Code Word Romance

by Carlie Walker

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Action & Adventure Romance; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

One fake prime minister, one ridiculously hot handler, and one Italian summer collide in this thrilling adventure rom-com.


Max is just your average girl. She works odd jobs, has a soul-crushing amount of debt, and happens to bear an uncanny resemblance to Europe’s youngest female prime minister, Sofia Christensen. Sofia is powerful, beautiful—and unfortunately, someone is trying quite hard to assassinate her.

When the CIA approaches Max with a deal, a life-changing amount of money if she pretends to be Sofia on the prime minister’s annual Italian vacation, Max packs her bags for the Amalfi Coast. The delicious food, the breathtaking views—this trip would be a dream if it weren’t for those pesky assassins and Flynn, the handler assigned to Max’s case. Flynn, who has an unexpected history with Max, from another sun-drenched summer years and years ago. Now he’s instructed to stay in Max’s suite to protect her, as old passions and assassins collide.

Losing herself in the role of a prime minister is one thing. But losing her heart to Flynn again? Now that’s a risk she isn’t willing to take . . .

Release date: March 18, 2025

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 320

Sample

1

Kennebunkport, Maine

Six Days Earlier

Food has always been my life. The rush of the kitchen, browned butter sizzling in a cast-iron pan, the hard crack of a lobster claw. I've never wanted to be anything other than a chef. My dad bought me my first chef's coat when I was ten years old, and I wore that thing everywhere-until the starch white took on this Dijon mustard hue, and Mom insisted that maybe the other kids at school would pick on me a little less if I wore, say, overalls.

Come to think of it, she had a point, but I had a wildly optimistic dream. I'd open a restaurant by the water, serve hot cups of chowder on snowy days. I'd spend late nights in the kitchen, batch-testing new recipes, and in the morning, I'd whip up potato doughnuts with fresh, local ingredients.

In short, I'd be happy.

"You don't look so good," my boss observes. He's giving me the once-over from across the rough-cut lawn, face a mask of sympathy, and I wonder what he's referring to specifically: the holey Boston Terriers sweatshirt I've had since college, the thick sheen of sweat on my forehead, or the general vibe I've been giving off lately, that I may or may not scream into my throw pillows at night. I'm almost thirty years old, so far in debt that it makes my eyes water, and I've spent the last hour lugging cheap boxed wine from the catering van.

Peeling off the sweatshirt, sticky in the heat, I readjust my tee and give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. "Just got a little warm."

"You sure that's all?" he asks. "You really look terrible."

"Yeah, thanks, Andy," I say, puffing my bangs from my eyes. I'm gentle about it, because I'm always gentle-and honestly, after the year I've had, I'd be concerned for me, too.

The breeze cools me off a little as I zigzag around the outdoor bar, pour a glass of ice water from a pitcher, and take a swig.

This is my twenty-seventh wedding of the summer, and it's only June. Each one goes something like this: beautiful couple, ceremony on the waterfront, reception on the lawn outside the picture-perfect inn. Charcuterie boards, glasses clinking, the flash of a hundred photographs. And me, rushing around, making sure that everyone's having a good time. I'm front of house now, a task rabbit, the person who freshens your drink, asks if you'd like cocktail sauce with that shrimp, and occasionally breaks up fights between groomsmen when they've had too much champagne. (Excuse me, can you guys hug it out?)

Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly grateful for this job. I'm also incredibly aware that it's the only work I could find-at a second-rate catering company, for an hourly wage that hasn't chipped away a dollar of my debt. For the past three months, I've been living off discount macaroni, expired blueberry pancake mix, and whatever's left over on the catering trays at the end of the night.

Gary, the inn's resident goose, starts squawking by the waterfront, and it reminds me to check my watch. I'll have to shoo him back to hell before the guests arrive in an hour. Gary is what you might call an instrument of chaos (during two of our May weddings, he bit the brides), and these seaside weddings are already chaotic enough. Something about the salt air, I think? During my last shift, the maid of honor gave a heartfelt speech about how she once made out with Nicolas Cage at a bat mitzvah, before ramming her Kia Soul straight into the side of the inn.

When I clunk down my water glass, I notice that one of the guests has already arrived. Way early. She's hovering several yards from the bar, by the empty cake table, and she is full-out staring at me. I corral a few strawberry blonde strands into a bun on the top of my head, adding a polka-dotted headband that I keep behind the bar. Do I really look that bad today? Do I have something on my face?

Or does she know me from somewhere?

She's in her early forties, with short chestnut hair, and has a gaze that could crack eggs. No one else is around-everyone's disappeared inside the inn, prepping for the reception-so it's just me and her on the sun-drenched lawn, like two cowboys facing off at daybreak.

"Can I . . . help you?" I ask, a tingle running down my neck.

The soft grass bends under her footsteps. "Are you aware," she asks, making up the distance between us, hands in the pockets of her trench coat, "that you look exactly like Sofia Christiansen?"

Ah, okay, so that's what this is about. The tiny fist in my stomach unclenches.

I get this question a lot. Sofia and I have the same body shape-moderately tall, rounded hips. Our faces are essentially identical: square jaw, light brown eyes, with a look that sometimes says, I'm more powerful than you give me credit for. The only minor difference is, at thirty, Sofia Christiansen is the youngest female prime minister in history. Magazine spreads across Europe herald how glam, assertive, and competent she is at leading a country. I'm, as has been established, ferrying two-dollar boxed wine across a lawn that gives me ankle hives, after my life exploded into flames. Right now, I'm also wearing frayed jean shorts and a Maine State Fair T-shirt with a talking raccoon on it. World-leader material? Perhaps not.

I offer a polite nod and a muted shrug. "So they tell me."

"It's uncanny," the woman says, stepping closer. Too close. "You're like twins. Are you related?"

"Nope, it's just one of those random look-alike things . . ." My shoulders scrunch together as I scooch around the bar, then past her, hoping to leave it there. I need to change into my catering uniform, set out the lobster roll trays, and deal with Gary before he starts pooping all over the lawn chairs.

Unfortunately, trench-coat woman doesn't get the hint. "We're rather low on time, so I think it's best if I speak for a short while, and you don't speak, and then we can move on from there. We've established that you're familiar with Sofia Christiansen, prime minister of Summerland. What you might not know is someone would very much like to assassinate her."

My chest starts to prickle with heat, little pops of red under the collar of my tee. I half spin around in my Birkenstocks, thinking What kind of conversation is this? Summerland, I do know. It's a small island nation off the coast of Norway: rocky cliffs, slate blue sea, puffins. That's where my grandmother was from. Those are the pictures I grew up with, black-and-white snaps of the ocean, a coast I'd visited only in my imagination. But everything else-the prime minister bit, the assassination bit-makes me wonder if this woman's dipped into something a little harder than the boxed wine.

"I say someone," she continues, "although we've narrowed down the suspects, logically, to a Summerlandian crime family. Imagine the Hells Angels but more Scandinavian; they ride actual bicycles. The first attempted hit came directly after the prime minister cracked down on their illegal gambling and weapons trafficking networks in April. Did you catch the hospital incident on the news?"

I blink, long and slow, eyelashes flicking in the sunlight. Who didn't see that news story? It was everywhere, a constant video loop of the prime minister ducking and covering outside of a children's hospital, a bullet lodged in her bodyguard's arm; after a moment, she ran over to put pressure on the wound, shielding him. The footage gave me a lump in my throat, all of those kids peeking out of their windows, checking if the prime minister was all right-if she was still coming inside to read them a book.

My mom even texted me about one of the news clips: Can't believe how much she looks like you. Scary to watch as your mother!

"You're probably wondering what this has to do with you," the stranger says, over the sound of Gary, honking. "Normally we'd spend months cultivating an asset, but with the time constraint, I have no choice but to be blunt. We'd like to hire you as a decoy. To make sure the assassination doesn't happen."

I'm sorry. What?

The drum in my chest starts pounding in an unsteady beat.

When I take a sideways step, she matches me. "I know it's not an easy pill to swallow, but-by some miraculous trick of genetics-you and the prime minister look remarkably alike. Minus the blondish hair color, of course, which we'll change. But your bone structure is identical. Eyes, height, body shape, indistinguishable. No one could possibly spot the difference. So you'll come with us to Italy, where the prime minister is set to go on her yearly vacation. You'll play an easy role in a difficult-to-secure-"

"Who is us?" I hiss out, a sound like fuzzy, far-off waves crashing in my ears. I understand the words that are coming out of her mouth, but they don't . . . make any sense. Italy? She wants me to pretend I'm a prime minister in Italy?

"You can call me Gail," the woman says, pointedly dodging my question.

Gail. No one intimidating is called Gail. There's also something about the way she says it. You can call me. Not My name is. Why does that make the breath catch in my throat?

I've left my phone in the catering van. Should I call 911, just in case this person is as dangerous as she is misinformed?

"And your name is Margaux Adams," Gail says, following me down the wedding aisle. She's walking fast enough that the tie of her trench coat flap-flaps like a beached squid, and I'm secretly hoping that Gary will attack it. "Shortened inexplicably to 'Max.' Decent grades in college before dropping out to test your luck in the restaurant industry. Used to hostess during the summers at a place called Lobster in the Rough, but your first real job was . . . Robbie's Clam Hut, if I'm not mistaken? Worked your way up. From Robbie's to LaRocca to Pierre's by the Sea to a restaurant of your very own. Charming place. Frida's, wasn't it?"

It's like the blood stops moving in my body. Frida's, named after my grandmother. Frida's, with her white-brick façade and sweeping back porch and windows that let in all the winter sun. My dream. I remember every dish I ever served-every fish I ever filleted, every oyster I ever shucked. I remember standing in the kitchen for the last time, flicking off the lights, and crying so hard I retched.

That was four months ago. My restaurant didn't survive the pandemic. We were open for two and a half glorious years before the crash hit, before I blew through my governmental loans, before I accepted money from family and friends to keep Frida's afloat. She sank anyway.

I force myself to turn and look at Gail by the edge of the parking lot, the corners of my eyes threatening tears. "Honestly, why would you bring up my restaurant? That's cruel."

She takes another step gingerly toward me, eyes sharp. "No, Max. That's the CIA. This is how we make the world a safer place. I'm showing you there's something you've lost, and there's something I need, and we can meet each other in the middle."

CIA. She said CIA. The knot in my stomach tightens into a fist again, because it feels . . . true.

"You work for the CIA," I repeat slowly, tasting the words. Bitter.

"Mmm." Gail nods before reaching into her jacket pocket, pulling out a security badge that reads (helpfully) Central Intelligence Agency. "You could work for the CIA, too, as an asset. While I might be new to the CIA, I come with twenty years' experience at the FBI, and-"

"Stop." I hold up my hands, pockets of stars bursting around my eyes. I'm dizzy, like I've been on my feet in the kitchen for two shifts too long. "Not now, Gary!"

The goose, who's come over to investigate-nipping the back of my knees-toddles off into the parking lot.

"If you're worried about the precedent," Gail plods on, "body doubles are common. Many notable figures have one. There was a British general, Bernard Montgomery, who spent most of World War II in hiding. His body double commanded troops in his absence. And you're lucky. You look so much like Sofia, you won't need any plastic surgery. No-" In the air between us, Gail does the universal motion for scissors, snipping.

"What are you snipping?" I half shriek, waving my hands at her. "What was that supposed to be snipping?"

"Forget I mentioned it! As I was saying, the CIA brought me in because of my extended experience with crime families. Did you hear about the Jones takedown over Christmas last year? That was me. That was my agent. Anyway, we've picked up chatter that this family-the one who's targeting the prime minister-will attempt to finish the job on her upcoming trip to Italy. By stepping in, you'll buy us time to gather enough evidence to bring them down, while keeping the prime minister safe in the process . . . So, what are your thoughts?"

Thoughts? What are my thoughts? "I think you should get the hell away from me."

Gail tuts. "Max, just consider the-"

But I'm already storming off, at a walk and then a brisk jog, every instinct in my body telling me run.

2

I rarely drink. But late that night, when I get back to my apartment, I pour myself another glass of tap water and add a shot of whiskey. It's cinnamon flavored and objectively disgusting, the only liquor in the cupboard, left over from my ex-best-friend's bachelorette party almost two years earlier; even with the water, it burns going down my throat. I don't stop chugging until the glass is empty, until I'm wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Calvin?" I gasp. "Are you in here?"

In here sounds better than home. I wouldn't use that word to describe our apartment. My old loft was two blocks away from Frida's. Every window on the south side had a view of the bay, and in the mornings before kitchen prep, I'd sit in my grandmother's hand-me-down armchair with a mug of chamomile tea and watch the boats come in, not fully realizing just how blissful my life was.

I miss those mornings. I miss everything about that time in my life.