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  Praise for

  PARIS IS ALWAYS A GOOD IDEA

  “A playful breezy read that I couldn’t put down!”

  —Abby Jimenez, USA Today bestselling author of The Friend Zone

  “A delightful romance with characters I adored! Jenn McKinlay takes readers along on a fun and charming adventure in Paris Is Always a Good Idea.”

  —Emily March, New York Times bestselling author of Teardrop Lane

  “This book made me laugh and swoon and gave me some serious wanderlust!”

  —PopSugar

  “This story read like a glass of champagne—light and fun!”

  —First for Women

  “Eat Pray Love meets Mamma Mia! I devoured this clever novel in one sitting!”

  —Lori Nelson Spielman, New York Times bestselling author of The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany

  “Delivers a fun, feel-good, stand-alone novel that will delight readers. [They] will savor the feisty, adventurous journey of McKinlay’s self-deprecating protagonist as she re-examines her past in order to chart her future. Navigating many complications and bumps in the road, Chelsea finds romance and enlightenment over the course of her travels, and discovers how living life can change people—altering destinies, dreams and priorities for the better.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  “Witty, warm and wonderful . . . an American Fleabag, told with heart, hope and joie de vivre.”

  —Lori Wilde, New York Times bestselling author of The Moonglow Sisters

  “McKinlay spins a funny yet poignant tale.”

  —Jen DeLuca, author of Well Met

  “A funny and charming romp of self-discovery. . . . You’ll feel like you’ve been on a European vacation even if you didn’t make it out of your own back yard.”

  —Kwana Jackson, USA Today bestselling author of Real Men Knit

  “Sparkles with wit yet is profoundly humane at its core. You will be rooting for Chelsea through all her travels.”

  —Jenny Holiday, USA Today bestselling author of Mermaid Inn

  “Paris Is Always a Good Idea made me smile, cry, swoon, and cheer. It’s a beautiful, funny, and relatable story about finding yourself.”

  —Sarah Smith, author of Faker

  “This book ticked so many of my boxes: a perfectly imperfect protagonist on a bittersweet journey of self-discovery, relatable family tensions, vividly portrayed international settings, and an enemies-to-friends-to-lovers subplot that made me smile from ear to ear. A thoroughly satisfying read that tugged at my heart and made me happy-sigh when I reached the end!”

  —Mia Sosa, USA Today bestselling author of The Worst Best Man

  “Paris Is Always a Good Idea is the must-have summer read of the year.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “An entertaining romance along with a story with ever changing scenery makes this the perfect summer read.”

  —Parkersburg News

  “Readers will have no trouble investing in Chelsea and Jason’s enemies-to-lovers romance. This flawless rom-com is sure to delight.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “McKinlay proves she is also a master at romantic women’s fiction with this dazzling novel that delivers everything McKinlay’s fans expect—deliciously acerbic wit, delightfully relatable characters, and deeply funny dialogue—all deftly poured into a plot that also thoughtfully examines what true happiness really means.”

  —Booklist

  TITLES BY JENN McKINLAY

  Paris Is Always a Good Idea

  Wait For It

  Happily Ever After Romances

  The Good Ones

  The Christmas Keeper

  Bluff Point Romances

  About a Dog

  Barking Up the Wrong Tree

  Every Dog Has His Day

  Cupcake Bakery Mysteries

  Sprinkle with Murder

  Buttercream Bump Off

  Death by the Dozen

  Red Velvet Revenge

  Going, Going, Ganache

  Sugar and Iced

  Dark Chocolate Demise

  Vanilla Beaned

  Caramel Crush

  Wedding Cake Crumble

  Dying for Devil’s Food

  Pumpkin Spice Peril

  For Batter or Worse

  Library Lover’s Mysteries

  Books Can Be Deceiving

  Due or Die

  Book, Line, and Sinker

  Read It and Weep

  On Borrowed Time

  A Likely Story

  Better Late Than Never

  Death in the Stacks

  Hitting the Books

  Word to the Wise

  One for the Books

  Hat Shop Mysteries

  Cloche and Dagger

  Death of a Mad Hatter

  At the Drop of a Hat

  Copy Cap Murder

  Assault and Beret

  Buried to the Brim

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf

  Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: McKinlay, Jenn, author.

  Title: Wait for it / Jenn McKinlay.

  Description: First Edition. | New York: Jove, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021010900 (print) | LCCN 2021010901 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593101377 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593101384 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3612.A948 W35 2021 (print) | LCC PS3612.A948 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021010900

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021010901

  Cover design by Vikki Chu

  Cover illustration by Roeqiya Fris

  Book design by Alison Cnockaert, adapted for ebook by Shayan Saalabi

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0

  For Susan Norris McKinlay, the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known. Our family couldn’t ask for a stronger, wiser, or more loving matriarch. We are lucky to have you, and I’m so proud that you’re my mom.

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Paris Is Always a Good Idea

  Titles by Jenn McKinlay

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9


  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  Annabelle

  1

  “Annabelle, please tell me you are not meeting Jeremy at the Top of the Hub for your annual un-anniversary celebration,” Sophie Vasquez, my former college roommate, life partner in all shenanigans, and best friend forever, said.

  “Fine, I won’t tell you,” I muttered into my cell phone. My breath came out in a plume of steam in the freezing February air.

  I was walk-jogging because I was late. Little-known fact, I, Annabelle Martin, am always late. As my father liked to say, “Sunshine, you were born late.” He’s not even joking. According to my mother, I was two weeks late and wouldn’t leave the womb without an eviction notice. Having since learned that life is hard, I think in utero me was onto something.

  In my defense, my lateness is not on purpose. I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just that my comprehension of the human construct of time is marginal at best. Like, I know that it takes at least twenty minutes to walk to the Prudential Center from my studio apartment on Marlborough Street, and while I had every intention of leaving twenty-five minutes ahead of time, I got sidelined by an idea for a sketch because of the way the moonlight shone through my windowpane, making patterns on the floor.

  As an artist, I’m constantly distracted by the details that most people can filter out. Shapes, light, shadows, the subtle nuances that make up the world around me, I’m in their thrall. Naturally, my quick sketch made me late, and now it was fifteen minutes until I was supposed to be at the restaurant, and I was running through Back Bay in the frigid winter cold, in high-heeled boots, with my thick wool coat flapping behind me, no doubt looking like a crazy person.

  “Belle, this is such a bad idea,” Sophie said.

  “Why? We do it every year. It’s tradition.” My tone was defensive because I knew how Sophie felt about my relationship with my first ex-husband.

  Yes, you read that right. First ex-husband. And yes, I am only twenty-eight and have two ex-husbands. I’ve had a few people give me side-eye over this fact, and I even had one woman accuse me of taking all the men. Yes, she did! I told her she owed me a thank-you for vetting them for the rest of womankind. Honestly.

  I mean, it’s not like I wanted to be a twice-divorced twenty-something. It’s just that life stuff happened—big bad life stuff—and my coping skills in my early twenties had not been awesome. Besides, I’m impulsive, and when I’m in love, I’m sooooo in love, I lose all sense of reason. Clearly.

  Considering her tone, I supposed I should have let Sophie’s call go to voicemail, but when your bestie calls from Arizona, you answer even when you know she’s going to challenge your life choices. I heard the distinct sound of water in the background.

  “Soph, if you’re calling me from a swimming pool, I’m hanging up on you,” I said.

  Laughter greeted me. “I’m not,” she said. “I swear I’m not.”

  A suspicious splash punctuated her words.

  “You are such a liar,” I accused. I hurried down the sidewalk, feeling the bitter wind sweep in from Boston Harbor.

  “Technically, it’s a hot tub. What gave it away?”

  “Splashing.”

  “Sorry,” she said. She didn’t sound a bit sorry. “How’s the weather there? Another blizzard on the way?”

  “It’s Boston in February,” I said. “Cold, gray, and sad. It’s just horribly sad. In fact, I think I have a case of seasonal affective disorder brewing.”

  “Aw, that is SAD, poor Belle,” she said. “You should come visit me in Phoenix. It’s a delicious eighty-two degrees without a cloud in the sky.”

  It was two hours earlier in Phoenix. While she enjoyed daylight, I was navigating the early dark on one of those painful thirteen-degree days where your snot freezes solid before you can blow it out your nostrils.

  “Why, yes, I’ll have another margarita,” Sophie said, obviously not to me. “Thank you.”

  “I hate you. You know that, right?” I asked. I adjusted the purse strap on my shoulder as I jogged the final stretch to the Prudential Center, known locally as The Pru.

  “Well, I think you’ll hate me less when you hear why I called,” she said.

  I stepped on a patch of ice, and my heel slid out from under me. I fought to keep my balance, pulling a hamstring in the process. “Ow! Shit!”

  “How about I explain before you start swearing?”

  “Sorry, that wasn’t meant for you. I slipped,” I said. Now I was limping, which I’m sure was a fabulous look for me. “I’m almost at the building. I might lose you in the elevator.”

  “Then I’ll be quick,” she said. “I’m calling to offer you a job as the creative director in our company.”

  “But your company’s in Phoenix,” I said. Sophie and her husband, Miguel, owned a graphic design firm that was quickly gaining national attention. This was no small offer.

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to move to Phoenix?” I stopped walking. The bitter wind pushed me up against the side of the building.

  “Yes.”

  “Phoenix, Arizona?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . .”

  “Just hear me out,” Sophie said. “You’re the most talented graphic designer I’ve ever known, an absolute trend visionary, and we desperately need you here. Phoenix is in a boom, and we can top the money you’re currently making as a freelancer. Think of it as an opportunity to shake up your life a little bit.”

  “I wasn’t aware that my life needed shaking,” I said. It did, but I didn’t want to admit it because . . . pride.

  “Oh, come on, Belly, come to Phoenix.”

  For the record, Sophie is the only person on the planet allowed to call me “Belly,” because when we were roommates at the Savannah College of Art and Design, she held my hand when I got my belly button pierced. We shared a bond of bad decisions that was stronger than steel.

  I tried to picture myself in the Southwest. Couldn’t do it. She used my stunned silence to press her point.

  “You’ve been freelancing for five years,” she said. “Don’t you want more stability?”

  “No.” Yes.

  “A pay raise?”

  “Maybe.” Definitely.

  “Retirement? Benefits? Paid vacation?” Check, check, check.

  I sighed. It came out as a limp jet of hot breath in cold air. She was making solid points. I had no rebuttal. I went for avoidance. I pulled my phone away from my ear to check the time. “I have to go. I’m going to be sooo late.”

  “You’re always late.”

  “I’m trying to be better,” I protested. “It was my New Year’s resolution.”

  “And how’s that going?”

  “Shush,” I said. “You’re not helping here.”

  “I am helping. You just don’t want to hear it. Are you going to get back together with Jeremy?” she asked.

  “No!” I cried. “Why would you even think that?”

  “Because he’s your social fallback plan, and you spend an awful lot of time together for people who are no longer married,” she said.

  “We’re friends with benefits,” I said.

  “You don’t need him as a friend, and you’re not doing him any favors by offering him bene
fits. You’re keeping each other dangling. It’s not healthy for either of you.”

  “We’re not dangling,” I said. “We agreed that we can date whoever we want.”

  “And yet neither of you do,” she said.

  “You don’t know that,” I protested.

  “Please,” she said. “I’ve been on this ride before. Neither of you is seeing anyone else, but you don’t belong together and you know it. You need to stop picking the lowest-hanging fruit.”

  “Did you just call Jeremy an apple?” I asked.

  “I think of him as more of a peach, easily bruised,” she said. “Your entire relationship was spent with you protecting him by doing everything for him because he’s so socially inept, albeit lovable. You were like a lawnmower wife, moving every obstacle out of his way. Do you really want that for the rest of your life?”

  “I didn’t—I’m not—” I protested but she interrupted.

  “Yes, you did and you are,” she declared. “You’ve run interference for him his entire adult life, even when you were married to the big disappointment, who also used you to prop himself up. And then what did the BD do? He left you—just like Jeremy did when his mother stamped her foot hard enough. Time to break the pattern, my friend.”

  “I . . .” I slumped against the wall. Is that how she saw it? How she saw me? I didn’t know what to say.

  “Come to Phoenix,” Sophie insisted. Then she made a weird burbling noise. “Do you hear that? That’s me motorboating a margarita as big as my head. Come. To. Phoenix.”

  I heard another splash and decided, since I could no longer feel my toes, the tips of my ears, or my fingers, that I really did hate her.

  “I love that you’re asking me,” I said. “But—”

  “Don’t say no!” she ordered. So bossy! “Promise me you’ll at least think about it.”

  “Fine, I’ll think about it.” I wasn’t going to think about it. “Now I have to go. Miss you. Love you.”

  “Miss you. Love you, too,” she echoed. “Say ‘hi’ to Jeremy for me, you know, before you tell him you’re leaving him for me.”