Roomies
(Sprache: Englisch)
From subway to Broadway to happily ever after. Modern love in all its thrill, hilarity, and uncertainty has never been so compulsively readable as in New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren's Roomies.
Marriages of convenience are...
Marriages of convenience are...
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From subway to Broadway to happily ever after. Modern love in all its thrill, hilarity, and uncertainty has never been so compulsively readable as in New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren's Roomies.Marriages of convenience are so...inconvenient.
For months Holland Bakker has invented excuses to descend into the subway station near her apartment, drawn to the captivating music performed by her street musician crush. Lacking the nerve to actually talk to the gorgeous stranger, fate steps in one night in the form of a drunken attacker. Calvin Mcloughlin rescues her, but quickly disappears when the police start asking questions.
Using the only resource she has to pay the brilliant musician back, Holland gets Calvin an audition with her uncle, Broadway's hottest musical director. When the tryout goes better than even Holland could have imagined, Calvin is set for a great entry into Broadway-until his reason for disappearing earlier becomes clear: he's in the country illegally, his student visa having expired years ago.
Seeing that her uncle needs Calvin as much as Calvin needs him, a wild idea takes hold of her. Impulsively, she marries the Irishman, her infatuation a secret only to him. As their relationship evolves and Calvin becomes the darling of Broadway-in the middle of the theatrics and the acting-not-acting-will Holland and Calvin to realize that they both stopped pretending a long time ago?
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Chapter One one
According to family legend, I was born on the floor of a taxi.
I'm the youngest of six, and apparently Mom went from "I have a bit of a cramp, but let me finish making lunch" to "Hello, Holland Lina Bakker" in the span of about forty minutes.
It's always the first thing I think about when I climb into a cab. I note how I have to shimmy with effort across the tacky seat, how there are millions of neglected fingerprints and unidentifiable smudges clouding the windows and Plexiglas barrier-and how the floor of a cab is a really terrible place for a baby to meet the world.
I slam the taxi door behind me to block out the howling Brooklyn wind. "Fiftieth Street station, Manhattan."
The driver's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and I can imagine what he's thinking: You want to take a cab to the subway in Manhattan? Lady, you could take the C train all the way there for three bucks.
"Eighth Ave. and Forty-Ninth Street," I add, ignoring the clawing flush of awareness that I am absurd. Instead of taking the cab all the way home, I'm having the driver take me from Park Slope to a subway stop in Hell's Kitchen, roughly two blocks from my building. It's not that I'm particularly safety minded and don't want this cabbie to know where I live.
It's that it's Monday, approximately eleven thirty, and Jack will be there.
At least, he should be. Since I first saw him busking at the Fiftieth Street station nearly six months ago, he's been there every Monday night, along with Wednesday and Thursday mornings before work, and Friday at lunchtime. Tuesday he's gone, and I've never seen him there on the weekend.
Mondays are my favorite, though, because there's an intensity in the way he crouches over his guitar, cradling it, seducing it. Music that seems to have been trapped inside all weekend long is freed, broken only by the occasional metallic tumble of pocket change dropped into the open guitar case at his feet, or the roar of
... mehr
an approaching train.
I don't know what he does in the hours he's not there. I'm also fairly certain his name isn't Jack, but I needed to call him something other than "the busker," and giving him a name made my obsession seem less pathetic.
Sort of.
The cabbie is quiet; he isn't even listening to talk radio or any of the other cacophonous car-filler every New Yorker gets used to. I blink away from my phone and the Instagram feed full of books and makeup tutorials, to the mess of sleet and slush on the roads. My cocktail buzz doesn't seem to be evaporating as quickly as I'd hoped, and by the time we pull up to the curb and I pay the fare, I still have its giddy effervescence simmering in my blood.
I've never come to see Jack while drunk before, and it's either a terrible or a fantastic idea. I guess we're about to find out which.
Hitting the bottom of the stairs, I catch him tuning his guitar and stop a few feet away, studying him. With his head bowed, and in the beam of the streetlight shooting down the stairs, his light brown hair seems almost silver.
He's suitably scruffy for our generation, but he looks clean, so I like to think he has a nice apartment and a regular, well-paying job, and does this because he loves it. He has the type of hair I can't resist, neat and trimmed along the sides but wild and untamed on top. It looks soft, too, shiny under the lights and the kind of hair you want to curl a fist around. I don't know what color his eyes are because he never looks up at anyone while he plays, but I like to imagine they're brown or dark green, a color deep eno
I don't know what he does in the hours he's not there. I'm also fairly certain his name isn't Jack, but I needed to call him something other than "the busker," and giving him a name made my obsession seem less pathetic.
Sort of.
The cabbie is quiet; he isn't even listening to talk radio or any of the other cacophonous car-filler every New Yorker gets used to. I blink away from my phone and the Instagram feed full of books and makeup tutorials, to the mess of sleet and slush on the roads. My cocktail buzz doesn't seem to be evaporating as quickly as I'd hoped, and by the time we pull up to the curb and I pay the fare, I still have its giddy effervescence simmering in my blood.
I've never come to see Jack while drunk before, and it's either a terrible or a fantastic idea. I guess we're about to find out which.
Hitting the bottom of the stairs, I catch him tuning his guitar and stop a few feet away, studying him. With his head bowed, and in the beam of the streetlight shooting down the stairs, his light brown hair seems almost silver.
He's suitably scruffy for our generation, but he looks clean, so I like to think he has a nice apartment and a regular, well-paying job, and does this because he loves it. He has the type of hair I can't resist, neat and trimmed along the sides but wild and untamed on top. It looks soft, too, shiny under the lights and the kind of hair you want to curl a fist around. I don't know what color his eyes are because he never looks up at anyone while he plays, but I like to imagine they're brown or dark green, a color deep eno
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Christina Lauren
Christina Lauren is the combined pen name of longtime writing partners and best friends Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings, the New York Times, USA TODAY, and #1 internationally bestselling authors of the Beautiful and Wild Seasons series, Autoboyography, Love and Other Words, Roomies, Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating, The Unhoneymooners, The Soulmate Equation, Something Wilder, and The True Love Experiment. You can find them online at ChristinaLaurenBooks.com or @ChristinaLauren on Instagram.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Christina Lauren
- 2017, 368 Seiten, Maße: 13,5 x 21 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Simon & Schuster US
- ISBN-10: 1501165836
- ISBN-13: 9781501165832
- Erscheinungsdatum: 08.01.2018
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"This book has everything that makes romance novels great: a heroine's journey to self-discovery, a leading man worthy of a woman's love, and plenty of misty tears and full-on belly laughs along the way. Another knockout by Lauren." Kirkus Reviews
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