Reasons to Be Loved by You

by Hannah Brown

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Emily Henry's Funny Story meets Carley Fortune's One Golden Summer in Bachelorette fan-favorite and New York Times bestselling author Hannah Brown's newest rom-com, a beach read full of banter, emotional authenticity, and female friendship.

Perfectionist and former pageant girl Nikki Bennet is looking forward to relaxing by the lake at her Georgia home and celebrating the 4th of July with her family. She could use the R&R. Even though it’s been two years since she was on the reality dating show LovedBy, she still hasn’t quite recovered from finding out on national television that her fiancé Aaron had been dating another woman all along.

But when she arrives home, her little brother Cooper makes a surprise announcement: he’s engaged to his girlfriend, Cara! Nikki practically gives herself whiplash when she realizes that Cara is in fact Cara Lancolm—the “other woman” Aaron had been seeing behind Nikki’s back. And what’s worse? They intend to have the wedding this summer, right here at the lake… that is, unless Nikki can find a way to stop them.

As the fireworks go off over the lake, Nikki discovers an unlikely ally in Cara’s brother, Nate Lancolm. While their bond begins as shared shock over their siblings’ rushed nuptials, it quickly deepens into something more. Still burned from a bad breakup of his own, Nate claims he’s only looking for friendship… but the sparks between them say otherwise. Nikki knows Nate is completely wrong for her—she’s a driven LA influencer and he’s a laidback country boy who barely checks any of her boxes—and yet he’s turning out to be an extremely welcome distraction from the mess of her love life… and from the sneaking suspicion that her family are keeping other secrets from her too. 

Can Nikki and Nate prevent Cara and Cooper from making a huge mistake? Or will all the obvious reasons they’re wrong for each other lead to an even more preposterous love story—their own? 

Release date: June 23, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

MEET TAYLOR F. HE’S thirty-two, from Orange County, and is a partner at a private equity firm. For his date tonight with Nikki B., he’s chosen a Michelin-star-rated yakitori restaurant.

It’s been ages since I’ve set foot on a LovedBy set, but I can still hear the voice-over.

Stay tuned for the most predictable date ever.

I’ve started tracking how long into a date before the guy asks me a question.

My record is two-and-a-half hours, and the question that stopped the clock was, “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Taylor F. is ahead of the game in that regard, though only on a technicality. (As we sat down, he asked me if I was a vegetarian, but before I could answer, he said, “I hope not,” and started perusing the menu.)

If things get really bad, I sometimes turn it into a drinking game. The rules: Each time I ask a question and the guy doesn’t reciprocate, I take a drink. I always stop myself after two glasses, though, or else there’d be some dates where they’d have to scrape me off the ground and pour me into a wheelbarrow to make it home.

We’re four courses into the ten-course omakase, my second glass of wine is nearly empty, and I can feel the alcohol beginning to buzz through my blood. I’m about to reach for my glass again when Taylor asks, “So are you still looking for your Happily Ever After?”

There’s a mocking lilt in his voice, a sly grin. He’s obviously poking fun at me, making sure I know that he thinks my time on reality TV was silly.

He’s making a reference to the famous tagline. The one that gets repeated over and over in pop culture, from SNL skits to group chats. Each contestant on LovedBy has a heavy, leather-bound book with their name on it displayed in the mansion’s library. As the lead, at the end of every episode, I’d select the book of the guy who was eliminated and say very seriously, “Our story is over.” Then I’d close the book and place it on a shelf before turning to the remaining guys and saying, “I’m still looking for my Happily Ever After.”

And back then, I actually believed those words.

I put the glass back on the table without taking a sip. Rules are rules after all—and he did ask a question. “Are you a fan?” I lean into the Georgia accent, letting my vowels turn sweet and sticky like pecan divinity.

“I don’t really watch reality TV,” Taylor F. says, adjusting the watch on his wrist. He brings his hand up to stroke his chin, and the move seems so practiced, I wonder if he’s trying to show it off.

Classic. He wants to have his cake and eat it, too—he went on this date only knowing who I even am because of LovedBy, yet now that he’s got me here, he can act like he’s above it.

“Oh no? What do you usually watch?” I take a sip of wine. At this rate, I’m going to have to switch over to water for the rest of the date.

“Golf,” he answers simply, and I don’t know if he’s screwing with me. There’s a look in his eyes that makes me think he is.

My ex—the one from LovedBy, the one who jilted me on national television—is a professional golfer. I fell hard for him and thought what we had was real. But for Aaron Brinkley (or “Aaron B.,” as he was known on the show), it was just a chance to bulk up his social media following and sign up more brand deals. The whole time I’d been falling in love, opening my heart, and letting him into my bed—he’d still been in a relationship with another woman from back home.

Even now, years later, I don’t know how much of what I felt for Aaron was real and how much of it was the product of a highly engineered, deeply stressful situation. But one thing’s for sure—the pain and embarrassment I felt in the aftermath were definitely real.

I might not be able to trust my instincts about love anymore, but my instinct that this guy is a douche seems to be proving more and more correct. On paper, the guy is everything I want: great pedigree, amazing career, phenomenal jawline.

Terrible personality.

I’ve been on nearly this same date a dozen times already this year. The guy changes (a start-up bro with dark curls and a Tesla, a private equity guy who played baseball at Northwestern, a real estate investor with a house in Lake Tahoe) and so does the restaurant (a steakhouse that only serves humanely raised beef, an Italian spot with hand-shaved truffles over semolina pasta, a French restaurant with full caviar service), but everything else stays the same. The same shallow questions, the same awkward goodbye, and ultimately, the same dull emptiness of going home alone.

And I give great date. I’ve always been pretty good at it, but after LovedBy, my dating game has reached new and dizzying heights. I know when to laugh. When to lean in. When to reach across the table and rest my hand on their arm. I know what questions to ask to get them to open up to me. I know how to dangle the bait, set the hook, and reel them in. This one isn’t even a challenge. I’m bored, itching to scroll my feed or complain to my four-way group chat with my closest friends—Sybil, Emma, and Willow.

Even the disappointment of this date is predictable, like a fried pickle you just know will be soggy before you bite into it.

Which is why I discreetly pull my phone out of my bag and, holding it under the table, text Sybil—the only other one of the Core Four who lives in LA—our code word: manscape. It’s basically our version of an SOS: kind of a combination of “man” and “escape”… but it started when a date was so over-groomed, his spray tan was coming off onto his linen napkin.

Then I slip my phone back into my bag and remind myself that soon this date will be over. I’m even able to manage a smile, knowing I’ll never see Taylor F. and his ugly, ostentatious watch again.

Time to redirect. “Golf, huh? I’m actually more of a football girl,” I tell him.

He flashes a grin full of teeth. All perfectly white and perfectly straight. Definitely veneers. “Right, a good Southern girl.”

I am a good Southern girl. From a good Southern family. A Southern football family. My older brother was a center at Alabama, and I spent my entire high school career as a cheerleader on the sidelines before getting a cheer scholarship to USC.

I can sense it before he opens his mouth. The Test. The thing shitty guys always do when you mention you might like a sport. Challenging you to prove you’re a real fan.

“Okay, here’s something a good Southern girl should know.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest, which accentuates pecs and biceps that he’s clearly been honing at the gym. The move has the same rehearsed air as the watch thing from a moment before. Seriously, is anything about this guy genuine? “Name three SEC quarterbacks who’ve won Super Bowls.”

I suppress a sigh. “Namath. Stafford. Manning… Manning. Some double coverage for you.”

He just blinks at me.

“It was a joke. Eli and Peyton. Double coverage? Double Mannings?”

“Ha. Right.” He uncrosses his arms and reaches for his drink. “It wasn’t really that funny.”

No, it wasn’t really that funny, but I had the grace to fake laugh when he made a joke about ordering sake bombs at a Michelin-starred restaurant. The least he could do is give me a courtesy smile.

“I mean, women aren’t that funny.” He says it with a wide, bright smile as if inviting me into his sexist joke, as if testing to see whether I’m one of those girls who “doesn’t take herself too seriously.” (Actual quote from 99% of dating profiles.) To his credit, Taylor F.’s profile had not used that line, but instead said he was looking for someone with “a sense of humor,” something I’ve always taken to mean that you were funny. That you knew how to make someone else laugh. It’s become clear that what Taylor F. actually wants is just someone who thinks he’s funny.

I’m so tempted to pull a Sybil and bolt—the girl has a little bit of a habit of running from tough situations, and that included her own wedding, though somehow it all worked out in the end. It always does, for her. But I’m not Sybil, and politeness is so ingrained in me, it’s practically strapping me to the chair. Our friend Emma would stand up immediately, say something withering, and march out of the restaurant. Sybil—if she hadn’t already run away, that is—would flash a smile that was all teeth and tip her martini into his lap. And Willow would lean onto the table and sincerely inquire after his mental health—after all, she’d say, someone this attention-needy might’ve been neglected as a child.

What do I do? I force the muscles of my face up into a smile as if I’m in on the joke and lob back, “I know lots of funny women.”

And I do. Each of my best friends is hilarious in her own way. When I think of belly laughs, tears, aching cheek muscles because you’ve been smiling so much—I think of time spent with the Core Four.

Taylor F. smirks. “Yeah, sure. But not funny funny.”

The server drops by our table again—she’s young and friendly, wearing her dark hair in a ponytail at the top of her head. I’m about to say To hell with it and ask her to bring me a third glass of wine, but then the soft light of the restaurant glints off the pendant resting on the server’s collarbone. It’s a distinctive piece of jewelry, and I immediately recognize the design—or rather, the designer.

Cara Lancolm. As in, the woman who was dating Aaron B. at the same time that he proposed to me on television.

The very one whose jewelry profits soared after the scandal broke.

My grip tightens on my chopsticks, but I force the muscles to relax, placing both sticks delicately on the celadon-glazed rest beside my soy sauce dish and folding my hands in my lap.

CLS necklaces (Cara Lancolm Studio) went viral a while ago by this point, and yet they’re still trendy. This one is her signature design: three stylized strawberry leaves in yellow gold. I honestly see them everywhere, and it never ceases to spike my blood pressure.

The server places two small plates in front of us. “For this course, we have an A5 Wagyu lightly lacquered with our house-made, yuzu-infused teriyaki sauce. Enjoy.”

Taylor F. smiles back at me as the server leaves, and I realize that he thinks this date is going well. He’s having a really great date with a semi-celebrity who he thinks he’s eventually going to sleep with.

I don’t know if he’s completely oblivious, or if I’ve just become that good at putting on a show. But I know what he sees. Blond hair augmented by extensions. A heart-shaped face with full makeup that he thinks is minimal. A flawless Southern California tan. Arms and abs toned from daily Pilates. Someone beautiful in a girl-next-door way, with enough ambition to be interesting at parties, but not someone who’ll outshine him.

There’s a reason I picked up on all his practiced moves—because I have plenty of my own. Back on LovedBy, I was a producer’s dream. I liked being told where to stand and what to wear. I liked knowing the right thing to say. They wanted me to ask about a contestant’s absentee dad? Done. Kiss a guy beneath that window because they’ve got rose petals ready to drop? You got it. I was a natural. My older sister Linney says I was so good for the show because I grew up doing pageants. That I have “the weirdest mix of competitiveness and people-pleasing” she’s ever seen.

And she’s not wrong. Because even as this date crashes, there’s still something in me that wants to make sure he walks away from this date liking me. I want to walk away having won the date. It’s ceased to be about making other people feel comfortable because it’s the right thing to do—instead, it’s become a game.

Finally, I spot something sparkly at the hostess stand. It’s Sybil—in a drapey sequined top and jeans, her wavy blond hair a mess around her shoulders. Oh, thank the lord. I let out a relieved breath as she spots me, too, and rushes over, her towering platform shoes clacking on the restaurant floor.

“Thank god I found you,” she says breathlessly. She also seems to have adopted the mid-Atlantic accent of an old Hollywood starlet. “There’s been”—she pauses for effect—“an emergency.”

Sybil is many things, but an actress isn’t one of them. And this is not her best work.

And Taylor F. may be an arrogant douche, but he’s not a complete idiot. He turns toward me, realization shrouding his face as it morphs into anger. “Did you text your friend to come bail you out of this date? Do you know what I had to do to get a reservation here?”

Sybil pipes in, dropping the accent. “Um, wake up at six a.m. to get a reservation on Tock? Like everyone?”

“I—” Taylor F. stops.

“It takes setting one alarm and, like, two clicks on the app.” She shrugs and turns back to me. “I brought Jamie here for his birthday last month. The chicken hearts are insane. So good. Ready?”

“Ready.” I gather up my purse, then turn guiltily back to Taylor F. “Sorry, I just don’t think this is going to work out.” Even now, I try to cushion the blow of my rejection.

“Whatever,” Taylor F. scoffs. “No wonder Brinkley dumped you.”

His jab hits me in a place I’d thought long-since healed. Anger rushes through me, but what’s left behind is an icy scum of shame. I guess when he brought up golf earlier, he was screwing with me after all.

“For that”—Sybil reaches across the table and plucks the skewer of meat from his plate, waving it back and forth in front of his face—“no Wagyu for you.” She grabs mine as well, and I let out an unladylike yip of laughter. It’s high-pitched and a little shrill, nothing like the throaty chuckle I perfected on LovedBy.

Sybil hooks her arm through mine, and we head for the door. I turn back to look him in the eye. “That was funny.”

“THE FOOD WAS REALLY good, though,” I say as the elevator doors ping open to my apartment floor. “Maybe I should’ve toughed it out.”

“I will take you next time,” Sybil promises as she follows me down the hall. “As soon as you’re back after the Fourth of July. Remind me, you’re gone for one week or two?”

“One,” I say. “Well, about ten days. I’m staying through my birthday, so you’re off the hook for planning me something,” I tease.

Sybil’s face falls. Ever the consummate party girl, she takes her friends’ birthdays very seriously. She always has the most elaborate ideas—and then forces our friend Emma to actually plan and execute them. Like the incredible Gatsby-themed party they threw for Willow one year, complete with a massive champagne tower and a twelve-piece jazz band.

“I’m going to scheme something up anyway, you know.” She says it almost like a threat. “You enjoy your sweet little lakeside birthday, but prepare yourself for an epic follow-up bash when you get back. You only turn thirty once. Oh my gosh, wait—” Sybil’s face brightens, and I can practically see the lightbulb hanging over her head. “We should do something big, as the Core Four—since we all turn thirty this year! Maybe we can go back to Willow’s aunt’s place!”

“That’d be amazing,” I say. Sybil was my college roommate, and the first time I met the other girls in our friend group—both of them Sybil’s friends from growing up in Texas—was on a backpacking trip after freshman year. We traipsed across Europe, culminating in a stay at Willow’s family chateau (yes, an actual chateau) in France.

We’ve reached the end of the hall, and I start to dig through my purse for my keys.

“By the way, there’s something I need to tell you, Sybs.” The keys rattle as I unlock the door. “I’m—”

Sybil freezes in the doorway, taking in the cardboard boxes that line my now-blank walls. “What has happened to your house? Are you being slow-motion robbed?”

I laugh. “I’m moving. My lease was up at the end of June. But I begged for a few extra days in here to finish packing.”

She brightens. “Oh good, because Santa Monica is sooo far from me in traffic! Please tell me you’re coming closer to Pasadena?”

I hesitate. She looks so happy about my moving to the (way too expensive for me) neighborhood where she and her fiancé live, and I don’t want to squash it, but if I can be honest with anyone, it’s Sybil. “I mean, I haven’t really figured out where my next place is. I’m just throwing everything in storage until I land another good deal. I figure I can use the time at home to look for a place online. And if I end up needing to stay in Georgia a little bit longer, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

Sybil senses something in my hesitation, and her eyebrows shoot up. “But you’re not… you’re not leaving LA. Right?”

“No! Of course not. I’m just going to get my bearings while I’m at home for the holiday and then… reevaluate.” I jam as much confidence as possible into the words.

I left Georgia when I was eighteen to come to USC in a confetti-burst of victory. Out of my high school class, I was going the farthest and to the most prestigious school. I’ve spent over a decade of my life in this city. It’s where I became an adult. Where I met my best friend… who then introduced me to all of her best friends. If I’d never come to LA, I never would have met the Core Four. I definitely never would have found myself at the center of the LovedBy universe.

Besides, I love it here. The easy access to the beach, the amazing hiking trails, the unlimited taco options… but it’s not for the faint of heart. Honestly, that’s another reason why I love LA. Everyone you meet has some amazing job, plus a side hustle. They’re teaching Reformer Pilates or designing a new app, or landing a walk-on role for the next big HBO series—all while looking effortlessly golden-tanned and beachy-breezy. It’s a challenge to keep up.

But I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge.

Besides, even if I’m a little exhausted by this world, it’s everything I wanted and worked for. I always dreamed of leaving my small town and living a bigger life. And now here I am, doing it. My athleisure brand has a huge partnership opportunity on the horizon with the FitGirl subscription service, and I’m in talks to start up a podcast in the fall, recording at a studio out here. LA is where all the action is, and I wouldn’t give that up.

“I just need… not even a break. More like a mini reset,” I tell Sybil. Like when I used to take a catnap on the LovedBy set before a shoot that we knew would take us all night.

Sybil glances around at the chaotic mess of boxes. “Okay, well. I’m no Emma, but I will do my part to help you pack.”

I laugh, because she’s right. Of the four of us, Emma is the one you call when you need any part of your life organized and put back together again. If I could hire her to be the personal planner of my entire future, I totally would.

But Sybil has other gifts to offer. She plucks a bottle of wine from the brass cart in my living room. “We’ll start by eliminating the need for you to pack this!”

Glasses clink as she selects two from the same cart and sets them on my coffee table.

There’s a squeak and a pop as Sybil pulls the cork free, practically knocking herself over backward in the process. The red wine splashes softly as Sybil pours, the smell of blackberries and pepper rising. She hands me a glass, and my fingers brush against hers, but she doesn’t let go. The silliness has faded from Sybil’s eyes, and in its place is a rare seriousness.

“I know you haven’t been happy,” she says quietly. She’s not playacting at sadness now. There’s real concern behind her words.

“What? I’m totally happy.” But I reply too quickly and too brightly. Dammit.

“Are you?” she asks, releasing the glass.

My other hand curls around the wine in a defensive hold. It’s wine from her fiancé Jamie’s vineyard. It’s delicious, but each sip is a reminder: it’s no longer Nikki and Sybil, two single besties ready to take on the world. It’s Sybil and Jamie. I’m the third wheel now. A dull ache starts at the base of my rib cage, but I ignore it and take a long pull from the wine, feeling my lip gloss stick to the rim of the glass.

My mother has always had strict rules for drinking—for me, at least. My younger brother, Cooper, could do no wrong. They’d thought it was funny when they realized he’d been topping off my dad’s Wild Turkey with iced tea. And my older siblings—twins—were a law unto themselves. Now they’re both established adults with their own families, but I think my parents were just happy that Linney and Pete made it to adulthood with four limbs apiece. But the rules were always set for me: never more than two drinks, only clear liquors, and only ever allow one lipstick print along the rim of your wine glass.

Mom was also the one who taught me how to walk smoothly in high heels, even when you had blisters. How to apply mascara from the back seat of a moving car. How to smile just right, tongue pressed to your front teeth, eyes soft. Everything I needed to win over pageant judges with a picture of perfection—no matter what was happening below the surface. I both loved and hated it. But right now, I’m grateful for the training.

When I put the wine glass down, my smile is back in place.

I rest my hand on her arm. “I’m fine, Sybs.” I press as much truth as I can into the words. “I mean, yeah, tonight sucked, but you came and rescued me. The next date will be better.”

But I’ve either lost my touch, or Sybil can see through the facade. She clocks me with an unconvinced look.

“Fine.” I sigh. “I just don’t get what I’m doing wrong. I mean, I’m picky! I only go out with guys if they seem like they might actually have potential. I literally follow our damn list to a T. But they never turn out as good as they looked on paper.”

Sybil quirks her head. “You mean that list we made after Aaron? The ‘Reasons to Get Back Out There’ list?”

“Exactly!”

It was the result of a wine night much like this one, except Emma and Willow were here too. Willow wanted to call the list “Reasons to Get Laid,” and Emma preferred “Reasons to Risk Your Heart Again”—but the idea was the same. I was so heartbroken and embarrassed after Aaron, I couldn’t imagine what could possibly compel me to enter the dating pool again, so Sybil insisted I make a list of all the qualities a guy would need to lure me back to the market. The crème de la crème of wish lists. A series of attributes so compelling as to make the guy worth shaving my legs for.

The list started off seriously enough: He’d need to have a good job (“six figures,” Emma scrawled in the margins). He’d need to be tall (I’m 5’9”). He’d need to be ready for a serious commitment—I wanted to be married within three years; kids within five. He’d need to share my faith. (“Good Jesus-lovin’ boy,” Sybil added). After a few glasses of wine, items like: “understands how to wear jeans” and “successful like Christian Grey but without the sex closet” were added.

“Sounds like maybe it’s time to throw out the list, Nik.”

I laugh. “I definitely threw it out already—after you knocked over that second bottle of pinot and used it as a napkin.”

Sybil shakes her head. “Metaphorically, babe. You can’t checklist your way into a love that won’t let you down.”

I twist the wine stem between my fingers, considering. I do love a good checklist.

“The list was fun and all,” Sybil continues. “But look at that guy tonight—Tony? Tyler?”

“Taylor.”

“Right. I’m sure Taylor ticks all the boxes: ambitious, tall, handsome, good shoes, probably wants two point five kids and a golden retriever…”

“So?” I say, feeling a little defensive. “What’s wrong with that? I want those things too.”

“I know you do, Niks,” Sybil says. “And I’m sure you’d love that point five of a child with all your heart. But you can’t boil a relationship down into a list of reasons why you should fit with someone. You just have to put yourself out there and find someone you click with—even if they’re a sweet, skinny-jeans-wearing medium king who wants ten kids.”

“Ten!?” I say, practically spitting out some of my wine.

“You know what I mean.” She puts her glass on the coffee table and turns to fully face me on the couch. I realize that the Sybil before me is different than the one I met freshman year of college. There’s wisdom there, the kind that comes with making mistakes and growing from them. She’s changed, but I’ve just been stuck. Stalled like the traffic on the 101.

“Ugh. You’re totally right. I know you’re right.”

“Ah, that feels really good to hear. I’m almost never the right one in a conversation!” she says. “Cheers to that!”

I smirk and toast her glass with mine.

Then Sybil leans back, her posture relaxing into something more familiar. “Go on, go home and ‘reorient’ yourself. Hang in the hammock, sleep till noon, jump in the lake—actually, better yet, push Cooper in the lake.” I laugh. Sybil’s an only child but has adopted Coop as her honorary little brother. “Do whatever you need to. Take your time. Come back to LA refreshed,” she says.

“I will,” I tell her, praying that it’s true. “I promise.” I take another sip of my wine, careful to leave only one lipstick print.

I SPEND ALL DAY Wednesday packing and arrange for the movers to come early Thursday morning, so my bed is the last thing to go into storage. I’m in the air, heading east, by lunchtime.

LAX was packed ahead of the holiday weekend, but luck is on my side: We touch down in Atlanta with no delays, the fountain Diet Coke from the airport McDonald’s is perfect, my bags arrive out first from the carousel, and the rental car company upgrades me to a cute little red Jeep just like the one I had when I was sixteen.

There’s a small hiccup in the car rental parking lot: The Jeep, which I’ve decided to name Reba, takes three tries before the engine turns over. But soon, she’s rumbling beneath me. I’m on the road and leaving the outskirts of Atlanta behind me before the ice has melted in my Diet Coke. The road rises and dips through low hills as civilization begins to thin ou. . .