⭐⭐'An utterly charming love story! I couldn't stop reading' SUE MOORCROFT⭐⭐ ⭐⭐ 'An absolute joy. A feel-good read full of warmth and love'HOLLY MARTIN⭐⭐ ⭐⭐ 'A fabulously fun and flirty story sprinkled through with humour' LUCY COLEMAN⭐⭐
Emma is fully committed to fulfilling her dream of becoming a published author. She's had enough disappointing dates to have stopped believing in the one.
Kieran is recently single and still heartbroken. He has sworn off dating for the foreseeable future and focusing on his career as a chef.
One fateful day, they collide under the clock tower at Gare du Nord and sparks fly. So begins a whirlwind romance spanning the Channel.
When Emma's life falls apart, Kieran invites her to live with him in Paris. But as the day they've both been waiting for for so long approaches, what if destiny has other plans?
**Don't miss this stunning rom-com, perfect for fans of Milly Johnson, Cressida McLaughlin and Debbie Johnson.**
READERS ARE LOVING WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS
'Oh my!!!! What a beautiful love story' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'This was so beautiful! If you're an Emily in Paris lover like me and need a great book to help you fill the void until the show returns this is the perfect companion! Emma & Kieran were perfect!' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'A beautiful storyline of love and fate and being a hopeless romantic at heart. I really enjoyed it and I think it was a great read!' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Release date:
February 19, 2026
Publisher:
Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages:
304
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Attempting something new is always scary, so up front I’d like to thank you, the reader, for picking up We’ll Always Have Paris and giving it a chance. Writing this book was a joy, and I hope at least some of that experience has come across in its pages.
WAHP is my first contemporary romantic comedy, the first book I’ve written without my sister, and my adult debut. Those mentioned below gave me the confidence, support and means to make it happen, and I’m so very grateful to all of them.
(By the way, they are all living, breathing people: this book is entirely the result of human, not artificial, intelligence.)
First, I need to thank my utterly brilliant friend and agent Kristina Pérez of Pérez Literary & Entertainment. It’s not an exaggeration to say that this book would literally not exist without her. A big shoutout too to Isabel Lineberry and Jack Mozley, also of PLE, for all their support.
Thank you to everyone at Hodder & Stoughton who has helped make WAHP into the best book it could be, in particular Kit Nevile, for bringing his keen editing skills to bear on my manuscript, Tallulah Lyons, Linda McQueen and Jon Price.
I’m also grateful to Linda McQueen and Virginie Busette for correcting and polishing my stilted French. Any errors that remain are mine and mine alone.
Thank you to Daisy Woods for providing me with the romance cover of my dreams – I’m still not over how pretty it is!
I owe a huge debt to all the friends I’ve made since I started in this industry, more years ago than I care to remember! Publishing is sometimes harsh, and it would be nigh on impossible to survive without friends who know exactly how harsh it can get. I’d especially like to thank Perdita Cargill, Alexa Casale, Anna McKerrow, Chris Moore, Mich Kenny, Holly Race, Ava Eldred, Gill Perdue, Clare Harlow, Lorraine Brown, Anna Bell, Tina Orr Monro, Josh Winning, Andreina Cordani, Bex Hogan, Kat Ellis, Sinéad O’Hart and everyone in the UKYA authors chat. I’d also like to give a big virtual hug to all the super wise women of Fem 2.0.
I’m writing these acknowledgements several months before WAHP is due to be published, but I’d like to thank in advance all the people at Hodder who will be involved in the book’s marketing, publicity and audio production. My thanks also to all the booksellers, booktubers, bookstagrammers, booktokkers and festival organisers who will be helping to put WAHP into the hands of readers; I’m so appreciative of everything you do. I’d especially like to mention Beth, Sifa and Gary for their generous ongoing support.
To my non-writing friends, especially Sophie, Guy and all the lovely ladies of the adult ballet class, thank you for the gift of your company.
Finally, my family: you are the best and most important part of my life, and I love you all dearly. Extra special big hugs to my husband Neill, who deserves the title of husband-of-the-year every year forever, and to my daughters Georgina & Victoria for making me laugh and generally being wonderful. And for Lizzie, who has spent more time than most talking me out of my imposter syndrome: this is for you.
Chapter Eight
Emma
‘You’re late.’ I check my watch. ‘An hour and twenty minutes late. Even for you, that is something of a record. You were meant to be here at nine so we could get an “early start”, in your words.’
Thunder booms overhead and the gentle shower that started five minutes ago dials up to a deluge. It’s the middle of August, and the great British summer seems to be already over.
James manoeuvres past me into the hallway and shakes himself like a wet dog. ‘That’s not fair! I did text.’
‘Texting “be there in 10” over an hour ago does not count.’ I pick up my phone and show him the evidence.
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ He holds out a dripping carrier bag. ‘I got distracted by something urgent on my way out of the house.’
I’m unappeased – James’s ‘urgent distractions’ usually turn out to be TikTok videos of Jane Austen spoofs or people dressed up as characters from Lord of the Rings.
‘But I brought a peace offering,’ he says. ‘Look in the bag.’
Inside the bag is a box bearing the logo of a high-end Danish bakery that has an outlet in the Westfield centre. A bakery I’d happily visit on a daily basis if I could afford to. I’ll say this for James: he knows the way to a woman’s heart. This woman, at least.
I give in and smile at him. ‘Not bad, as peace offerings go. Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.’
He follows me through to the kitchen and I get out two mugs and – eventually, once I’ve wrestled it from the back of the cupboard and rinsed the dust off – drop two teabags into my mum’s old teapot. Given the cost of the baked goods, it seems worth the effort.
‘Daisy not around today?’ James asks, extracting the milk from the fridge.
‘No. She’s at some kind of shoot over in Bloomsbury. That one-off make-up artist job she landed in May seems to be turning into something more full time.’
‘Oh, that’s amazing. Well done her. And how’s it going with that new boyfriend of hers, the divine Daniel?’
‘Good, I think.’ I hesitate over the selection of cakes and pastries that James has provided and just about manage to resist the urge to instantly start stuffing them in my face. Instead, I very carefully cut each of them in half, select four halves and arrange them neatly on the plates. ‘She’s started spending quite a lot of time at his flat, which is not surprising because it’s about a thousand times nicer than here, but it does mean my diet has got a lot more limited.’
‘You should really learn to cook a few more things. You can come to mine for dinner this evening if you like.’
‘That’s kind, but Daisy is definitely here tonight.’ She would never leave me on my own on this particular day. And dinner is already planned. I’m going to make my signature dish. My only dish, if I’m honest: tuna pasta bake, made using a Colman’s sachet and store cupboard ingredients. I honestly don’t know what I’ll do if they ever stop selling the sachets. ‘Let’s go and sit down. And bring the rest of the cakes.’
James doesn’t mention Kieran until we’re in the back room, sitting at the battered dining/work table that dominates the space.
‘And what about your chef friend. How are things with him?’
Friend, I notice. Not boyfriend. I’m glad James isn’t making assumptions. There’s definitely something between Kieran and me, aside from the variable width of the English Channel – between 21 miles and 150 miles, depending on where you’re standing – but I don’t want to pin it down. It feels too fragile at the moment. An action as definite as naming it might destroy it altogether.
‘Kieran and I are good, I think. He’s not Simon, for one thing.’ I grimace as I remember; Simon used to keep track of exactly who had called whom and how long for, as if our romance had to be translated into a bar chart and plotted on to a spreadsheet. ‘Somehow it’s easier, even though Kieran is in Paris.’ I sigh. ‘Though it’s also hard, because he’s in Paris.’ It’s hard because all I can do is imagine what it would be like to have Kieran hold my hand, or kiss me, or take me to bed. My imagination is good – it’s really good – but it’s not the same.
‘Maybe it’s easier because he’s in Paris,’ James says – though he seems to be directing his comment at the sugar-encrusted cinnamon bun in his hand rather than at me.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Oh – nothing. Just want to make sure you’re doing the right thing, that’s all.’ James pats my hand. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt, Ems.’
‘I know. But Kieran is just . . .’ I shrug. ‘I really like him. A lot.’
There’s so much more I could say. I could describe to James the habit Kieran has of stroking his thumb along his jaw when he’s thinking about something. Or the way his long, expressive fingers swoop around the screen when he’s talking about something that excites him. But I don’t want to share these things, not yet, not even with my friend. I want to hug the threads of this new thing to me and keep them just for myself, for now.
‘Anyway, we’re sending each other voice messages, and texting. And we have a video call every Sunday.’
‘That’s nice.’
Is there an undertone of pity in James’s voice? I take a forkful of the chocolate and caramel confection in front of me and start trying out phrases in my head, imagining myself into a less complicated future. You must meet my boyfriend, Kieran. He’s a chef. Have you met my fiancé, Kieran? He owns his own restaurant. We’ve got married and I’m working out what our children might look like when James brings me back to reality.
‘So, shall we get down to business? Time to bring out the PAPs?’ That’s what we call our Paige Adams Pereira books. ‘Do you want to go first, or shall I?’
Irritation sours my final mouthful of cake, but he’s not wrong. Our plan today – before James and the weather derailed it – was to walk, then write. Most of the time I like to write alone, in absolute silence, but sometimes it’s good to have someone else around for moral support. Especially when things aren’t going so well. Which at the moment they’re definitely not.
‘You go first,’ I suggest.
James gets out his laptop and a selection of vibrantly coloured notebooks.
‘So, I got Lauren’s line edits back on Daydreams, and they’re mostly okay. But Paige has asked her to add in a scene where our busty heroine and her love interest are in the biology lab, and . . .’ He claps his hands to his cheeks and shakes his head. ‘It’s just too much.’
I’m surprised; James isn’t easily shocked.
‘What do you mean? Too explicit?’
‘It’s not even that, exactly – it’s the health and safety implications.’ He tilts the laptop towards me so I can see the email from Paige that Lauren’s forwarded. ‘I mean, tearing off the lab coats and having it away on the wooden work benches is all fine, though I’d be worried about splinters. And getting up close and personal with a utility clamp? Also fine, if that’s your cup of tea. But this section here, with the Bunsen burners . . .’ His finger runs along the relevant line. ‘It just sounds dangerous. And as for this next bit . . .’ He huffs. ‘I had to look up what a retort was, and it’s made of glass, and, even if it wasn’t, I just don’t see how it would fit. It’s like—’ He makes a shape with his hands to indicate some sort of large, spherical object with, at a guess, two tubes sticking out of the top. Definitely not something that’s meant for any sort of contact with any part of the human anatomy.
For a moment, we’re both silent.
‘Well, do you think Paige actually knows what a retort is? Maybe she’s confusing it with a . . . a test tube.’
‘Still . . .’ James sighs. ‘What should I do?’
I think for a moment, trying to banish from my head the images Paige’s email has conjured. ‘I’d do all the other edits,’ I say, ‘then send them back to Lauren with a note, asking if they’ve considered the legal implications if anyone is daft enough to try what Paige is suggesting these characters get up to. The thought of litigation might be enough to dissuade her.’
‘Good plan,’ he replies. Yet he’s still hesitating, chewing on his bottom lip.
‘What else are you worried about?’
‘My crime novel. Lauren’s had the full manuscript for nearly nine weeks, and I’ve asked her about it a couple of times, but she’s kind of brushed me off.’
I take James’s hand. ‘You know what publishing’s like. There are glaciers that move more quickly. And it’s holiday season. I’m sure she’s just waiting for the right people from acquisitions to all be back in the office.’
‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ He squeezes my fingers. ‘Have you heard what Mia’s been landed with as her next PAP?’
‘Yes! I couldn’t believe it when she told me the title. Deep Space Dominatrix.’
‘You have to hand it to Paige. Who else would decide to set an erotic novel on the International Space Station? Speaking of unlikely settings, how are the orchestral sexcapades coming along?’
I groan and drop my head into my hands.
‘It’s a disaster, James. I am so far behind schedule. I thought I had it all down to a fine art. Write the sex scenes, since that’s what Paige is mostly concerned about, then fill in the gaps with as much plot and characterisation and as many cliff-hanger moments as I can cram in. But with this . . .’ I sigh and flip open my notebook to show James all the outlines that I’ve worked out then deleted. ‘I just can’t make it work. It’s as if the writer’s block that’s been stymieing all my own projects has now infected the ghostwriting. I’ve barely written a third of the book, and my deadline is in two weeks. I’m screwed.’
James nods as he looks through the notebook.
‘Screwed with some inappropriately shaped musical instrument, I’d say. There’s nothing else for it. If you can’t get it done in time, you’ll have to ask for an extension.’
‘Bugger.’ I pick up a cinnamon bun and stuff it into my mouth, imagining Lauren’s expression if I ask for my deadline to be moved by two weeks. The three-books-a-year schedule doesn’t leave anyone much wiggle room. If I’m late, it impacts the copy-editors, and the proofreaders, and the cover designers, all of whom work on James and Mia’s books too. Worst case scenario: I miss my deadline, and the entirety of next year’s Paige Adams Pereira publishing schedule goes tits-up.
‘Look,’ James says, ‘why don’t you stick to your plan as much as you can? Let’s mind-map the sex scenes, make them really stupendous, and then the rest of it can be a bit crap, or even a lot crap, and Lauren still won’t really mind.’
‘Okay. I have been thinking about the pivotal scene at the end of the second act. Paige says in her outline she wants an orgy late on, so I thought, maybe the crazy conductor makes them all start performing some symphony in the nude, and everyone starts off tense and angry, and then it all gets extremely . . . graphic.’
‘That’s good,’ James nods, picking up a felt tip pen and turning to the pile of A3 sheets I’ve got ready at the end of the table. ‘And don’t ask me why, but I’m envisaging xylophones being in the mix somewhere.’
‘Ooh – we could hang a triangle off someone’s anatomy.’
‘Yes! See? This is the power of baked goods. Let’s get some more cake down you. We’ll have the whole book wrapped up by teatime.’
‘So, I obviously didn’t get the whole book done, but James helped me feel a lot better about it. I reckon I can go a couple of days over deadline without Lauren going completely Cruella de Vil, and hopefully that will give me enough time to churn out some sort of more or less complete draft.’
I press pause and take a sip of tea. It’s nearly ten-thirty at night, now. Daisy’s downstairs watching First Dates and probably talking to Daniel at the same time. I’m in my bedroom recording a voice memo to send to Kieran. He’s been having a difficult time the past few weeks, struggling to get used to the new restaurant and worrying about his dad. In an attempt to cheer him up, I’ve already recounted the discussions I had with James today about alternative uses for lab equipment and orchestral instruments, and I’ve described my ‘signature dish’ in detail, challenging him to improve upon it. But I want to be truthful, too. Especially since he opened up to me about his father.
I press the resume button and continue.
‘After James left, I went down to the Thames. It’s my mum’s birthday today – she would have been fifty-four – and I always buy some flowers and throw them on to the water. We used to live near the eastern end of the Thames, and Mum loved the river so much. She thought being buried or cremated was boring. She wanted a Viking funeral instead. She wanted to float down the Thames between fire and water.’
Mum always was one for crazy ideas. Let’s buy an old ice cream van but sell cake instead! Let’s stencil all our furniture and try to make a business out of selling it! Let’s forget school and work and take a train without knowing the destination! The ice cream van rusted to bits on the drive. Mum stencilled one chest of drawers, and I thought it was beautiful, but she wasn’t disciplined enough to take it any further. We did take the impromptu train journey, though. It was fun. Until we got separated, and I ended up in Portsmouth. I was the most scared I’d been in my life. Happy memories, sad memories. I’ve written them all down, terrified that I’ll forget.
I press the record button again.
‘Of course, I couldn’t actually organise a Viking funeral. It’s illegal, for starters. But I did throw her ashes into the river. Probably also illegal, but a lot less obvious. It’s where I go now, when I want to remember her.’ What else can I tell him? ‘Mum didn’t cook much – I think she found the organising a bit overwhelming. Easier to bung something in a microwave. But she did make tuna pasta bake, which is why I still make it. And Queen of Puddings, which is why it’s my favourite dessert.’
I pause the recording as a huge yawn overtakes me.
‘I need to go to bed. I’ve got a lot of words to write tomorrow. I think James is right, though. Maybe I should learn to cook some more things. And maybe . . . maybe you could teach me.’
I hesitate for a heartbeat or two, then plough on.
‘This is going to sound odd, since we’ve only actually spent two minutes together, but I miss you, Kieran. Night.’
I send the recording.
‘Night, Kieran,’ I say out loud. ‘Night, Mum. Happy birthday!’
Maybe, somehow, they can both hear me.
Chapter Eighteen
Kieran
Christmas morning, and I’m woken by the sound of church bells floating across the city, summoning the faithful to Mass. For a moment I feel guilty: if I were at home, I’d probably be going too. But today, with no work other than making my own Christmas lunch while advising Emma on hers, I’m enjoying what I decide is a well-earned lie-in. A fat morning, as they say over here: une grasse matinée.
I stretch out in my bed, luxuriating, until my stomach growls and prods me into movement. I picked up some croissants from a nearby pâtisserie yesterday; I decide to fill a couple of them with Gruyère cheese, warm them in the oven and serve with sautéed mushrooms. While I’m eating, I read a battered copy of A Christmas Carol. A family tradition that started with my mum reading it to Brendan and me and continued with us both re-reading it every Christmas. I take a photo of the cover and send it to Emma, along with a question – what’s your favourite Christmas book? – but I don’t want to call her, not yet. I don’t want to risk waking her. But Brendan, with two small children, will no doubt have been up since the crack of dawn, if not before. Once I’ve licked every last delicious morsel of the croissants from my fingers, I make myself a coffee and video call my brother.
‘Merry Christmas, Bren!’
Brendan is knee-deep in wrapping paper, and I can hear both the kids shrieking joyously in the background.
‘Merry Christmas, Kieran! Hey, kids, come and wish your uncle a merry Christmas and thank him for the presents. No, now – he’s on the – I know, Roisin, but it will still be there when you get back. No, Rudolf isn’t going to eat it, he’s definitely gone to bed now, the poor f – the poor soul.’ He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Niamh’s sister sent them each a variety pack of chocolate, and unfortunately the kids found them before we did. They’re both as high as kites on sugar and E-numbers. They’ll probably be sick any minute.’
‘Ah, the true joy of Christmas.’
He manages to corral the kids into frame. They wave at me and blow kisses – Colm has already managed to smear the Irish rugby jersey I sent him with chocolate, but at least he’s wearing it. A moment later they’ve wriggled out of his grasp and they’re off again. Niamh appears and puts her arm around Brendan’s waist.
‘Happy Christmas from the madhouse, Kieran. How’s Paris this morning?’
‘Peaceful. Calm. I made myself cheese and mushroom croissants for breakfast and I might go for a walk in a bit.’
She laughs, shaking her head.
‘You’re lucky I love you so much, ’cos it would be really easy to hate you right now.’ The noise from the kids ratchets up a notch. ‘Ah, for the love of – Brendan, go somewhere quiet to talk to your brother. Have a great day, Kieran. Kids, how about we watch The Muppet Christmas Carol again?’
The cacophony diminishes as Brendan walks away from the open plan living-dining area at the centre of their house.
‘How are Mum and Dad?’ I ask.
‘Not up yet, fortunately. I’ve taken them some tea. I think Dad had an okay night.’
‘And how is his weight?’
‘Better. Not where it should be, but better. I’ve been using those recipes you sent over. They’re good. You should put together a cookery book.’
‘Maybe one day.’ I grin, remembering the phone call I had yesterday. ‘Actually, I’ve a great opportunity coming up after Christmas. Arnaud is going into rehab.’
‘Oh, that’s brilliant news.’ My brother grins back at me. ‘So you’ll be able to come home for a while.’
I stare at him, trying to work out how to tell him he’s wrong. I stare for an instant too long. His grin fades.
‘Is that not what it means, Kieran? I thought you said you couldn’t take a break because Arnaud was determined not to close the restaurant, but surely, with him gone . . .’
The sentence hangs in the air.
‘It’s not quite that simple, Brendan,’ I say. ‘I’ll be in charge for at least eight weeks. I can cook my own dishes. And if Lavigne comes back – that restaurateur who was here the other night – it could change everything.’ I watch Brendan’s face, willing him to understand. ‘And Dad’s going for the respite care next week, so—’
‘The respite care is a great idea.’ Brendan sounds irritated. ‘We appreciate you paying towards it, we really do. But it’s not the same, Kieran. We’d all rather see you. So would Dad.’
‘But I can’t close the restaurant now. I just can’t. People are relying on me.’
Brendan shakes his head. ‘There’s always something, isn’t there? Anyone would think you don’t want to come back. That you’re afraid to come back.’
‘Don’t say that. Of course I want to come back.’ I open my mouth, about to say the same thing I said to Emma: six months. Give me six months, and it will all be different. But will it? If Lavigne does, by some miracle, want to set up a restaurant for me, he’s not likely to open it in Cork. And if I’m working to set up my own business I’ll have less time to travel, not more. Something else occurs to me: I’ve barely spent more than a year in one place since I was twenty. If I start a restaurant in Paris, how long will I have to stay?
‘What are you running from, Kieran?’ Brendan asks.
I’m asking myself the same thing.
‘Look, I don’t want to fight with you,’ he continues. ‘Today of all days. But just – think about it, will you? You don’t even have to spend all your time with us. You could go to London. Or invite Emma here. I’d love to meet her. I know Niamh would.’
I nod. ‘I’ll think about it. I promise.’ And I do mean to think about it. But Lavigne, if he should turn up again . . . ‘I’d better go. I’m cooking with Emma later, and I’ve some prep to do. I’ll call back this afternoon to talk to Mum and Dad.’
‘Of course. We’ll be here. And I don’t mean to be Scrooge. I miss you, that’s all.’
‘I miss you too. Hey, are you rereading—’
‘Of course. He’s just met the ghost of Christmas past.’
‘I’m already up to the ghost of Christmas present.’
Brendan laughs.
‘Wait until you have kids and see what they do to your reading speed.’ Niamh calls from somewhere in the background, and Brendan groans. ‘Once more unto the breach, I suppose.’
‘Good luck, Bren. Speak later.’
I end the call. Hesitate, and video call Emma. Her voice is soft with sleep when she answers, her eyelids look heavy, and she’s still lying down, head on her pillow.
‘Happy Christmas, Emma! I didn’t wake you, did I?’
‘No. I’m awake. Merry Christmas, Kieran.’
She smiles, but she doesn’t look as happy as I’d expected. There’s a haunted look in her eyes I don’t remember seeing before.
‘What’s wrong? Did you not get the book finished in time?’
‘Yeah, I did. I sent it off to Lauren at six-thi. . .
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