Childhood best friends and first loves are reunited on a make-or-break work trip to Iceland, with old feelings coming to the surface in this charming romance from debut author Megan Oliver.

Mona Miller lives her life by platitudes: she s just fine, thanks; all good; not a problem! Everything is right as rain even if it s all a lie. Everyone at the travel magazine where she works knows her as a team player (in other words, the one who won t complain about the endless fluff pieces pushed her way). But, feeling snubbed after being passed over for a promotion, Mona jumps at an international assignment to Iceland, even though she s woefully unprepared.

She s determined to prove her worth, though, and her can-do attitude will scale any glacier. But the freelance photographer paired with her is none other than Benjamin Carter. Ben, her childhood best friend who understood her even when her family didn t. Ben, her first love first everything. And Ben, the boy who ghosted her fourteen years ago and left her brokenhearted.

There is a decade s worth of resentment Mona needs to ignore if she wants to make it through this trip. She ll put on her No worries! façade and hold Ben at a distance. But the more time they spend together, the more the ice around her heart melts. And as those old feelings spark back to life, Mona must decide if she s willing to go on the biggest adventure of all.

Autorentext
Megan Oliver is a writer, an avid romance reader, and a travel enthusiast whose vacation mishaps provide plenty of inspiration for her characters on page. She lives with her husband, two dogs who refuse to cuddle as much as she d prefer, and a cat who barely tolerates the presence of any and all above. Secret Nights and Northern Lights is her debut novel.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

There's a cold hard truth no one mentions about turning thirty-one: Nobody cares, yourself included. The youthful romanticism of one's twenties has passed. The pain of crossing the bridge into "real adulthood" at thirty has faded. And all that's left is the overwhelming sense that time passes faster and faster, the birthdays less meaningful each year, the individual days of the week racing by in a dulled blur.

It's fine, though.

I'm sure every person feels this way as they age. God, what an awful word that is when used as a verb.

Today's melancholic outlook likely stems from yet another birthday spent in the dull gray cubicle of my "office," spinning slow circles in my desk chair and memorizing the tatters in the Happy Birthday banner that's dragged out of the supply closet whenever there's an office birthday. Usually by me. But that's fine, too.

I, Mona Miller, age thirty-one as of midnight, am happy to fill the role of cheery office party planner, known peddler of a bright smile and an enthusiastic Lovely day out, isn't it?

But lately, my chipper exterior and No Worries! life motto feels like it's wavering. Then again, maybe this is what it's like to age into someone older and disillusioned. Perhaps I should join a bridge club or partake in a bingo night.

Who am I kidding? I'm not social enough for that.

But if I'm being honest, truly honest, with myself in this drab cubicle-the place no dreams are made of-perhaps my gloom stems not from my age in and of itself, but rather the idea I used to have of my life at this age, and how starkly different that idea is from reality.

I used to have dreams.

Big ones.

Now I have complacency, but it comes with a nice 401(k) match.

Before I can sink deeper into my philosophical birthday musings, my desk phone rings. Mid-reach, I take pause when the caller ID flashes an extension from one floor above. The thirty-seventh floor. The important floor.

Swallowing sudden nerves, I press the receiver to my ear with a cheerful, "Good morning, Shirley. What can I do for you today?"

"Cal wants you in his office," a husky smoker's voice rasps. "Stat."

There are a couple defining qualities when it comes to my boss's secretary. One, she's worked for Calvin Cramer III for exactly forty-two years-I should know, I bought her fortieth-anniversary cake-hence, the only reason she gets away with calling him Cal. And two, she smokes a pack a day minimum, yet has never been spotted in the designated smoking area outside the building. Everyone knows Calvin lets her smoke in the office when no one's watching.

The line goes dead, and Shirley's curt manner does nothing to quell the anxiety unspooling in my belly. In my seven years at Around the Globe Media, Calvin Cramer III has never once summoned me to his office. Placing the receiver back on the hook, I take a moment to get my bearings. Then I leave my cubicle, weaving through the monochrome walls like a mouse in a maze.

Am I getting fired on my birthday? Surely not.

My last article on the Montpelier Biscuit Festival may not have been Pulitzer-worthy journalism, but I thought I managed to highlight the kitschy, quaint charm in a way readers would find appealing.

Honestly, there is only so much one can do with a biscuit festival.

Reaching the elevator bay, my hand hovers on the down arrow as I briefly consider making a run for it. But that would never happen. I am nothing if not responsible, professional, dependable, and predictable-the embodiment of all the boring words wrapped into one. If getting fired on my birthday is my fate, I will face this unexpected challenge with class and a polite smile, most likely thanking Calvin for the opportunity and inquiring whom I shall appoint to the office party planning committee of one on my way out.

I press the up arrow.

Awaiting the elevator, I examine my reflec