Unromance

by Erin Connor

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A recently dumped TV heartthrob enlists a jaded romance novelist to ruin romance for him—one rom-com trope at a time—so he never gets swept off his feet again . . .

Sawyer Greene knows romance. She’s a bestselling author of the genre—or she was, until her ex left her with nothing but writer’s block and a bitter, broken heart. But when she gets stuck in the elevator with a handsome stranger, she sees their meet cute for what it is: just a one-night stand. It might have worked, too, if they could stop running into each other.

Actor Mason West sees Sawyer’s reappearance in his life as a sign. Obviously, they’re meant to cure each other. Him of the hopeless romanticism that only ends in heartbreak—and tabloid trainwrecks—and Sawyer of her writer’s block.

Their agreement is simple: Sawyer will be Mason’s perfect romcom love interest, showering him with every romance trick in the book so he never falls for them again. Only rules? 1. No (more) sex, and 2. No matter how swoony the circumstances, absolutely no falling in love. 

It’s a foolproof plan. Until Sawyer and Mason find that, once set in motion, some plots cannot be stopped—and despite their best efforts, they might be hurtling towards a happy ending…

Release date: January 14, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

THE MEET-CUTE – The love interests meet. It’s cute. It upends their entire lives.

Hold the door!”

Sawyer shot her arm out automatically, shoving her hand between the nearly closed elevator doors. She was going to lose a limb one day, but she believed all these little acts of kindness would pay off for her eventually.

Hell, maybe today was that day.

The elevator doors parted to reveal one of the most beautiful men she’d ever seen. Black curls peeked out beneath a navy beanie, his dark brown eyes bright from his mad dash for the elevator. Snow still clung to the broad shoulders of his peacoat and the tops of his boots, like he hadn’t had time to shake it off.

“Thank you,” the guy panted, slipping through the doors. He reached out to push the button for his floor only to find it already lit. “I’m so late,” he confessed.

“I’ll let you get off first, then.” She cleared her throat. “Get out first,” she corrected herself, repressing a laugh.

She could feel his eyes boring into the side of her face. She caved, her gaze drifting back to his, his eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement. His lips pressed together, rolling inward, as if to rein in the quick quip on the tip of his tongue. While Sawyer didn’t normally enjoy innuendo from strangers, she found herself holding her breath, the promise of a good banter in the quirk of his mouth. Then, as if remembering himself, his face slid into a demure mask. “Thank you.”

Ducking her head, she smirked at her reflection in the mirrored walls. He might not have taken the bait, but she was already looking forward to watching him walk away, to see if his back was as swoon-worthy as his front. Sawyer fell in love about twenty times a day. She didn’t actually—for years she had made a point of avoiding falling in love—but it was a by-product of being a romance author. She could make a meet-cute out of anything. Well, she used to be able to.

She shoved the thought—and everything that came with it—from her mind. She came out tonight to not think about that.

“That is a lot of books,” he commented, eyeing the lumpy tote cradled in her arms. For how heavy it was, it was a feat she’d forgotten about it, but her arm had gone numb long ago. Shifting the sack around to her front, she cradled the bottom of the eco-friendly bag to relieve the ache in her shoulder.

Back at her tiny apartment, Sawyer’s bookshelves were immaculately arranged in bookstagram-ready rainbow order. Out of frame of her carefully curated Zoom background, however, were the piles—“to be read,” “to be blurbed,” and “to be donated.” She was no Marie Kondo, but the attempt to purge was an honest one, at least. So, every month, Sawyer schlepped her donations here, and every month, she forgot to find a less backaching way to transport the books.

“The bartender and I have an agreement,” she said mysteriously, the alluring effect she was going for no doubt neutralized by her Gollum-esque posture.

He raised an eyebrow at her. One eyebrow. How dare he be able to do that when she could not?

“He’s a nurse. I have way too many books. I funnel him books for the nursing home library, and he lets me drink for free.”

Whatever he had been about to say was cut short as the elevator shook violently, an earsplitting screech filling the air. The lights flickered, and the elevator stopped, the orchestral holiday music cutting off with an ominous diminuendo.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered. He pushed a few buttons, but nothing lit up.

Sawyer laughed.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, as if concerned for her sanity.

“No,” she said, the giggle bubbling past her lips contradicting her. She cleared her throat. “No,” she managed more seriously. “It’s just—I read a lot of romance—” She gestured to her bag of books. “Two people getting stuck in an elevator? It’s a classic meet-cute, but I didn’t think it actually happened.”

His brows knit together, definitely questioning her sanity. “I don’t get it. What about this is cute?” He wrapped his arms around his chest, as if trying to hold himself together.

Sawyer sobered up. “You don’t like elevators, do you?”

“No,” he said around a strained inhale, running a hand over his ridiculously attractive face. “Keep talking, please. Tell me more about this meet-cute.”

She shrugged. Telling escapist stories was her livelihood, but she was suddenly coming up blank. An apt metaphor for the current state of her career, unfortunately. Panic began to rise in her throat, but she shoved it down. “Uh, I don’t know. Two people get stuck in an elevator—usually two people unlikely to fall in love, but y’know, trapped together—”

His fist was now covering his mouth in the universal signal of someone trying not to be sick. “More on the cute part, please, less on the ‘trapped’ and ‘stuck’—”

“Right, sorry,” she mumbled. “Uh, so, in my favorite one, after getting”—she mouthed the word stuck to spare him—“in an elevator together and sharing her purse cheese, the two strangers agree to start fake dating to make the guy’s ex jealous—”

“I don’t want to make my ex jealous,” he said matter-of-factly.

She fixed him with a look. “I wasn’t offering.”

A strangled laugh escaped him as her words sank in.

He had a good laugh, husky and deep. She wanted to make him laugh again so she could hear it one more time. But, like, some other time, when he wasn’t simultaneously trying to curb a panic attack. Didn’t elevators have a connection to the fire department or something? Why hadn’t anyone come over the speaker to console them? Why hadn’t she packed purse cheese?

The elevator shuddered, whirring back to life.

“Oh, thank God,” he groaned. He turned to her, tugging off his beanie and ruffling his hair. It was unfair how soft it looked. “Sorry, I have a thing about enclosed spaces.”

“Really? I love being trapped.”

“Funny,” he deadpanned.

The elevator dinged as they reached the fourteenth floor, the doors sliding open. She gestured for him to go first, given his lateness.

“Thank you. I owe you one,” he said sincerely. He doubled back. “Hey—if you have an ex you need to make jealous—”

“Absolutely not!”

He grinned mischievously before jogging backward, only turning when he rounded the corner, robbing her of a view of what she suspected to be a deliciously V-shaped back.

Sawyer laughed under her breath. If the romance gods wanted to dupe her into believing in happily ever afters again, they would have to try a lot harder than a pretty face and an elevator meet-cute.

She dawdled in the lobby to avoid that awkward moment when you say goodbye and then head in the exact same direction. Once she was certain Elevator Guy would be out of sight, she followed in his wake toward the restaurant that occupied most of the fourteenth floor. The first time she’d shown up with a tote full of books, the posh hostesses had side-eyed her. Now they waved her on, past the small queue of patrons waiting to be seated. When she reached the bar, she heaved her bag onto it with a relieved sigh.

The restaurant was far more swanky than Sawyer could afford, but when it was free, she could. Shoving all depressing thoughts of the budget she’d made to calculate how long she had until her advance ran out, she slid onto a barstool, her heart heavier than the sack of books.

“You’re an angel,” Alex crooned as he placed a napkin in front of her. “The ladies were harassing me for more books just last night.”

Sawyer beamed. “Happy to help. Plus, you’re saving me from ending up on Hoarders, so thank you.”

Alex moved the bag onto the back bar before pouring her a double shot of her favorite bourbon. “Hungry?” he asked.

“Always,” she replied. “Surprise me.”

She’d met Alex last year when her best friend, Lily, dragged her here in an attempt to “casually” run into the cast of Diagnostics, the Chicago medical drama that filmed at the hospital down the street. Lily didn’t rub elbows with any B-list actors that night, but Sawyer left with an unorthodox solution to her buried-alive-by-books problem. Sure, she could deliver the books to the nursing home herself, but at best, she’d leave with a pocketful of stale Werther’s. This way, she left with a full stomach and the buzz only free top-shelf whiskey could provide. She preferred this way.

As Alex rang in food for her, she shrugged out of her coat and tugged her current read from her backpack—a romance, one of the smutty ones she always double- and triple-checked didn’t end up in her donation piles.

“Another bodice ripper?” Alex said with a click of his tongue. “Who are you, and what have you done with the Sawyer Greene who lectured me for not reading more diversely?”

“Yeah, you exclusively read nonfiction. It’s unnatural,” she said with a crinkle of her nose. “Besides, this counts as research, thank you very much. And even if I wasn’t desperate for inspiration, happy endings are my favorite brand of fantasy.”

“Same,” Alex agreed with an impish tilt of his head. “But I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”

“Alex!” She smacked the back of his arm with her book.

He tugged on the corners of his mouth to conceal his grin. “How’s it going? The book?”

“Good,” she lied. “Had a call with my agent this morning.” That part was true, but the call was about how she most definitely wasn’t going to have her book done on time and was going to need another extension.

“That’s great,” Alex said genuinely. “I knew you could do it.”

That made one of them. Guilt twisted her insides at Alex’s misplaced faith in her. He laid a roll of silverware in front of her before excusing himself to check in on the couple at the other end of the bar.

She couldn’t see his face, but she recognized the guy as Elevator Guy. Next to him sat a very pretty brunette. His date did not look happy. He must have been very late.

“Sucks to suck,” she muttered. She thumbed her book back open and took a sip of whiskey, relishing the warmth as it spread through her body. Chicago winters were a bitch—but that’s what whiskey was for.

She ate her dinner without further fanfare, getting so lost in her book that she forgot all about the depressing call with her agent and her dwindling bank balance. She didn’t even notice when Alex refilled her whiskey, surprised to find it full again when she picked it up. She blinked away the story playing out in her mind’s eye to take in her surroundings. While she’d been reading, the restaurant had emptied, affording her an uninterrupted view of the grid of Chicago, lit up beyond the wall of windows.

She dog-eared a page in her book as it reached a steamy scene. She could never read those in public, too paranoid an innocent bystander would glance over, the word cock or climax jumping off the page to alert everyone she was single and horny.

Not that there was anything wrong with being single. In fact, she preferred it. The second part, however—well, she could handle that most days, but sometimes it was nice not to have to do everything yourself. The hard part was finding someone who wouldn’t expect more from her than she was willing to give, and it had been, well, a while since she’d found someone.

She tucked her book back into her bag, sipping as she took in the view. From fourteen floors up, the city looked like a winter wonderland with its fresh blanket of snow. Holiday lights twinkled in every storefront window, the city already fully decorated for Christmas despite Thanksgiving being a full week away.

“So,” a low voice asked.

She turned to find Elevator Guy leaning next to her, his forearms propped on the bar.

“What do two people stuck in an elevator with no exes they wish to make jealous do?”

She studied him over the rim of her glass. “Get on with their lives?”

He choked out a laugh. “Damn.”

She raised her brows—both brows, because unlike him, she couldn’t do just one. “You literally just left a date—” She jerked her head toward the now-empty corner of the bar where he had been sitting. “To come hit on me with that half-baked line. What were you expecting me to say?”

He studied her curiously. “It wasn’t a date.”

She surveyed him with a disbelieving look.

“If you must know… it was a breakup.”

Sawyer sat up straighter. “Oh. Shit.” She clinked her glass against his beer. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s alright. We were on a break for the past six months while she was in LA for work, so—let’s just say it was a long time coming.”

“Ah,” she said as if she got it, which she most certainly did not. She didn’t think people actually did “breaks,” just like people didn’t actually get stuck in elevators and end up falling in love.

Sawyer loved romance—devoured it—but she didn’t actually believe in it. At least, not in the head-over-heels, swept-away kind of way. She had once, and been proven very, very wrong. Now it was a fun fantasy, like the books she wrote—used to write. She hadn’t been able to finish one in two years. Her last book had hit shelves earlier this year, and right now, she should be promoting her next release. Except, she hadn’t written it yet. Didn’t even have an idea for one, much to her publisher’s dismay.

“Anyway,” he said with a heavy sigh, mercifully cutting through her thoughts. “I’m gonna take a dating hiatus for a bit. But I wanted to be forewarned, y’know, if there was anything else I should be wary of to avoid any more accidental meet-cutes. And you’re clearly an expert, so—”

Sawyer couldn’t help but smile. She hadn’t felt like much of an expert lately, so his offhand comment felt like the height of flattery. “You could say that.” She braced her arms on the back of her barstool thoughtfully. “Well, elevators are clearly out to get you, so you should probably avoid them for a bit.”

He nodded seriously. “Easy. Stairs only. Got it.”

“And definitely no coffee shops,” she warned.

He pouted charmingly. “Really? Damn.”

“You gotta commit,” she said gravely.

“You’re right,” he agreed, taking a long pull of his beer. “Okay, tell me more.”

“If you go to an inn—”

“An inn?!”

“Yes, an inn,” she said curtly, the ends of her words clipped. “Make absolutely sure there is more than one bed.”

He bit on his lip to keep from smiling, and Sawyer couldn’t help but notice he had a very nice mouth. Very kissable. Very bitable. Fuck, she needed to get laid. She pushed the thought away. “And God forbid we inexplicably bump into each other again: Run. Just run or we’re both doomed.”

He laughed, his cheeks dimpling. He was unfairly handsome. “Noted. I’ll keep gym shoes handy just in case.”

“I appreciate that.” Sawyer downed the last of her whiskey, laying a cash tip on the bar for Alex before pushing back. “Well, it was nice not meet-cute-ing you.”

She stood, but wasn’t much taller standing than sitting. In fact, she may have lost an inch. He straightened, and she had to tilt her head to maintain eye contact.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he asked, his eyes intent on her.

“It’s probably best if we don’t know,” she said ominously, enjoying this bit they had going far too much.

“Right,” he said seriously. “So we don’t fall in love with each other.”

“Correct.”

“Because two attractive people stuck in an elevator couldn’t help themselves otherwise.”

She ignored the swoop of her stomach at the word attractive, just like she ignored the way he hadn’t denied that he’d come over with the intention of hitting on her. “Clearly.”

“So we’re going to do the opposite of that.”

“Yeah?” Why had that come out like a question?

It didn’t go unnoticed, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “You wanna go somewhere? Get a drink?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “We’re literally at a bar right now.”

“I was thinking somewhere else—”

“If you say your place, I swear to God—”

He waited for her to finish her threat, dark eyes piercing hers.

She knew what the romance gods were up to. Most people would take one look at that pretty face and start planning their wedding, but all Sawyer wanted to do with that pretty face was sit on it.

She knew what she should do. She should go home, put on a face mask, and finish her smutty book. Or… for the first time in far too long, she could actually get laid instead of just reading about it.

And why shouldn’t she? People on the rebound were the perfect no-strings-attached hookup. They didn’t know each other—didn’t even know each other’s names. He was clearly only looking for a one-night stand. For all Sawyer’s commitment to keeping things casual, she’d never had one. Maybe the new experience would be the inspiration she needed to shake her out of her writer’s block.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she shrugged nonchalantly, though she felt the exact opposite of nonchalant, the thrill of doing something out of character waking her up faster than plunging into Lake Michigan. “Alright, fuck it. But only because a one-night stand is the opposite of a meet-cute, and I really think we should nip this in the bud—for both our sakes.”

The romance gods worked hard, but Sawyer Greene worked harder.

“It’s the responsible thing to do,” he agreed solemnly.

She smiled, gesturing for him to lead the way. Falling into step behind him, she grinned. His back was as attractive as his front.



SECRETLY FAMOUS – Person privileged with fame pretends to be a commoner. Ninety percent of the time, it comes back to bite them in the ass, every time.

Is it safe for us to be in here?” Mason eyed the elevator doors distrustfully.

Book Girl smiled up at him, tightening the belt on her coat in preparation for the impending cold. “We’re handling it.”

He laughed under his breath. This was not how he expected tonight to go.

In fact, he’d written off the night before it even started. He knew the whole purpose of meeting up with Kara was to officially end things so she could go public with her costar whom she didn’t know he knew she was seeing. When she first went to LA six months ago, he honestly thought their “break” was a formality and that they’d get back together once she returned to Chicago. Nothing changed—at first. A month into it, when the frequency of her calls and texts and FaceTimes tapered, he knew.

He knew exactly what the tabloids would say.

Mason West Can’t Keep a Girl

Mason West Back on the Market. Again!

Which Costar Will Mason West Date Next?

Glancing sidelong at the woman next to him, he bit down on his lip to keep from grinning. He wasn’t sure why he’d gone to talk to her after Kara left, other than not wanting to be alone with his own thoughts while he finished his drink.

That, and he felt indebted to her. She’d attempted to distract him while the elevator was stuck, and though her efforts were questionably effective, they had been amusing once he’d calmed down enough to appreciate them.

He thought he’d buy her a drink to thank her—somewhere other than the bar he’d just been dumped in, but when she misinterpreted that as him trying to get her back to his place and agreed—well, he wasn’t going to say no. It wasn’t that he’d been holding out for Kara to return, he just hadn’t had time to date anyone during the offseason. At least, that’s what he told himself and anyone who asked, a story that would be a lot more convincing if he could tell literally anyone what he had been doing these past few months. And yeah, he was more than a little intrigued by the romance aficionado who seemed to want nothing to do with romance.

“Is your place close?” she asked, glancing up at him as she shoved a maroon beanie onto her head.

She was the most colorful person he’d ever seen. She wore army-green pants tucked into brown leather boots, and he knew under her mustard-yellow coat she wore a conservative cream-colored turtleneck that clung to her curves in a way that had Mason questioning his previous aversion to turtlenecks. In contrast to her clothes, everything about her was understated. Her hair was so blond it was practically white, fringe framing her face like a 1970s rock groupie. Her brows were heavy and dark by comparison, arching over startling light green eyes.

“What?” she asked uncertainly, wiping the corners of her bow mouth. “Do I have food on my face?”

Whoops. He’d been staring far too long. He worked with beautiful actresses every day, and yet, there was something about this tiny, sour woman that struck him.

“Eyelash,” he improvised, wiping the imaginary lash from her cheek. “And yeah, my place is close,” he answered, her words finally registering.

“Is it covered in plastic tarps?” she asked, her eyes trained forward.

“Like Dexter?”

She nodded.

He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. “No tarps. Not a serial killer.”

“Sounds like something a serial killer would say,” she said dubiously as the elevator dinged, the doors sliding open.

He couldn’t hold back the laugh this time, his shoulders relaxing as they exited the elevator. “My name is Mason, by the way,” he told her as he opened the lobby door for her. Biting Chicago wind wrapped around him as they stepped outside, stealing all his warmth.

“Hey!” she cried incredulously.

He cringed internally, anticipating the uncomfortable conversation to come.

“We said no names.”

He glanced at her sidelong. “You said that, not me.”

She frowned, sighing in resignation. “Sawyer Greene.”

“That’s definitely fake,” he teased.

“All real, baby. I’m just blessed like that.” As she spoke, she did an adorable little dance. She nudged him with her elbow as they waited for the crosswalk light to change. “What’s yours, then?”

Mason chewed on the inside of his cheek before making a split-second decision. “Mason Álvarez.”

Sawyer snorted, rolling her eyes. “Okay, that’s definitely fake. Sounds like a soap opera star.”

He blinked down at her in surprise. So she really didn’t know who he was—didn’t know how close her guess actually was. Well, fuck if he was going to tell her. Being anonymous for a night sounded amazing.

Somehow, telling the truth felt like a lie. His last name was Álvarez, but he could count on one hand the number of people who knew him as such. He’d tried to stay out of the family business, but he’d been sucked in all the same, and his soap star mother’s name held more clout there, so most people knew him as Mason West. Mason West couldn’t have casual hookups. Mason Álvarez, however… Smiling to himself, he gestured for her to follow him.

Her eyes darted to his mouth, and he had goddamn butterflies. It had been so long since he’d done this—flirted. The “break” with Kara was probably the longest he’d been single since he was prepubescent.

His building came into view, and his steps slowed. Sawyer glanced back the way they’d come. Barely two blocks.

The tabloids often accused him of being a simp for his partners—though Mason was pretty sure that said more about them than him—but he did have some pride. Kara had let him pick the location for their meeting, and he’d be damned if he went out of his way to get dumped. Re-dumped? On-a-break breakup?

Luther, his building’s doorman, held open the lobby door, and Mason watched as Sawyer stepped inside wordlessly, eyes wide as she took in the space. He spent more time on set than here, and he forgot how nice it was. Sawyer stomped the snow out of her boots, Mason doing the same before leading her over to the elevators. He’d bought this place before the nightmarish day on set that left him with an aversion to elevators. In a few months, when he moved to LA, he would make sure his new place was a walk-up.

Mason tolerated elevators on a good day—they were unavoidable in a city full of skyscrapers, but after the near incident earlier, it took a concerted effort to step into yet another one. Though he supposed the odds of being stuck in an elevator twice in one day were rather astronomical. He tried to take comfort in that and not focus on the shiny, immovable metal walls, tried not to picture them closing in on him…

“Hey,” Sawyer called quietly.

He tore his eyes away from the elevator doors, anxiously awaiting them to open, meeting her curious gaze.

“You and elevators have old beef, huh? Did an elevator steal your girl?”

“My lunch money, actually,” he said heavily. “For years…”

She clicked her tongue. “It’s always the ones you never suspect.”

He huffed a laugh as the doors opened on his floor. He stepped out quickly, inhaling fully for the first time since entering.

He glanced back at her, and she stopped chewing on her cheek to flash him a smile. He paused with his key in his hand. He didn’t normally do this—casual. The media followed his dating life like a religion. At first, he’d been uncomfortable with it, but growing up in the spotlight, he’d gotten used to it. But doing this, being anonymous for a night and losing himself in another person, telling no one, thrilled him. It hadn’t been his intention when he’d suggested leaving the bar, but she’d been so confident, he wanted to say yes, to get a taste of the way everyone else lived, able to be casual with their feelings and their bodies, with no TMZ to say a damn thing about it.

Except… he wasn’t everyone else. Was this a mistake—a mistake he was dragging her into unwittingly?

“We can go somewhere else,” he began.

Her brows shot up. “And make you get in another elevator?” she asked incredulously.

The corners of his mouth quirked up. “I’m just saying—”

The words died on his tongue as she sidled up in front of him, her fingers curling under the lapels of his peacoat. “Just open the door, Code Name: Álvarez.”

At her proximity, all thoughts of not doing this flew from his mind. He leaned forward, pressing her up against the doorframe, delighting in the slight hitch of her breath, the way her lips parted slightly. He slid his key into the lock and twisted, pushing the door open. “After you, Totally Fake Name Greene.”

She flashed him a grin before slipping under his arm and entering his apartment.

He watched her shrug out of her coat, revealing what he was fairly certain was the only sexy turtleneck in existence. Something warm and molten pooled in his stomach, something more than heady lust. This might be a one-time thing, but he had a feeling this night, this woman—Sawyer Greene—was going to stick with him for a while.



THE ONE-NIGHT STAND – Romance math dictates that the less likely a character is to have a one-night stand, the more likely they are to run into said one-night stand again.

Holy shit, his place was nice. If Sawyer was going to get murdered, at least she would go out knowing she died somewhere clean, as her mother would have wanted. Mason took her coat from her, hanging it in the closet by the front door. If he was a serial killer, he was a polite one. She missed the warmth of her coat, though she was fairly certain the chill clinging to her was more from nerves than actual cold.

She didn’t do this. She didn’t let guys—or gals—pick her up at bars, and she didn’t do the picking up. Yet here she was, in this stranger’s very nice apartmen. . .