Finding Mr. July

by Anna E. Collins

Genres: Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

She’s ready to do whatever it takes to get the job of her dreams, even if it means working with a pile of adorably unruly pups--and the office grump-- in this charming contemporary rom-com perfect for fans of Rachel Lynn Solomon and Sarah Adams.

Intern Holly King knows there are pros and cons to everything, including competing in her nonprofit’s big fundraising competition.
 
The Pros:

• Winning means a full-time job at the new office in Scotland
• Scotland is thousands of miles away from her toxic ex-boyfriend
• Her pitch includes PUPPIES! Lots of ‘em!

 
     The only con? Working with Jonathan Summers. But if Holly wants her calendar of hot, outdoorsy guys and their dogs to win against everyone else’s fundraising ideas, she’ll need Jonathan’s undeniable talent as a photographer…even if he is the office grump.
     When their collaboration accidentally gets off to a steamy start, Holly vows she won’t be distracted again. But as they scramble to shoot a year’s worth of hunks and pups in just a couple of weeks, the spark between Holly and Jonathan can’t be ignored.
     With Holly’s career dreams finally coming into focus, whatever’s developing with Jonathan makes her wonder—could she be missing the bigger picture?
 

Release date: July 1, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

There are pros and cons to getting stuck in the office pantry closet. Pros: It’s calm and quiet, it smells like coffee beans, and challenging situations are good for exercising the mind. Cons: The “stuck” part. And possibly spiders.

I bang on the door with my palm again. “Hello? Anyone out there?” It’s an optimistic move since it’s only 6:50 in the morning, but you never know. Could be some other overachiever decided sleep was for losers and that an early start at the environmental nonprofit where we work was in order. Most likely not, but hope is the last thing that leaves us, or so I’ve heard.

Hope and dignity.

I fan myself and eye the vent cover in the ceiling, gauging how far I’d have to leap from the shelving unit to reach it. No. While I’m no stranger to facing challenges head-on, there are limits to how far out of my comfort zone I’m willing to push myself. Leave my job as a corporate attorney and accept an unpaid internship for a chance at a new start? Yes, I’ll do that. Contort myself Mission: Impossible style to ensure everyone’s morning coffee is brewed on time? I don’t think so.

I sigh. This is quite the turn of events on a morning that started out great. I woke up before my alarm, got in a fifteen-minute yoga session to loosen my limbs, and enjoyed a nice, hot shower in my brother’s guest suite where I’m currently living. Not only that, but for once, my shoulder-length hair also cooperated with me, and the bagels I’d ordered for the team were waiting for me at the shop on my way in.

It has to be said—I do love an empty office in the morning. To flick on the lights, hear my footfalls play a solo against the laminate wood flooring, open the blinds to take in the waking city outside, be the first to breathe life into the sleeping corners. It feels like walking in on a secret.

On a morning like that, I’d have expected the pantry door to cooperate, too. Instead, this.

There is exactly zero air circulation in here, so I unbutton my blouse while I sink onto a low step stool and glare at the treacherous door handle that refuses to budge. If only I had my phone, but no… I don’t normally walk away from it, but in my defense, I was only intending to start the coffee maker and set out the bagels in the kitchen and then return to my desk. But then the filters needed restocking…

I fight off that insidious stinging behind my eyelids that threatens at the most inopportune times nowadays. The one that speaks of unfairness and bad luck. I don’t have time for tears. “Channel it into action,” I mumble to myself—a nugget of wisdom I’ve picked up from my brother. Not that there’s much I can do about my situation at the moment. But maybe there’s at least a lesson to be learned from my predicament.

My gaze sweeps past bales of paper towels, stacks of napkins, assorted tins of tea, tubs of party decorations, and other miscellany. What value does this situation bring to my experience here at Global Conservation League?

I’ve been here for nine months. HOLLY KING, INTERN, GCL, SEATTLE my badge reads, but if I play my cards right in the weeks to come, I’m hoping it will instead say, HOLLY KING, PROGRAM LIAISON, GCL, GLASGOW. Perhaps being stuck in this closet is meant to force some uninterrupted brainstorming time for how I might best approach the new role once it’s mine. Or maybe it’s a metaphor for my life, the need to break free?

I get up and pace the few feet available to help me think, but as much as I try to wring this particular lemon into a sweet-tart beverage, I’m unable to ignore the fact that soon my colleagues and bosses will arrive, and I will have failed at the most menial of tasks. The other four interns may not be as experienced in the workforce as I am, being almost a decade younger than me, but they sure as hell get their coffee duty right. I’ve got to get out of here. Now.

“Help!” I call, banging both fists against the door. “Help, I’m stuck!”

“Hello? Is someone in there?” A deep voice I don’t recognize responds on the other side.

Finally! “Yes, hello. It’s Holly. Can you help me out? The handle won’t turn.”

The knob rattles, presumably the man on the other side making sure I’m telling the truth.

“Oh jeez,” I hear him huff. “Okay, hold on a sec. I’m going to…” His voice trails off.

I rest my forehead against the door. “Come on,” I mumble.

Hurried footsteps return. “I can’t find a key. Was it locked when you got here?” His voice is growing more urgent, and it’s rubbing off on me. My pulse picks up.

“There’s no key. I think it’s the handle.”

He rattles the knob again. “Damn it! How long have you been in there?”

Is this more serious than I thought? I look around the small space, but no obvious reason for his alarm stands out to me. “I don’t know. Twenty minutes maybe.”

“Twenty minutes? Um, okay… Just stay calm, and I’ll…” A thud follows that sounds like he’s slammed a shoulder into the door.

“Hey, don’t hurt yourself.”

“We’ve got to get you out!” Another thud and the door frame creaks. “Stand clear!”

I spin away from the door, but as I do, my half-open blouse snags on the offending handle, and the remaining buttons rip loose. I make it to the opposite wall right as the door swings inward with a snap of the door plate. Two rolls of paper towels come tumbling off the shelf above me.

“Are you all right?” A panting male figure dressed in black blocks the doorway with wide shoulders. To my surprise, I recognize him as one of the creatives. I think his name is Jonathan, but I’ve never heard him speak before. The other interns have nicknamed him “The Shadow,” which sounds more menacing than it is. Mainly it’s because he stays in the periphery in meetings, not engaging. Also, he’s always in black. He’s the last person I’d have guessed comes to work early. A lot of people here are zealous about the mission of the organization—something I’m working to emulate. Jonathan usually appears, for lack of a better way to describe it, the opposite.

At first his frantic eyes are on my face, but then they dip to my white lace camisole that’s serving much more than its intended peekaboo look. A vague thrill at being caught out echoes through some dormant part of my belly, but I still hurry to wrap my open blouse around me and clutch it together with one hand while I pick up the box of coffee filters I came in here for. His features are unique: the long ridge of his nose kinked as if it’s been broken at one point, the sharp jawline covered in intentional stubble, a fuller lower lip. The kind of face that reveals something new every time you see it, I think. Then I blink the odd thought away.

“I’m fine. Running late now, but courtesy of you, not everything is lost. Thanks for that.” I gesture to the door frame with my elbow.

He takes a small step forward. “You’re sure you don’t need to sit down for a bit? That must have been…” He gives a small shudder but doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Must have been what?” I ask.

There’s a quick hint of a self-deprecating grimace. “I was going to say ‘an ordeal.’”

I squint at him. Beneath his thick, dark eyebrows, his gaze is surprisingly soft. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s genuinely concerned. How odd. Being trapped was inconvenient, and I suppose I did lose my composure for a moment, but all things considered, this was only a small snafu in my book.

I look down at my disheveled appearance, and it occurs to me that that’s what must be sparking his reaction. I do look like I’ve wrestled a couple of angry raccoons. “Well, I definitely need to go tidy myself up.”

“Mmm.” The syllable is short and noncommittal.

“You don’t think so?”

At my question, his open expression shuts closed. “No, I do. But maybe it wouldn’t be my first priority after something like this.”

I raise an eyebrow at his curtness. “Some of us have to worry about stuff like that because I can’t come off unprofessional unless I want to remain an intern. ‘Ordeal’ or not.”

I can tell he doesn’t like me throwing his choice of words back at him, but he checks his tone nonetheless. “Sorry. It just seemed an odd thing to focus on after this.” He gestures to the closet.

Personally, I think the oddest thing about this is how big a deal he’s making about it. What is he not saying? “The key word being ‘after.’ The door got stuck, and then you got it open. Time to get on with my day. I don’t like to dwell.”

He opens his mouth as if to rebut but stops himself. He looks away, lips pressed together. Takes a step back. “You should always prop doors like this open, you know. There’s a stopper right there.” He nods toward the gray rubber wedge resting against the baseboard trim, his cadence now matching the sulky air he normally gives off. “You’re lucky I showed up when I did or who knows what might have happened.”

I tilt my head. Patronizing much? “My guess is thirty more minutes of boredom for me and no coffee for the people. But like I said, I’m very grateful.”

For a moment, we stare at each other, neither of us moving.

“Do you mind?” I nod to the open space behind him.

“Not at all.” He walks off.

I scoff at his receding backside. What a weirdo.

By the time I get back to my desk, several other people have arrived.

“There’s coffee and bagels in the kitchen,” I say as I pass them.

“You’re making the rest of us look bad,” Callum, the youngest of the interns, tells me. “I didn’t bring in food when it was my week.”

“Moms got to ‘mom,’ right?” Letitia says from her desk, giving me a friendly smirk. The statuesque business grad is my fiercest competition for the program liaison job. She’s mature, professional, and passionate about our cause here at GCL. I shouldn’t like her, but unfortunately, she’s also exceptionally personable.

“Still not your mother,” I reply in a singsong voice. It’s been a standing joke from week one that I’m the “mom” of the group because the rest of them have yet to turn twenty-five and I’m thirty-four.

“Oh, come on. It’s a compliment, and you know it,” Ashley says, setting her blinged-out travel mug down on her desk. “Where’s Eric this morning?”

Eric rounds out our group of five, and I’ve suspected for a few weeks that he and Ashley have something going on. I’m about to make an insinuating comment, but then the glass door to the elevator vestibule swings open, and my former college roommate turned nonprofit mentor, Rachel, walks in. Time to get to work.

“How is your morning going? Mine is tip-top,” she says when I join her in her office. She’s in an orange and yellow floral blouse that makes her brown eyes pop and sparkle. It’s impossible to be in a bad mood around Rachel Denofrio.

I tell her about the closet mishap while she unpacks her laptop and starts it up.

“Wait. Jonathan got you out?” she asks, pausing for a moment, power cord in hand. “Jonathan Summers?”

I shrug.

She leans back in her chair. “Well, color me baffled. He’s always struck me more as the type who’d want to lock people in a closet. Preferably the whole office so he doesn’t have to deal with us.”

“Right?” My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s my brother texting me:

Delay in a case this afternoon. Can you drive Ava to tennis practice?

“Hold on one sec,” I tell Rachel as I type out my response: Sure thing!

My niece is pretty cool for an ornery teenager, so I don’t mind spending time with her.

“Hot brother?” Rachel asks.

I glare at her. “Don’t call him that.”

She grins. “I bet you wish you’d never introduced us.”

“Is that what I did? If my memory serves me right, he stopped by to pick me up, and you inserted yourself into our conversation.”

“Details, details.”

I flick a paper clip her way across the desk.

“So cheeky for an intern,” she says, but the smile remains in place. “Where were we?”

“Let’s go over the agenda for this week.” I pull up the schedule on my laptop.

“Did he talk to you at all?” she asks.

“My brother?”

“No, Jonathan.”

We’re still on that topic? “Some, I guess.”

“Really?” She leans forward. “Like what?”

“What’s with the twenty questions? Like ‘Help I’m stuck,’ ‘I’ll get you out,’ ‘Thank you,’ ‘You’re welcome.’ Riveting stuff.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh, and he may also have insinuated I’m vain and careless, so there’s that.”

“Mmm, yeah, sounds more like it. Such a waste of a pretty face.”

“His face is pretty, isn’t it?” I agree. “Ugh. Anyway. You have a busy week, which means I have a busy week, so let’s not waste it on grumpy web designers.”

“Right.” Rachel puts on her blue-framed readers and peers at her screen. “What’s first?”

“The release on the Madagascar forest project needs to go out by Wednesday. It’s almost done. Then we have the donor breakfast tomorrow.” I scroll further into the week. “And Friday is Foundation Day, when I’ll get my final assignment.”

This will be the assignment that decides which intern will win the program liaison job in Glasgow. GCL is opening an office there to work specifically with the preservation of the Celtic rainforest, and since our office here in Washington and our Australian branch have had a lot of success with temperate rainforest work, Manny Gupta, our executive director, is sending staff from these two offices to get the new branch up to speed and train local staff. The assignment is for a year with a possibility for an extension, and it’s a great opportunity to jump-start a new career. Manny is making a big deal out of the announcement of the assignment—a secret task—having saved it for the annual GCL birthday party on September 16.

“Are you nervous?” Rachel asks.

My knee-jerk reaction is to tell her no, that I’ve got it under control, but we’ve known each other long enough that I can afford honesty. “A little. I don’t like not knowing what it is, but I feel ready.”

“I’ve taught you well, my young Padawan.” She puts her palms together and bows her head.

I smile. “That you have.”

Rachel is the GCL communications manager in our office, and together with her team and counterparts in Copenhagen, Brasilia, and Canberra, she handles the flow of information for the organization. With her as my mentor, I’ve learned about everything from managing contacts for digital fundraising efforts and creating press releases, to strategizing internal training to make sure each global office stays consistent in their messaging and endeavors.

I’ve cycled through several different teams and seen other sides of GCL, too, in my nine months here, but I started with Rachel and will end with her as well. Her enthusiasm for her work has been a breath of fresh air. After slogging through the past few years of legal consultancy for Fortune 500 corporations that are more interested in finding loopholes than making a real difference, her passion for the world we live in and matching expertise are exactly what the doctor ordered. On days when I question my career switch, all it takes is a dose of Denofrio, and I remember why I’m here.

“Let’s get to it, then.” Rachel tucks an auburn curl behind her ear and rests her palms on her desk. “We’ll need to follow up with our Aussie friends when they wake up over there. They should have compiled survey results for us. Remind me.”

“I can get the stats from R&D for the press release if you want,” I offer.

“Thanks. Yeah, if you can do that before the all-hands, that would be great.”

And the day is off and running.

At 10:00, we head to the large conference room on the other side of the elevator vestibule. GCL takes up a whole floor of this five-story building in downtown Seattle, and when they leased the space, they left the walls up that divide the floor into two separate offices. To get from one side to the other, you have to pass the elevator bank. In addition to meeting spaces and a rec room, the other side also houses HR and the creative team—event planning, web design, and such—so as we enter the room, I find myself looking for Jonathan. He’s in his usual spot in the far corner opposite the windows, staring at his phone.

Typically, he stands, no doubt to facilitate a quicker exit once the meeting is done, but today he’s pulled up a chair, and his left hand absentmindedly massages his right shoulder. Black Henley, black jeans, black leather cords around his right wrist, lips set in an impassive line. He’s every emo kid at the back of my high school classroom in adult form. Above this. Uninterested. Lost maybe? The thought is there unprompted. His corner looks like a solitary bubble in contrast to everyone else milling about, abuzz with late summer revelry and speculations about the Foundation Day party on Friday. GCL always throws a nice bash, and this one comes with a dose of suspense because of the impending intern assignment.

“Do you think he looks more miserable than usual?” I ask Rachel under my breath. I hope he didn’t hurt himself breaking down the door earlier.

“Who?”

I tilt my head in his direction.

She glances that way. “Nah. Same old.”

I nod and look Jonathan’s way again. He’s put his phone down and crossed his arms, but his gaze is still locked downward. His left foot taps against the carpet.

“Happy Monday, everyone!” Manny calls, entering the room, effectively hushing the noise. “Let’s start off with a round of applause for Margot for getting such great visibility with her piece on our collaboration with the Nature Conservancy last week. Well done!”

Once the room quiets again, he goes on to announce on-track numbers for the third quarter, areas that need attention this week, and his excitement for a potential new corporate sponsor. It’s short and sweet, like the man himself.

“And obviously I hope I’ll see you all Friday evening,” he says to wrap up before giving each of the team leads an opportunity to speak. Sometimes they use their time to acknowledge good work, other times it’s to make requests for collaboration or to ask advice. When the design manager, DaVon, speaks up today, it’s none of those.

“Just want to let everyone know I’ve alerted facilities of a safety issue,” he says. “It’s been brought to my attention that the pantry closet door can get stuck if you’re not careful. Apparently, there was a close call recently. They should be replacing the hardware before end of day tomorrow.”

Rachel nudges my side. “Is he talking about you?” she hisses.

He is. Startled, my gaze flicks once more toward the back corner, and this time, Jonathan is watching me. I don’t know if I should be flattered that my “incident” has sparked this lingering worry in him or offended that he’s somehow managed to insinuate again that I was careless. But despite my internal conflict, I’m still unable to look away. He’s so frustratingly inscrutable.

“A close call?” Manny asks.

“Yeah.” DaVon turns to Jonathan. “Did you want to elaborate?”

The question breaks our connection as Jonathan shifts and huffs out a breath. “Not really,” he says curtly. “I can fill Manny in later.”

Judging by the whispers that follow, I know I’m not alone in today being the first time I’ve heard his voice. This is rare indeed.

Rachel grips my sleeve. “What is happening?” she asks under her breath. “Did you break him?”

As if stringing a few words together in public is a feat. Most of us do it on a daily basis. I am concerned about his shoulder, though. He’s rubbing it again.

DaVon shrugs like “fair enough” before ceding the floor to the event team, and the meeting soon ends.

As usual, Jonathan is the first one out the door.

“Give me one sec,” I tell Rachel, and hurry after him.

He’s fast, but so am I, and I catch up to him before he rounds the corner to his office. “Hey!”

At first, I think he’s about to ignore me, but when I call out a second time, he spins.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Last I checked.” I try a smile but get nothing back.

Over the years, I’ve sat across the table from countless clients, some posturing, others submissive, all needing my legal expertise for one reason or another, and if there’s one thing I’ve always prided myself on, it’s the ability to read people’s eyes. Windows to the soul and all that. They may act confident, but their eyelids will twitch with suppressed nerves, or they’ll assure me their paperwork is in order while refusing to look straight at me. Jonathan’s eyes are a light gray with a pronounced darker outline around the iris, but where I expect to find more clues as to his state of mind—curiosity maybe, or irritation—there’s nothing. His expression is utterly controlled. Like he’s pulled down a shutter and padlocked it.

It makes any words I’d planned on saying dissipate.

“Did you need something?” His hand goes to his shoulder again.

“Um.” I swallow. “Yeah. Yes. I was just going to make sure you’re not hurt?” I nod toward his arm.

Finally, a tiny double-blink. He drops his hand to his side. “I’m fine.”

“Because if you’re sore, I have this muscle cream that—”

He cuts me off. “Not necessary.” He looks past me to where people are making their way down the hallway. “If that’s it, I should get back to work.”

I press my lips together. “Okay. Well, I’m sorry that I…” My voice trails off as he turns and walks away. Again. What the? “Have a nice day,” I call after him to no reaction at all. “Or whatever,” I mutter to myself as I set off back to my desk. “A miserable day works, too, if that’s what you prefer.”

Unreadable or not, at least I figured out one thing about incorrigible grump Jonathan Summers today. If I never have the misfortune to encounter him again, it will be too soon.

Sitting down to dinner that evening, I let go of cramped spaces and awkward conversations as I sip a glass of sauvignon blanc in my brother’s airy kitchen. Jude and I are across from each other at his oval table while his fifteen-year-old daughter, Ava, busies herself by the fridge. Jude and I are both average cooks, but Ava is going through her high school’s culinary arts electives as if her life depends on it and already has her sights set on a year at a French institute after she graduates in three years. That is, unless she gets a full ride to play college tennis somewhere. She’s keeping her options open.

“It smells great, hon,” Jude says, sitting back in his chair. The glow of a gorgeous September evening lights up the room from the window behind him. He closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. “Man, what a day.”

“Do I want to know about it?” I ask.

“Probably not.”

“Contested paternity,” Ava supplies from the stove where she’s sticking a thermometer into a pork tenderloin. “Guy doesn’t have a case.”

“Oh, you know that, do you?” Jude asks.

“Come on, Dad. I saw them at the office when you dropped off paperwork the other week. The kid looks exactly like him.”

He rolls his eyes in good humor. “Glad we’ve got that figured out, then. I’ll tell the judge, shall I?”

“I’m just saying.” Ava sets a coaster on the table and then the meat, which is fragrant with garlic and herbs. There’s also jacket potatoes, carrots, and a red wine jus. Not shabby for a Monday night. Their goldendoodle, Morris, agrees, judging by his skidding entrance into the room. His tongue flops as he swings his head between the table and the kitchen as if unsure where it smells best.

“Go lie down, bud,” Ava tells him.

His head tilts, one ear perked up, but then the message hits home, and he saunters to his bed in the corner and lies down with a dejected huff.

“Do I have to sign something so you get class credit for this?” Jude asks her.

“This isn’t an assignment.” She sits down at the head of the table. “I just wanted to try out this recipe.”

“How do you have his genes?” I ask her.

“Hey.” My brother gives me a pretend glare. “And here I thought you’re a guest in my house.”

“I offered to pay rent.”

“With what money?”

I stick my tongue out at him even though he’s right. Not that I need to be reminded of the events that led up to draining most of my savings and taking an unpaid internship.

“Too soon?” Jude mimics flicking food off his fork in my direction.

“I really feel for Grandma and Grandpa right now,” Ava says. “Were you like this growing up, too?”

“Worse,” I say.

“Great.” Ava pushes the bowl of glazed carrots my way. “More eating, less talking, then. How is it?”

“Amazing. As always.” Jude shoves another forkful into his mouth.

I try the meat, which melts in my mouth. “I never want to stop eating this.”

Silverware clinks against ceramic plates as we let the flavors silence us, and for a while, only the house finches nesting outside the open window above the sink provide an additional soundtrack.

But once we’re on to second helpings, Jude points at me with his fork. “Speaking of Mom and Dad—have you talked to them lately?”

I shake my head. “They’re always so busy. And when they’re not, I am.”

They moved to Texas seven years ago and are living the good life with sun, golf, friends, and activities customized to their demographic.

“You know they’re not upset with you any longer, right?” Jude studies me.

Why would you throw away half your life? is how Dad phrased his initial reaction to my news that I’d left the firm. I’d wanted to follow in his lawyerly footsteps for as long as I could remember, even before Jude announced it was his chosen path as well. Falling from grace had left a lasting bruise even though I knew there was much more to my story than simply quitting. “Yeah, I know. Did you talk to them?”

“Dad threw his back out again. It’s been a bit of a hassle.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Starting to wish they weren’t so far away. They’re not getting any younger.”

Always the responsible older sibling. “They chose to leave,” I say. “And I don’t think any amount of convincing will get them back here.”

Jude nods as he rummages his fork around in the potato for a las. . .