumbs leak from their greedy smiles. Oh geez, was this a mistake? I m afraid I left my sanity back home in Nashville along with my iron gate and Fort Knox security system. And Will, my fabulous security guard who posts up outside my house and stops people from sneaking onto my property.

Earlier tonight, my manager, Susan, and her assistant, Claire, downloaded me with information about my upcoming, jam-packed schedule for the next three weeks before we leave on a nine-month world tour. The problem is, I just finished my last day of a grueling three-month tour rehearsal. Almost every day of the last three months has been dedicated to learning the concert choreography, stage blocking, solidifying the set list, rigorous exercise, and rehearsing the songs, all while smiling and pretending that inside I didn t feel like a rotting compost pile.

I sat silent as Susan talked and talked, her long, slender, perfectly manicured finger scrolling endlessly across an iPad screen full of schedule notes. Schedule notes I should feel excited to hear. Honored to have! But somewhere in the middle of it, I . . . shut down. Her voice took on the Charlie Brown wah, wah, wah tone and all I could hear was my own heart thumping in my ears. Loud and painful. I went absolutely numb. And what scared me the most was that Susan didn t even seem to notice.

It makes me wonder if I m too good at hiding. My days go like this: I smile this way at this person and nod. Yes, thank you. I smile that way at that person and nod. Yes, of course I can do that. Susan gives me a script perfectly crafted by my PR team and I memorize it. My favorite color is blue, much the same as the Givenchy gown I ll be wearing to the Grammys. Why yes, I do owe much of my success to my loving and devoted mom. A day doesn t go by that I don t feel incredibly blessed to have this career and my amazing fans.

Polite, polite, polite.

A hot splotch of tears falls onto my thigh and I realize I m crying. I don t think I m supposed to be crying thinking of those things. I m a two-time Grammy winner and I have a signed contract for ninety million dollars with the top record label in the business,