Don't Be In Love

by Liana Cincotti

Genres: Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A university student makes a secret deal with a prominent British family's son while navigating London's high society in this enemies to lovers rom com from the author of the viral Booktok book, Picking Daisies on Sunday.

When twenty-one-year-old, career-driven Adelaide Adorno decides to transfer to one of the most prestigious universities in the world for her senior year, she couldn’t be happier. Moving to London granted her new friends, a gorgeous apartment in the city, and a chance to work in luxury marketing.

Then she meets Dorian Blackwood—the youngest of the prominent British family known for their impact on the entertainment industry—who's plastered across every tabloid in Europe for his famous parents, handsome looks, and notable dating life. He’s not only a student at Townsen University but the person her new best friend, and roommate, is absolutely in love with. Which is how Adelaide ultimately becomes twisted into a deal with Dorian to keep their secret.

But just because Dorian agrees to keep their secret doesn’t mean he’ll make life easy for her. Every lavish gala, photographed event in the city, and excuse to wear an expensive gown becomes a risk for their secret to come out. With Adelaide’s friendship on the line and her future career at risk, she’ll do anything she can to avoid him. Which should be easy for someone who doesn’t date, let alone believe in love—right?

Release date: October 29, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Don’t Be Infatuated by a British Accent—Adelaide

I hated remaining sedentary. Sitting in a lecture hall in Boston, staring out a window at falling leaves and then soon enough, dreaded snow, sounded whimsical and did indeed set an academic scene similar to Dead Poets Society. But it wasn’t England.

Don’t get me wrong, if you wanted to live somewhere where the seasons turned as they did in London, and exist in an area that had that old, vintage feeling of Cambridge, then Cambridge, Massachusetts (a Boston suburb) was the place to go to college. But when you lived in the area your whole life, it started to feel old. And not in the Shakespearean way.

Hence why I practically tripped up the stairs in the business building on my way to my Global Marketing exam in April. A window-sized cork board with a neon pink flyer made me pause. In big bold letters with an image of Big Ben behind it, it read:

STUDY ABROAD OPPORTUNITY: EXPLORE LONDON AND RECEIVE CREDIT.

I met with my advisor the next day and applied. One month later, they either made a mistake or really enjoyed my essay on London’s fashion, because I was accepted.

Senior Year. In London.

I screamed with excitement until my throat burned. Almost even sent my roommate into cardiac arrest—the poor thing was already a computer science major, she had enough to be on edge about.

June came and I was boarding a cramped flight to London Heathrow to study marketing at one of the most prestigious colleges in the world: Townsen University. My back was as stiff as a board, the airplane chicken was cold, and I regretted not packing my sixth black skirt. But none of it really mattered because I was going to London.

The London from The Holiday and Harry Potter. The home of tea and scones. An epicenter for fashion week twice a year.

Fast-forward to now—the end of August—where I was wishing I could go back to the day I landed in Heathrow in June, taking a black cab to my flat, to do it all over again. It kickstarted a summer with my two new roommates, Sabrina and Mia, exploring the city, staying up late eating British sweets, and divulging every secret.

Mia, a journalism major from Washington who hated to be out of bed before 10 a.m. and gave every emotion away with her eyes, walked beside me with an arm looped around my elbow. She was a woman on a mission, directing us toward a club that may or may not be the site of our future death.

“It’s safe! One of the Townsen students posted about it!” she defended herself but still tightened her grip on her purse. “I’m not turning this opportunity down—invite-only—do you hear me?”

“I’m pretty sure cults are invite-only too.” I narrowed my eyes. If Sabrina was here right now, she would’ve agreed. Fortunately for Sabrina, both her dads had forced her into attending another networking event tonight.

One of her dads was the owner of several luxury hotel chains across the UK and Europe, so he was always at glamorous parties.

Her upbringing was no different than most of the students at Townsen.

About ninety-five percent of the students came from rich families who were either known in Hollywood, a political party, or were just incredibly wealthy for investing in something like tech or zippers.

Which put in me the other five percent: the students who came from households with no money and relied on scholarships.

“We’re here, we’re here, stop mentioning cults,” Mia shushed me, tugging me into a pub. She ran for the bar before the door could close. I watched as she leaned over the barstools, grabbed the bartender’s attention—frightened him a bit—to whisper something to him. She reared back after a moment and came running back to pull me in a new direction with no explanation.

“I’m going to take a guess and assume he granted your wish,” I questioned.

“The invitation worked!” she sang. “He said we just go through this door down the hall and down the stairs—”

“And into the creepy dungeon?”

She opened said door. It was like opening Pandora’s box. If the box was filled with music and clinking glassware.

Mia turned and gave me a I was right and you were wrong look.

I rolled my eyes. “Let’s just get on with this,” I said, giving her a slight push. I was on a mission to get home early to mentally prepare for the first day of classes on Monday.

She ran down the staircase, forcing me to chase after her before—oof. “Mia, my head,” I complained, rubbing my forehead after running straight into the back of her skull.

I looked up to find her staring in awe at what appeared to be a jazz bar.

A band of older gentlemen played music on a short stage for the audience of young dancers twirling in mini dresses. Women wearing stiletto heels held onto men with gelled-back hair and button-downs. While others sat at petite wooden tables decorated by antique lamps made of yellow stained glass, emitting a low light in the dusk room.

A plethora of people spanning a range of ages held glasses of liquor like purses. They wore sapphires on their pinkies, and relaxed smiles on their faces. The bar stretched behind us to the left, covering the entire back wall. Mirrors acted like portraits hanging above the alcohol.

“Maybe we can find Sabrina a new guy here,” Mia commented, eyeing down men.

“Don’t waste your time,” I sighed. “She has no interest in finding someone new.”

“She doesn’t even know him.” She threw her arms up. “That’s like me being in love with the man that reads the weather on the TV back home.”

“But you are in love with the man who reads the weather.”

“But I don’t talk about him as if he put the sun in the sky! She’ll talk about him but then clam up when we ask for a photo or if they’ve ever spoken. We don’t even know his last name. He could be fake for all I know.”

“She has a crush. It’ll wear out.” Hopefully.

Concern for my new friend had become an annoying neighbor, reappearing every time she mentioned this guy. But I wasn’t going to push her away with my whole philosophy on love. Especially not when her entire being was as delicate as a hydrangea. I loved her for it. But I also wanted to wrap her in cellophane as I explained that thinking about men was the equivalent to watching paint dry. Useless and it’d always end up disappointing in the end.

My eye for picking paint wasn’t great.

Mia groaned. “Dorian. Honestly, how hot could this guy possibly be?”

She worried for Sabrina too, but sometimes that was bypassed by her impatience to listen to people that weren’t doers. Brina wasn’t looking to do anything about her crush on Dorian. She was a hoper. Someone that hoped for the rom-com moment where she dropped her books in the hallway, and he was there to swoop them up. Next thing you knew, they were married, straddled with kids, with a vacation home in Tuscany, and a wiener dog that only ate salmon-based food.

“I don’t know,” I sighed. I scanned the room for an empty table. As I came up empty, I searched faces, wondering if any of these people would be my classmates in two days.

The acceptance rate for Townsen was something like five percent. As someone from a college where students woke up at 7 a.m. to study for an 8 a.m. exam and still passed, I was nervous. None of these students would come from homes whose mother had to quit her medical career to stay home to parent while her husband took every construction job he was offered.

Academics and working would be my number one priority while I lived in London. This scholarship was the only way I could afford being here.

Mia said, “Let’s go sit—”

“Excuse me.” Her proposal was cut short by a really handsome guy. The kind of handsome that made you check the hinges on your jaw.

He stood several inches above me with a sly smile and a dimple on his left cheek. The color of his eyes and hair matched the color of black coffee, sitting neatly above his ears. His skin was a few shades lighter than his hair; a tan that complimented his dark brown eyes.

Then he opened his mouth, and this unfairly beautiful British accent came out.

Don’t Converse with Men Who Look

Like Hugh Grant—Adelaide

The first rule I made with myself before coming to England was that I would stick to my morals and not get involved in anything romantic. Nada. It didn’t matter if 1999 Notting Hill Hugh Grant approached me; I wouldn’t succumb.

Was that difficult when a beautiful six foot British man approached you and said excuse me in his British accent? Obviously. But it was easier when I remembered the second rule: love didn’t last. And what if he was looking for love? Of course, he’d never admit that. He’d probably start by asking if I wanted to dance, which would turn into a flirtatious conversation, which would lead to a date, and then a kiss.

I would just end up breaking his heart!

I was getting ahead of myself, yes. This Brit (bloke?) was probably just looking for a dance, not my hand in marriage. But avoiding these interactions altogether saved me time and complexities I didn’t have space for in my to-do list.

“Do you want to dance?” he asked. Mia made some type of Poltergeist-choking noise from behind me.

I smiled awkwardly. “Actually, I was just about to sit with my friend…” I waited for him to fill in his name.

“Rye,” he extended his hand.

I shook it. “Like the bread?”

“More like the town two hours south of here.” He almost let a laugh slip.

“Oh. That’s interesting. I’ll have to look that up later. But I’m actually about to sit down with my friend.” I began to turn but his hand slipped around my wrist.

“You can’t,” he said in a slight panic.

I blew out a breath. “To think I thought the guys in Boston were stubborn.”

“I’m not some perv. Do I look like one?” he asked, slightly horrified.

“Depends.” I made an effort to look at his hand on my wrist.

He dropped my arm instantly. “I have a bet going with my mate over there.” He gestured to someone sitting at a table across the room. He looked just as tall, but other than that, he was the complete opposite of his companion. Darker eyes. Lighter skin. Silver hair the color of the first snow in New England. “He thinks you’d say no to a dance with me.”

“Well, it looks like your friend won,” I replied, I turned to grab Mia—

“So you’re saying no?” he asked, touching my elbow. He smelled like fresh espresso and sandalwood, a piece of his dark hair dangled over his left brow.

“It’s really not my thing.”

“Can’t dance?” he asked.

“Oh, I can dance,” I argued.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he contended.

“Are you trying to bait me into winning this bet?” I narrowed my eyes.

“Is it working?”

“Possibly.”

“What if I bought you a drink after?” he asked.

“Well, you should’ve just started with that. And I want two drinks.”

“Two drinks it is.” He put his hand out for me to take, his sleeve retracting to expose a tattoo on the inside of his arm.

What was I doing?

It’s called having fun, my subconscious argued.

Well, this was a horrendous attempt at trying to have fun. Fun wasn’t supposed to have uncalloused hands, pretty eyes, and back muscles that were apparent through his shirt. Fun was supposed to be whimsical charms hanging off a new purse and the taste of a thick vanilla frappe on a movie night.

Too late now!

I followed him through a sea of people where the music flowed, and pairs danced. What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I do—

I was pulled into his chest, and we were dancing. Chest to chest, hips against hips, his hand on my back and mine in his palm. It pulled the air right out of my chest.

“Do you do this often?” I asked.

“Dance with beautiful women?”

“Make bets to coerce women into dancing with you?”

“I usually don’t have to coerce women.”

“You didn’t answer the bet part of the question.”

“What do you want to know next—my home address?”

“I’m sure that’s easy enough to find online, especially if you’re seeing women this often,” I explained.

“I’m not some womanizer. I don’t even know your name, matter of fact.” He narrowed his eyes. “You could be the threat here.”

I stared at him back. “Adelaide. But I’m not telling you my last name.”

“Alright, Adelaide With No Last Name, where are you from?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Yes, evidently the States, I’m not an idiot. I meant which one.”

“Massachusetts.”

“When do you fly back?” he asked curiously.

“I’m actually living in London right now,” I admitted.

“Where are you staying?”

“Plan on breaking in and rummaging through my things to find out my last name?”

He rolled his eyes. “I live in London as well. Kensington.” He waited for me to return the same response.

“Marylebone, is that close to Kensington?”

“I wouldn’t recommend walking, but it’s half the time via the Tube. Have you taken the Tube?”

“The public transportation? By myself? Definitely not.” I’d only been here two and a half months, so I wasn’t ashamed that I hadn’t tried the Tube yet. Sabrina was the only British person I knew but even living in London without her parents was a new beast for her.

“It’s easy. I don’t know much about Massachusetts, but I know the Tube is better than the subway in New York. What are you doing after this?” he asked with a cunning look.

“Are you recommending we go for a ride on the Tube?” I laughed.

“Why not? You can’t live in London and not know how to use the train system.”

It felt spontaneous to say yes. To put myself out there.

I may have moved across the world to live in a foreign place, but I still wouldn’t call myself spontaneous.

Though… I guess this wouldn’t interfere with the rules. If anything were to happen it wouldn’t go anywhere. And I’d get a knowledgeable lesson on how to use the Tube from a local.

“Alright, let’s go,” I said.

Don’t Be So Sure of the First Name

You’re Given—Adelaide

“Why am I even surprised?” Mia laughed, walking into the kitchen in her pajamas the next morning, spotting me at the kitchen table with a glass of water and The New Yorker. “You were out until almost two in the morning last night and are, somehow, still awake before everyone and look ready for a Pilates class with single moms.” She rubbed the gook out of her eyes.

Not knowing whether that last comment was a compliment or not, I said, “We start classes tomorrow! I couldn’t sleep.”

She sat down across from me, taking a big sip of her coffee with both hands. “So no immediate mention of last night? Because I know going on the Tube was not the only thing that happened. I want to hear every single detail.” She leaned forward with curiosity.

Running to the Tube in my heels with Rye’s coat on my shoulders felt like a scene from a movie. He paid for both of our rides with his Oyster card and showed me how to pay with my own card for the future. Then he latched onto my hand, pulling me onto the departing train before its doors could close, and explained all the colorful lines that made up the routes on the roof of the Tube.

One minute we were racing up and down the empty train, and the next, I was bumping into him when it came to a full stop. I perfectly landed on him in the plastic seat. My face hovered above his, giving me the ability to explore the angles of his cheeks, and the flecks of gold and valleys of chestnut brown appearing in his eyes when only inches away from them. Before I realized it, I was kissing him and going to his—

“Every detail of what! What did you guys do last night?” Sabrina yelled from the hallway in her charming accent. Her voice grew as she walked into the kitchen, pulling her short hair into a pony, and ruffling her bangs. Champagne-colored pajamas made of silk hung from her frame. The opposite of Mia’s gray sweatpants and a black Washington State University hoodie.

“Adelaide danced with the hottest man I’d ever laid my eyes on,” Mia announced in glee.

“That hot?” Sabrina gasped in amusement. Her eyes were wide, genuinely curious.

“That hot!”

“Well, I want to hear every single detai—oh my gosh!” Sabrina began screaming in front of the coffee machine, clutching her phone, jumping up and down.

“What!” Mia and I shouted in unison, not knowing whether to be fearful or excited.

“Look!” She ran to the kitchen table, shoving her phone in our faces. “Dorian Blackwood is back in London! He was spotted in London last night at a jazz club! He must be returning to Townsen this semester!” she screamed, jumping with excitement so violently that her long blond bob fell out of its elastic.

My heart plummeted. All my pumping blood evacuated the premises and fled to my face. It stole the air right out of my lungs and wrapped it around my throat in suffocation.

The photo. That photo—of Dorian Blackwood—the man Sabrina hadn’t stopped talking about since the day I met her.

I turned to Mia for confirmation, and I found the same look of horror in her dropped jaw.

That was a photo of Rye on her phone.

“That’s Dorian Blackwood?” Mia looked up in question. I sat still, processing this nightmare. Rye is Dorian Blackwood. I slept with Dorian Blackwood. As in the Dorian Blackwood they call the UK Bachelor. As in the man my newest best friend is in love with.

“What’s wrong?” Sabrina’s excitement diminished, looking

between me and Mia.

“Oh—oh! Nothing, nothing! I’m just stunned, he’s cuter than I imagined,” Mia spoke quickly, smiling up at her.

“I know! I can’t believe we’ll be attending university with him now! He’s been abroad for the past year so it’s as if he wasn’t even a student. Maybe I’ll get the chance to introduce myself.” Her shoulders were high, and her smile reached the furthest depths of her cheeks. The way she squeezed her coffee mug and continued to talk in a high-pitched tone was enough to prove her feelings for Rye—Dorian. I had yet to see her smile this big before.

Oh my god. She couldn’t know what happened last night. She could never know. She would be heartbroken. I already knew how she thought of herself; the way she rejected compliments and used self-deprecating humor. If she was gathering the confidence to talk to him, then I needed to be her support system, not her reason to give up.

The last thing she needed was to find out that her best friend slept with the guy she was in love with.

Sabrina loved him, and I couldn’t be the one to ruin that.

I… I could simply avoid him at school. There was a minimal chance I’d ever see him! And there was an extremely high chance he had enough alcohol in his system last night to not even remember me.

I wouldn’t ruin this for her. I wouldn’t let him jeopardize this friendship.

It was only one night anyways.

Don’t Make Deals with Rich Men—Adelaide

Approaching the university on Monday morning was mesmerizing. Towering above us was a castle of limestone wrapped in climbing ivy and vines, with archaic archways and roofs that met in triangular peaks reaching into the sky.

Townsen University sat on the edge of London, with the front courtyard of the school immersed in the city, and the back surrounded by acres of green grass, gardens, and courtyards.

Students in blazers, trousers, and tweed skirts waltzed up the front entrance of the school; a wide staircase that ascended towards a set of doors fit for a horse-drawn carriage.

Since this was Sabrina’s second year at Townsen, she helped us navigate the rotating schedules and various entrances. She wore a dreaded look as she broke it down.

The poor thing was a biology major who hated Biology. It was the compromise she and her dads made when they let her transfer to Townsen last year; they’d pay the tuition and let her minor in interior design if she studied biology.

“The left and right hallways will bring you to professors’ and administrators’ offices, which also lead to the courtyards and gardens at the back of the building,” she explained slowly. “Now let me see your schedules so we can get to class on time.”

Even after she rifled through everything in great detail, twice, I was still confused. But she ushered us off to our classes anyway, dropping me at a large doorway that was supposedly my Social Media Marketing class.

Windows covered the left wall of the class, looking into one of the courtyards. While a podium and chalkboard stood at the front. The room smelt of fresh wood and ink. About half of the class was already seated. I took the first seat I saw right as the professor walked in.

“Good morning, students,” she sang.

“Good morning, Professor Emmerson,” everyone greeted.

Sylvie Emmerson. In real life. Not on my dingey computer screen.

The corporate mogul was in her late 50s sporting a tan pantsuit and passionate smile, with dark blond hair chopped short. Everyone who worked in marketing or wanted to, knew her. She worked for several luxury brands, building up their brand identity and loyalty for over three decades. After retiring, she began teaching at Townsen. I had dreamt of having her as a mentor ever since.

She spread out papers on the podium. “Welcome to—”

“Apologies, Sylvie!”

The entire class turned to the voice, some even gasping. At least all the women in the class had because it was—

“Dorian, it’s Professor Emmerson,” she corrected.

Holy shit. I held onto my chin to keep my jaw in place. Please tell me my vision has taken a turn for the worst and that’s not actually him?

Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me… What were the chances of him not recognizing me?

I just needed to sit still and be quiet, just like they did with dinosaurs in the movies.

“Yes, Professor Emmerson,” he said smiling, nodding his head.

He brushed a hand through his hair, moving pieces out of his face like he was in a romance movie. Clad in black trousers and a rustled button-down (with a few buttons at the top und. . .