Exes and O's Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  Set on You

  “Just the right dose of delicious steam. Amy Lea has crafted an ode to all of us who struggle with self-acceptance while remaining determined to love ourselves.”

  —Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis

  “Fresh, fun, and extremely sexy. Set on You is a romance of unexpected depth.”

  —Helen Hoang, New York Times bestselling author of The Heart Principle

  “Set on You is energetic, steamy, bubbly, and so, so fun. But more than that, it’s also a hugely important book that celebrates body positivity in the most joyous way possible.”

  —Jesse Q. Sutanto, author of Dial A for Aunties

  “Set on You is an incredibly fun and sexy slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers rom-com that had me invested from the first page. And in between all the steamy and swoony scenes, there’s also a thoughtful exploration of body positivity and the true meaning of loving yourself.”

  —Kerry Winfrey, author of Very Sincerely Yours

  “Set on You is the best kind of workout: one that ups your heart rate with its swoony hero, makes you sweat with its slow-burn tension, and leaves you satisfied with its themes of empowerment and self-acceptance. With a fresh, hilarious voice and a deeply relatable protagonist, this romantic comedy is enemies-to-lovers gold.”

  —Rachel Lynn Solomon, national bestselling author of The Ex Talk

  “Authentic and full of heart, this book is a must-read for fans of Helen Hoang and Sally Thorne.”

  —Lynn Painter, author of Mr. Wrong Number

  “The gym has never seemed such a sexy and romantic place as in this book!”

  —Denise Williams, author of How to Fail at Flirting

  “Amy Lea’s debut, Set on You, is a swoony, feel-good rom-com in its finest form. The prose is comforting as a hug, and the main character, Crystal, is a certified badass.”

  —Sarah Echavarre Smith, author of On Location

  “A fantastic debut! You’ll want to spend lots of time with Crystal and Scott (and their scorching chemistry!).”

  —Jackie Lau, author of Donut Fall in Love

  “This book’s appealing characters and gym-bound setting will resonate with anyone who’s ever mentally cursed a fellow gym-goer for failing to wipe down the machine post-use.”

  —USA Today

  “Set on You by Amy Lea is a fun, flirty, and hot AF romance.”

  —Culturess

  “Lea’s steamy debut romance features well-developed, likable characters with slow-build chemistry. . . . Hand this one to fans of Helen Hoang and Talia Hibbert.”

  —Library Journal

  “Lea’s prose is clear, witty, and powerful, delivering an ode to all those who struggle with self-acceptance.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Lea’s debut romance is a terrific rom-com that offers an essential message about accepting oneself, and it is a pleasure to read.”

  —Booklist

  TITLES BY AMY LEA

  Set on You

  Exes and O’s

  BERKLEY ROMANCE

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2023 by Amy Lea

  Readers Guide copyright © 2023 by Amy Lea

  Excerpt from The Catch copyright © 2023 by Amy Lea

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY and B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lea, Amy, author.

  Title: Exes and o’s / Amy Lea.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Romance, 2023.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022017318 (print) | LCCN 2022017319 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593336595 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593336601 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Humorous fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PR9199.4.L425 E94 2023 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.L425 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220414

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022017318

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022017319

  First Edition: January 2023

  Cover design and art by Victoria Chu

  Book design by Daniel Brount, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_6.0_142226813_c0_r0

  contents

  Cover

  Praise for Set on You

  Titles by Amy Lea

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  Discussion Questions

  Excerpt from The Catch

  About the Author

  To all the “crazy” ex-girlfriends

  Got a long list of ex-lovers

  They’ll tell you I’m insane.

  —TAYLOR SWIFT, “BLANK SPACE”

  author’s note

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for choosing my romantic comedy Exes and O’s as your next read. While this story is generally light and humorous, I would be remiss if I did not include the following content warnings: emotionally abusive ex, on-page gaslighting, portrayal of child with illness, mentions of deaths of loved ones, and deliberate use of the word crazy throughout.

  Note: this last one is vehemently condemned by me and the main characters. Please take care while reading.

  With love,

  Amy Lea

   chapter one

  YOU KNOW YOUR day is going swimmingly when you’ve been projectile vomited on and someone stole your Greek yogurt from the
staff room refrigerator. And it’s only seven in the morning.

  Eager to leave the memory of my hellish night shift behind, I’m in formation at the edge of the platform, stance wide, pointy elbows out, among hundreds of tired morning commuters primed to battle for a rare open seat on the subway.

  I’ve learned a thing or two about navigating a crowd from witnessing five-foot-tall Grandma Flo barrel her way through the grocery store, whacking innocents with her faux-crocodile purse with no apologies.

  Boston subway commuters may not be as ferocious as grocery store grannies, but they’ll trample you for an open seat all the same. I have a grotesque scar on my left shin to prove it.

  Thankfully, no blood is drawn in today’s war. In a rare turn of events, I have my choice of three seats: one beside a man three-too-many edibles deep, passionately air drumming; another next to a woman with bubble-gum-pink hair open-mouth smiling; and one across from an adorable elderly couple bundled in matching red parkas thick enough for a perilous Arctic expedition.

  I nab the seat across from the elderly couple and set my purse at my feet, eager to avoid all reality with my trusty worn paperback. This book has all my vices: a ball-busting heroine with a sharp tongue and a kind-eyed yet emotionally constipated ex-boyfriend.

  A few paragraphs into a juicy yacht scene, my phone dings with a text. It’s from my sister.

  CRYSTAL: Hope you had a good shift. We’ll meet you at the apartment soon. Just loaded all your boxes in the car! Cheers to new beginnings.

  Crystal is two years younger than me, though everyone assumes she’s the older one because I’ve been overstaying my welcome in her one-bedroom condo for the past eight months.

  “New beginnings,” I mutter to no one in particular, trying to psych myself up for a morning of manual labor.

  I’ve only recently peeled myself from rock bottom after my happily ever after plot twisted into a Nicholas Sparks tragedy. Truthfully, the prospect of more change triggers my gag reflex, but I’m trying to stay optimistic. Moving out means I’ll be free to read on the couch for six straight hours without anyone throwing shade, and Crystal gets privacy with her new fiancé, Scott—who I’m swapping apartments with.

  The subway veers around a sharp curve with an earsplitting squeal, causing the entire length of my thigh to press against a complete stranger’s. The luxury of public transit. When I brave a glance at my cozy neighbor, a pair of hooded, azure eyes ensnares mine from behind tortoiseshell-framed glasses. The striking sky-blue shade of his eyes offsets a full head of lusciously thick ginger hair.

  As a lifelong connoisseur of romance novels, I’m keenly aware that eye contact lasting longer than three seconds is ripe with romantic potential.

  “Good book?” His voice is thick, almost sleepy.

  Stunned, I scrutinize his face for any sign of sarcasm. That’s the thing about reading romance. Book covers depicting unfairly attractive, half-nude models embracing in a passionate lip-lock are perennial targets of mocking and snobbery. Welcome to the patriarchy.

  Sweat pools into the underwire of my bra when he smiles, revealing teeth so white, they appear artificial under seizure-inducing subway lighting. His question takes me off guard, and he can tell, because he bashfully follows it up with, “I read a little romantic suspense, if you’re wondering.”

  My toes curl inside my nursing shoes. Has fate gifted me an emotionally adept, romance-reading Prince Harry look-alike? Because I’m eternally void of all chill, I spew questions at rapid-fire speed. “You read romance? Who have you read? Which titles?”

  I refrain from sudden movements as he tilts his head, dithering. “Okay, you got me. I lied. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you. I do read, though,” he adds, his gaze falling to my purse at my feet.

  “What’s your genre of choice? And please don’t say poetry,” I beg. For the record, I hold no ill will toward poetry, but I was ghosted in college by a dude who did slam poetry and the wound still cuts deep.

  “Horror. I have a sick addiction to it, actually,” he admits, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  The seams of my proverbial corset threaten to burst with suppressed delight. I’m not a horror reader, but men south of sixty who regularly read fiction are an endangered species that must be protected at all costs.

  “Malevolent spirits or blood and guts?”

  He grimaces, struggling under the weight of his choices. “Can I say both? Is that creepy?”

  “It is borderline morbid. But I’m okay with it.” More than okay with it.

  “I’m Nate.” His introduction is followed by an enchanting Disney prince–like smile.

  “I’m Tara.” Our gazes lock again, kicking my heart into overdrive. It’s hammering fast and furious. Either I’m going into cardiac arrest, or I’m having a meet-cute with the blueprint of square-jawed perfection. It’s hard to say.

  If I weren’t wearing my most unflattering, shapeless nursing scrubs, I’d probably twirl around the subway aisle, arms outstretched, like a blissful middle-aged person in an allergy medication commercial who’s finally experiencing life’s joy without watery eyes and nasal congestion.

  In the span of ten minutes, I’ve learned all there is to know about Nate. He’s twenty-five (five years my junior, but I’m willing to embrace the Cougar Life), works at an investment firm, owns his very own condo, would choose mustard over ketchup if stranded on a remote island, and is secure enough in his manhood to admit his fondness for Taylor Swift’s latest album. Creatures like him are a romance reader’s wet dream. The man just oozes soul mate potential, and I’m eagerly absorbing it like a ShamWow.

  In fact, peak soul mate status is reached when he waves enthusiastically at a cherub-faced toddler waddling up and down the aisle. Hello, dad material.

  Cue the violins. I’ve just fallen in insta-love.

  If this were a romance book, the clouds would part as we exit the subway at any given stop, lockstep, hand in hand. We’d spend the cool October day doing the usual things soul mates do: ignoring all responsibilities, discovering random dives around the city, drinking liquor wrapped in a brown paper bag, and revealing all our emotional baggage as the sun sets. At the end of the night, he’d fold me into a passionate embrace under the starry sky and bless me with a foot-popping kiss, preferably with a little tongue.

  Turns out, this is no romance book. I don’t even have the chance to name our golden retriever and four unborn children. In the nonfiction life of Tara Li Chen, the following events unfold in chronological order:

  1) The subway comes to an abrupt halt. Hordes of people funnel to the exit.

  2) A new group of commuters push and shove their way in. A lanky dude wearing a May the Gains Be with You T-shirt over a full Lycra getup beelines it for the only remaining seat, to the quiet dismay of a very pregnant woman.

  3) By the time the crowd settles, Soulmate Nate is no longer next to me. In fact, he’s vanished entirely.

  4) And so has my purse.

  LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—THE DEATH OF THE MEET-CUTE

  EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT

  [Tara appears on-screen at an upward chin angle, seemingly out of breath, hair slicked back in an unflattering founding fathers’ ponytail. She power walks down a bustling city sidewalk in a seedy neighborhood.]

  TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel, where I talk all things romance. First, I’d like to apologize for my hiatus the past few days. I’ve been super busy with work and packing for my move, which happens to be today. Yay!

  Since I’ll be spending the better part of my day schlepping boxes, this episode is going to be super brief. I want to talk about meet-cutes.

  You all know I’m a sucker for a good meet-cute. I mean, they’re a beloved staple in romance. The best ones involve the spilling of a scalding-hot beverage, or a near-death experience. Sometimes it even verges in
to meet-ugly territory, where they dawdle in mutual loathing and delightfully petty prejudice for half the book. That is . . . until they discover each other’s emotional sides and fall head over heels in love.

  [Tara waits impatiently at an intersection and stares into the camera of her brand-new phone, brow cocked.]

  Thanks to the internet—don’t even get me started on online dating—real-life meet-cutes are DEAD and I’m in mourning. In today’s harsh world, any stranger, no matter how beautiful, who makes eye contact for longer than a few consecutive seconds most definitely has nefarious intentions and will mug you in broad daylight. I speak from experience.

  Is all hope lost once you hit thirty? I’m beginning to think so. If anyone would like to prove me wrong with some adorable, real-life meet-cute stories, I’m all ears.

  COMMENTS:

  I met my husband online. We’ve been happily married for ten years. Meet-cutes are overrated.

  Tara, I completely agree with you. I’m waiting for my in-person meet-cute too. Preferably in between rows of dusty mahogany shelves in a public library.

  * * *

  • • •

  EVERYTHING IS FINE. EVERYTHING IS FINE.

  I mentally repeat that phrase as I haul myself up the stairwell to my new apartment. To my new life.

  It’s fine that I got mugged. It’s fine that I’ll need to cancel all my credit cards. It’s fine that I had to buy a new phone. It’s fine that I’m moving into a new apartment, sight unseen. It’s fine that it boasts a chronically broken elevator, even though I’m a staunch proponent of a sedentary lifestyle. IT’S ALL FINE.

  When I reach the third flight, I take a momentary lean against the wobbly handrail, balancing my heart-shaped throw pillows. In between wheezes, I force my mouth into a smile, a trick I use to reset when I’m spiraling into a negativity vortex.

  There’s no reason to hate on my brand-new digs. It may not be the Ritz, but from what I’ve seen of the run-down, orange-tiled entryway and probably haunted concrete stairwell, it’s the nicest place I can afford on the direct subway line to the hospital that isn’t a roach-infested basement apartment. And Scott was charitable enough to leave me his gently used bedroom furniture, free of charge.