Eight Nights of Flirting

by Hannah Reynolds

Genres: YA Family; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A Sydney Taylor Honor Book

A sixteen-year-old girl is on a mission to find the perfect boyfriend this Hanukkah, but love might not go according to plan, in this charming winter romcom from the author of The Summer of Lost Letters.

Shira Barbanel has a plan: this Hanukkah, she’s going to get a boyfriend. And she has the perfect candidate in mind—her great-uncle’s assistant, Isaac. He’s reliable, brilliant, and of course, super hot. The only problem? Shira’s an absolute disaster when it comes to flirting.

Enter Tyler Nelson, Shira’s nemesis-slash-former-crush. As much as she hates to admit it, Tyler is the most charming and popular guy she knows. Which means he’s the perfect person to teach her how to win Isaac over.

When Shira and Tyler get snowed in together at Golden Doors, they strike a deal—flirting lessons for Shira in exchange for career connections for Tyler. But as Shira starts to see the sweet, funny boy beneath Tyler’s playboy exterior, she realizes she actually likes hanging out with him. And that wasn’t part of the plan.

Amidst a whirl of snowy adventures, hot chocolate, and candlelight, Shira must learn to trust her heart to discover if the romance she planned is really the one that will make her happiest.

Release date: October 25, 2022

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 400

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

When I saw Tyler Nelson at Nantucket’s tiny airport, I ignored him, because Tyler Nelson was the absolute worst. I watched him from the corner of my eye, feigning indifference as I brushed away the snow clinging to my coat from crossing the tarmac. He took the prime position at the start of the baggage carousel, so I moved to the far side and stood with my back to him. Outside, white flakes swirled madly. The wind—which had spurred nerve-racking turbulence—howled like a lone wolf given wild, maniacal form by motes of snow.

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out. “Hi, Mom.”

“Shira?” In just two syllables, Mom’s tone conveyed worry and bad news. “Where are you? Did you land?”

“I’m at the airport. Are you at the house?”

“We’re still in Boston. Our flight was canceled.”

“What?” I’d expected her to be at Golden Doors by now, along with the rest of the family, lighting up my grandparents’ house with laughter. Their plane had been due to arrive an hour before mine. “Did you get another?”

“They’re all canceled—the winds are too strong. We’re going to take the Hy-Line tomorrow, if the ferries are running. Will you be okay alone tonight?”

I’d been looking forward to seeing my family, to burrowing into their warmth. The idea of being alone for an extra day made my stomach feel hollow. But it wasn’t worth telling Mom and stressing her out. “I’ll survive.”

“Make sure you pick up something to eat, okay?”

I glanced outside again. I’d be lucky to get home in this storm, let alone get takeout or delivery. But surely Golden Doors had food in the pantry. “Will do. How was Noah’s ceremony?”

“Good, lots of speeches. Noah looked very grown-up. How did you do on your midterm?”

“Aced it,” I said, because if your daughter had expensive tutors, she damn well better ace her exams. “Are Grandma and Grandpa okay?”

“Oh, well,” Mom sighed, “Grandpa’s complaining about how we should have predicted the weather, and Grandma thinks he’s being foolish. She’s worried about the decorations, though. She thought she’d be back today and have them up before the littles arrive tomorrow, but now everyone will show up at once . . .”

Mom lacked even the smallest drop of subtlety. “You want me to decorate.”

“Not if you don’t have time . . . But you will be there . . .”

So would you, I wanted to say, if you’d stayed home and flown out of JFK instead of going to Noah’s thing in Boston. But I’d told them it was fine, so it was fine. “Sure.”

“Okay, great, darling. We should be there around three tomorrow. You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “See you tomorrow!”

When we hung up, my fake smile fell away, and I stared blankly at the swirling snow. Alone for the first night of the holidays. I could do this.

Only I was so lonely.

Nope. Nope, I was fine. Besides, I didn’t have time to be lonely. I could work on my plans for this break. Because I had big plans. Plans involving Isaac Lehrer.

If my life were a movie trailer, the voice-over would say, This holiday season, Shira Barbanel is determined to win over Isaac Lehrer no matter what. A series of slapstick shots would follow of us running into each other in Central Park, flicking latke batter at each other in my kitchen, and ice-skating at Rockefeller Center (where he’d witness me landing a triple axel).

The narrator might add something along the lines of Shira Barbanel is a lost cause at love, the appropriate-for-all-audiences version of Shira Barbanel is a hot-AF mess who can’t get a boyfriend, a situation I planned to change over winter break.

I’d met Isaac—my great-uncle’s nineteen-year-old intern—sporadically over the last year, at family and company events. He was six-three, lanky, and as dreamy as Morpheus. His grandfather and my great-uncle had gone to 

college together, so when Isaac’s parents decided to spend six months traveling through Europe and Asia, my great-uncle offered to bring Isaac to Golden Doors for the holidays. And now (this holiday season), I would turn our occasional small talk into a genuine connection.

And maybe I didn’t have a great record of getting boys to like me, but that could change. Besides, not everything could go as badly as it had with Tyler.

Who, in a cruel twist of fate, was now the only other person left at baggage claim. Also, while I was blatantly ignoring him, I found it insulting that he so easily ignored me. To add insult to injury, our belated bags came out nestled together. I looked pointedly away while Tyler pulled his duffel bag free, and instead of walking over, waited for my slow-voyaging suitcase to reach me.

When it did, I heaved the bag off the conveyor belt and lugged it across the nearly empty room. Nantucket’s small airport was almost more like a train station—the whole of ACK could fit inside Grand Central. Still, a broken wheel on my suitcase left me panting and awkward as I reached the doors, where I accidentally made eye contact with Tyler.

He smirked.

While the plane ride had turned my normally impeccable curls both frizzy and greasy, and I could feel a zit poking out of my chin, Tyler look

ed like he’d stepped out of central casting. His soft golden hair gave him the aura of a Disney prince, and even the amusement in his blue eyes didn’t detract from his angelic looks. “Hey, Shira.”

“Tyler.” I dragged my suitcase another few feet.

“Need any help?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” He turned away, buttoning up his woolen coat and tossing one end of a scarf over his shoulder. It was sixteen degrees outside. He should have been wearing a puffer jacket and Bean Boots, like me. But god forbid he look like anything other than an ad for expensive cologne.

Whatever. I didn’t care if he froze to death or ruined his fancy leather shoes. Tyler Nelson came in at No. 1 on the list of Shira Barbanel’s Disastrous Attempts at Romance, and I wanted nothing to do with him.

The list, in no particular order:

1. Jake Alvarez. Asked him to homecoming last year only to have him blink, stumble backwar

   1. d, and stutteringly tell me he already had a date.

   2. Dominic Hoffman from Camp Belman. Mocked him relentlessly in an attempt at flirting. Made him cry and leave for home early.

   3. Siddharth Patel from driver’s ed. Lusted after him silently throughout the entire course. Finally exchanged numbers on the last day. No response to my one, brave text (Hey).

   4. Tyler Nelson. Spent four summers madly in love with him, only to finally make a move and be utterly, devastatingly rebuffed.

   Isaac—handsome, smart, sophisticated Isaac—would not be another example of me failing at boys. He was way more grown-up than any of my other crushes, sure to be better at conversation and easier to hang out with. And this time, I’d master the art of flirting. Or I’d at least follow the steps laid out by Google, for as much as they were worth. (Step three: start talking. Possibly, Google needed as much help at flirting as I did.)

   In any case, I knew better than to expend energy on Tyler Nelson. I tore my attention away from him to check Uber and groaned at the surge pricing. And—

   No car available.

   Impossible. I tried Lyft with the same result.

   With a sense of looming dread, I looked out the windows again. The snow obscured the world. Hard to believe leaves had still clung to trees a month ago, yellow-green and orange-brown. The chill in the air had only been enough to make boots acceptable. But today, a nor’easter had swept the Eastern Seaboard with the reckless speed of Elsa icing Arendelle, painting the world white—even Nantucket, where the sea usually whipped the island wet and bleak.

   Outside, a car pulled into the taxi lane, careful on the snow-dusted asphalt. By the terminal doors, Tyler gathered his duffel bag, tightened a hand around his suitcase handle, and walked into the blizzard.

   Pride warred with desperation, and the latter won. I dashed after him, heaving my suitcase off its broken wheel. It banged against my legs, the pain and embarrassment warming me against the hideous cold. Snowflakes smacked into my skin, dissolving in icy pinpricks. “Tyler!”

   He stood by the back of the taxi, placing his bag in the trunk. “Shira.”

   “Can I share your car?”

   “Let me guess.” A close-lipped smile curved his perfectly shaped mouth. “You can’t get one. Tough break.”

   “Tyler, come on. You live next door to me.”

   The driver pushed his head out the window. “That you, Shira Barbanel?”

   “Phil!” I beamed at the driver, who I’d known for years. “How are you?”

   “Doing well, doing well. Where’s the rest of your family?”

   “Snowed in in Boston. Their flight was canceled.”

   “Really?” Tyler said. “Same with my family. What were they doing in Boston?”

   “Noah had a thing. I had to stay home for a final.”

   “Toss your stuff in the back,” Phil said. “I’ll give you kids a ride.”

   Throwing a triumphant look at Tyler, I maneuvered my bag into the trunk, then slid into the back after he beat me to the front.

   Phil pulled away from the curb. “You two have a good flight?”

   “Some turbulence, but not bad,” Tyler said. I made a noise of agreement. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed him on the plane. Maybe I’d boarded after him, and he’d been in the back. Maybe he’d boarded at the last minute, when I’d already been absorbed in my book. Maybe, I thought with a shot of hope, I was no longer so tuned in to Tyler’s presence that I noticed every move he made.

   We drove down Old South Road. Though the storm might have been a transportation nightmare, I adored how the snow powdered the pavement white, like we’d been transported to a time when horse-drawn carriages traveled on dirt paths, where people hurried down the streets in velvet capes and fur muffs, and sleigh bells mixed with the sound of laughter. The island already had a quaint, old-timey atmosphere, and winter just heightened it. This was my favorite season on Nantucket: I loved the stark, cold beauty, the snowy beaches and brilliant stars.

   The drive only took fifteen minutes, winding past the cedar-shingled island houses outfitted for the season, decked in sparkling lights, yards populated by light-up reindeer. Windows displayed Christmas trees and candelabras whose branches I always counted. There were wreaths twined with pine cones and holly, and red and gold everywhere.

   But Tyler’s house, when we reached it, was dark. The lawn was a sheet of white, the bushes snowy heaps, and the house—usually an elegant beauty—a blank monolith under the darkening sky.

   “Thanks,” Tyler said to Phil. When he climbed out, icy air swept in, and goose bumps rose on my neck. Tyler tossed a look my way. “See you around, Shir.”

   “Shira,” I muttered. Being called Shir always made me think of sheep or transparent tops. But he’d already shut the door and gone to unload his bag.

   “We’ll wait to make sure he gets in all right,” Phil said as Tyler trundled to the front door, then stepped inside. Relief broke over me as Phil put the car in reverse. With Tyler out of the way, I could focus on Isaac—on the future, not the past.

   “How’s Aimee doing?” Phil’s nineteen-year-old daughter was a lifeguard during the summers and had just started college in Boston. “Is she home for Christmas?”

   “She got back two days ago. Brought a suitcase of dirty laundry.” Phil laughed, hearty and familiar. “She’s loving college. Next semester she’ll have to declare her major, and she’s teetering between computer science and physics. Her mom and I tell her—” Phil paused, and I saw his frown in the rearview mirror. “Huh.”

   I twisted. Tyler was running toward us, waving his arms for attention.

   Phil rolled down the window. “You okay?”

   Tyler reached the car, his breath coming out in white puffs. Snowflakes glittered in his golden hair. “The electricity’s out. The heat, too; the panel didn’t work.”

   Oh no. Surely he wouldn’t deign to suggest

   He met my gaze and smiled, more ironic than charming. “So, Shira. Can I bunk with you tonight?”

   “You want to stay with me. At Golden Doors.” Why don’t you stay at a hotel? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to bicker in front of an adult. And while Tyler could afford it, why would he shell out money for a last-minute room when he could stay at my grandparents’ place for free? Besides, then Phil would have to take Tyler to a hotel, spending even more time driving in these conditions.

   Still . . .

   But no. I couldn’t turn him down. Our families ran in the same social circles; we’d be attending their Christmas Eve party later this week, and they’d be attending our Hanukkah celebration a few days after. “Fine.”

   “Great.” With a flash of his white, even teeth, he retrieved his bag and returned to the car, his long legs once more cramped in the front seat. “We’ll have a good time.”

   I didn’t dignify his lie with an answer.

   Tyler’s moms’ summer home abutted my family’s ancestral property, the sprawling estate of Golden Doors, so the ride took a scant minute. The house loomed as we pulled up the circular drive, not gold, but gray: gray shingles covered the original nineteenth-century building as well as the modern expansions. Endless windows reflected the gray-white sky. Someone had plowed and shoveled the porch steps, but even so, a blanket of snow had gently returned.

   “Thanks so much,” I said to Phil, and Tyler echoed me. Then we were pushing through the drifts, our legs struggling against the snow. On the porch, where a lighter layer carpeted the wooden boards, we brushed ourselves off as best we could.

   I let us in to the dark foyer and flicked the light switch, my chest tight—what if the power had died here, too? But the chandelier lit up and the HVAC panel summoned the telltale whir of heat. I stepped back on the porch, directing two thumbs up at Phil. He gave a friendly honk and sped away.

   Leaving me and Tyler Nelson alone.

   We stared at each other. I had never met anyone else with such perfectly sculpted features, with eyes so blue and hair so gold. This boy could get away with murder or fraud or heartbreak, and people would chuckle and pat him on the cheek and say, “What a rascal!”

   “Well, Shira,” he drawled, and even his voice was beautiful, damn him. “This should be  fun.”