Don't Fall in Love With Me

by Paige Toon

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

“Paige Toon warms your heart, shatters it in pieces, then puts it back together again and again.” —Abby Jimenez

Sometimes the heart wants what the heart can’t have.

Grace has loved Jackson since she was fifteen. Spending every summer together exploring his grandfather’s chateau and the tumbling rivers of the gorgeous Ardèche region of France, they were best friends. Until he married someone else.

Three years later, a newly single Jackson re-enters Grace’s life with an irresistible offer: her dream job in the very town where their story began. As memories from those idyllic summers flood back, Grace encounters another old friend Étienne, who proposes a plan to make Jackson jealous. Their scheme begins to work just as Grace finds herself questioning if the sparks between them might not be so pretend after all.

But games can be dangerous, and Étienne is harboring a secret that could shatter Grace’s heart.

Release date: April 14, 2026

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 368

Sample

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1

Almost three years later . . .

Blue light flickers at the edges of the living room window as I drag myself to the front door of my small terraced house in Balham, South London. My chest expands briefly at the thought of my housemates waiting up for me before guilt pricks my conscience.

"Hi," I call quietly as I unlock the door and go inside, dropping my bag to the floor.

"Hey," comes Tasha's drowsy reply.

I round the corner in time to see her easing herself up from the sofa where she'd obviously dozed off, her dark bun all askew. A few feet away, a silver star-shaped helium balloon bobs gently, and on the coffee table sits a small pile of brightly wrapped presents.

"I'm so sorry," I murmur.

Three other friends were supposed to come tonight, and it looks as though one or two dropped off presents after I had to cancel.

"It's not your fault." Tasha gives me a sympathetic look. "Happy birthday. For yesterday," she adds, glancing at her watch before going in for a hug.

It's almost 1 a.m. My birthday has been and gone.

"Ryan felt bad about calling it a night, but he has a meeting with a couple of parents first thing," she tells me.

Ryan, my other housemate, is a teacher. He's also Tasha's boyfriend, a development that took us all by surprise last year.

"But everything will keep so maybe we can try again tomorrow?" she suggests hopefully.

My shoulders sag. "I wish I could, but I think I'll be working late again."

"Gracie." My name comes out of her mouth on a sigh, her posture mirroring mine.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It's not about us, it's about you. How long can you keep this up?"

"As long as I have to. There's no way I can risk being out of a job again."

I used to work at a lovely little marketing agency, but it went bust right after Jackson and Chloe's wedding, three years ago this June. The terror of knowing that I wouldn't be able to pay the rent if I didn't get another job within eight weeks was so intense that I still break out in a cold sweat when I think about it.

I can't describe the relief I felt when I landed a nice, safe position at a big commercial agency. I threw myself into work like never before and it was a perfect distraction from the pain of knowing that the man I'd loved since I was fifteen was lost to me forever.

My hard work didn't go unnoticed: I was promoted within a year, and seven months later, I was promoted again. The pay is good and my CV looks great, but I have no choice over the projects that I run. My clients are huge multinational companies that specialize in the sort of fast-turnover stuff that sells into supermarkets. There's no joy in it. And every time a pitch comes in, I'm expected to drop everything. It doesn't matter if I have plans-if, for example, it's my twenty-seventh birthday and my amazing flatmates have brought in food and wine, and other friends are set to come over-I have to let everyone down, stay late, and work until my boss, who has no life of his own, is satisfied that we've serviced clients that I personally couldn't care less about.

I've been looking for another job, but the market is grim right now.

I sit with Tasha for a while before heading upstairs to my room, armed with my new rehydrating face masks, cooling gel eye mask, and This Works Deep Sleep Pillow Spray. My friends are thoughtful, but their hints weren't necessary-my pale, drawn reflection in the mirror is evidence enough that I need to take better care of myself. Removing what's left of my makeup, I change out of my navy skirt suit into my comfiest PJs and climb into bed.

Then, gingerly cradling my phone, I prepare to reply to the message that has played on my mind relentlessly for the last twelve hours: Happy birthday, Gracie. Are you doing anything to celebrate?

So simple. So harmless. And yet it makes my insides contract with pain.

I haven't seen or spoken to Jackson since he got married. To begin with, he reached out all the time, but I always diverted his calls and sent rushed-sounding texts that read along the lines of: Sorry can't talk right now! and Sorry so busy, and he'd reply with things like: Just calling for a chat! and Call back when you can! and I miss you. It hurt to keep him at arm's length, knowing that he still wanted me in his life, that he still loved me in his own way, if not in the way that I wanted. But I couldn't bring myself to tell him that I needed time and space to repair the heart he'd broken.

Eventually he got the message. The last time he texted was about six months ago, back in October. I didn't hear from him at Christmas and I thought my birthday would go by quietly too. It's alarming how affected I am by this one tiny text.

It's annoying too. I should be over him by now.

I'd love to go and see Mellie in France again this summer, but that's when Jackson and Chloe always go. I can't avoid them if we're there at the same time: our grandparents are best friends and our lives have been intertwined since we were kids-Mellie's house in the mountains looks right over the rooftop of Jackson's grandfather's château.

I miss the Ardèche in summer. I miss the beautiful spa town of Sainte-Églantine-les-Bains. I miss having breakfast with my grandmother on her terrace and wandering through the evening market where she sells her pottery. I miss the scent of sunbaked grass and diving into Château Angèle's swimming pool on a blisteringly hot day. I miss the mountains and the rivers and the stars in the sky on clear dark nights.

I miss Jackson and what we used to have and the hope of what we could have been.

I steel myself and open up his text, determined to reply quickly so I can put him out of my mind. But then I see that another message from him has come in: I've emailed you about work! I could really do with your help.

Sleep be damned, I'm intrigued.

Although Jackson's dad is American and he mostly grew up in New York State, his entire family on his mother's side is French. In his email, Jackson explains that this August marks not only eighty years of his grandfather Albert's life, but eighty years of Eau de Sainte Églantine, the mineral-water company that his great-grandfather founded, bottling l'eau minérale naturellement gazeuse de Sainte Églantine, the saint who lent her name to the spa town. Jackson stepped into the family business straight out of university, charged with increasing distribution into the US. He's planning a rebrand and he'd love my opinion on the proposals he's received from three marketing agencies.

I'm familiar with the agencies-they're all prestigious-so I don't need to put too much thought into my reply, which candidly expresses that his family business will be considered small-fry against the agencies' larger accounts, and that, even though I bet they've quoted a shit ton of money, they'll likely put a couple of juniors on the job and probably won't even visit the factory, let alone spend quality time getting to know the town or the history of his family. I finish by joking that I could do the work for half the price and ask him to "give me a reason to tell my fuckwit boss to stick his job."

Pressing send, I plug in my phone, turn off the light, and roll onto my side, blowing out a loud breath.

Barely a minute passes before my phone vibrates with an incoming call.

Mum? I roll back over and snatch up my phone. She texted earlier, but I'd hoped she'd call.

Everything inside me tenses when I see the caller ID: JACKSON COLE.

I stare at the screen, the call ends, my stomach drops, and then a text appears: Pick up pick up pick up!

My phone starts to buzz again. It's late after a failed birthday and my defenses are down-I have a feeling he won't give up, so . . .

"Hi," I say flatly.

"I can't believe I didn't think of that," he replies with excitement.

Hearing his deep American voice for the first time in nearly three years distracts from the words he's saying.

"Of course you should do it! Fuck, Gracie, yes!"

What?

"It would be just like old times, you and me, spending the summer together in France, except this year you'd be getting paid for it! Could you do it? Like, seriously, would you want to? Do you actually hate your job? Would you have to give much notice? I'm going at the end of May and staying until early September-the project shouldn't take that long, but could you come for the summer anyway? Apply for a long-stay visa? Maybe even do some freelance work or something?"

My head is spinning. Not just at what he's saying, but at his tone. He sounds like the old Jackson, before Chloe came along and dampened his lovely boyish enthusiasm. He always used to be so measured around her.

"Sorry, I'm getting carried away. Happy birthday, by the way, I'm so glad you picked up." He pauses, and then he says, hesitantly, "Gracie? Are you there?"

"Jackson." I'm so blindsided that his name is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

He falls silent, waiting for me to continue, and for the briefest, most golden of moments, I imagine it: calling Mellie to ask if she'll put me up for the summer and hearing her delighted reply; handing in my notice and saying goodbye to the rat race; running a project that I would enjoy with all my heart.

And I know I could do it and do it well. I already have ideas about where we could start.

But hello? Reality check! There is no way in hell that I can spend the summer with Jackson and the woman he crushed my heart by marrying. I have to keep an ocean between us.

"There are other agencies that I could recommend." It's an effort now even to speak. "It's really late, but I'll email you tomorrow."

He's in New York, which is five hours behind with the time difference. Has he even clocked that it's the early hours of the morning for me?

"But I want you, Gracie."

My gut twists at how wistful he suddenly sounds.

"I hope Chloe's not in earshot," I quip, rustling up banter from God knows where.

He doesn't laugh, not like he used to when I joked about us. I guess "we" are just not that funny anymore.

"I've got to-" I start to say, but he interrupts me.

"Mellie didn't tell you?" He sounds taken aback.

"Tell me what?"

"Chloe and me. It's over. We separated in November-we're getting a divorce."

Shock momentarily renders me speechless.

"But . . . but I had no idea things were bad between you," I splutter.

They separated five months ago?

"You and I haven't exactly spoken much lately," he replies gently. His tone hooks under my skin in an all-too-familiar way.

I want to know everything, how it ended, why it ended, if there's any chance of them getting back together, but I wrestle my questions-and my emotions-under control.

"I'm sorry," I say in a daze. "Are you okay?"

He releases a miserable little huff of laughter before answering, "No. It's been hell." He pauses. "I can't believe Mellie didn't say anything."

I can. My grandmother assumed I'd fall straight back down the rabbit hole.

"Anyway," he says abruptly. "Maybe I can fill you in this summer. Oh, please say yes. At least sleep on it."

I know that I should resist the urge to jump back into the dark place I've finally clawed my way out of-he didn't choose me, he chose her, and I resolved to never be his beck-and-call girl ever again. A part of me is indignant at his presumption, calling me out of the blue like this and dangling a huge fucking carrot.

But that's the thing: it is a huge fucking carrot. I would love to run this project-Eau de Sainte Églantine is a product I could really get behind. I'd be able to control my own timetable, address my work-life balance-it's an exit route that most people in my position could only dream of.

When I picture a series of long, hazy days stretched out before me in a place that feels like home, everything inside me aches. I could spend quality time with Mellie, not just a couple of weeks where we have to cram in all our conversations, but months.

And then there's Jackson. Chloe changed him. I thought I'd lost him for good-not just as the person I wanted to spend my life with, but as the friend he used to be.

Yet right now, on the phone, he sounds like his old self: sunshine in human form.

Maybe the Jackson I fell in love with still exists. But would I still want him if he does? Is there any chance he might be asking himself the same questions about me?

There's really no decision to be made. My heart is already in France.

2

The last time I came to the Ardèche, it was winter, six months ago, and all the trees on the hills had shed their leaves, revealing ancient stone walls and the ruins of old cottages that I'd never even known existed.

But now, in late May, a seemingly infinite landscape unfolds into the distance, undulating layers of tree-covered mountains fading in hue from dark green to hazy white until I'm not sure if what I'm seeing is land or sky.

I only arrived this afternoon and I haven't done much more than unpack and get ready for dinner with Jackson and Albert. I've been full of elation, but as my eyes drift to the foreground where the slate tiles of Château Angèle glint in the early-evening sunshine, I can feel my nerves building. From its base, the house stands at an imposing fourteen meters tall, but Mellie's land slopes away so steeply that all you can see from this perspective is its distinctly French-looking mansard roofline.

"Ready?" Mellie calls, and I start, turning in time to see her coming down her stone patio steps. "Oh my goodness, that dress is beautiful!" she exclaims, her eyes wide at the sight of my ocean-blue, grass-green, and sunny-yellow thigh-length number.