What's Love Got To Do With It?: A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy!

By Anna Premoli

A hilarious romantic comedy from bestseller Anna Premoli. Perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk.

Kayla David is a high-flying journalist in New York City, spending all her time drinking martinis and writing about fashion trends. She is perfectly happy with her life, and she certainly has no time for falling in love.

That is, until, her boss decides to send her on a secret mission back to her hometown of Arkansas: she is tasked with exposing the truth about the fracking industry and to use her reputation as a lifestyle columnist as a disguise. She is horrified at the thought of returning to this boring country town, but up for the challenge.

Yet, she didn't plan on having to deal with Grayson Moir, the sexy but aloof mayor of Heber Spring. As Kayla settles into life there she soon realises that it might be a bit more difficult than she thought to keep her real mission a secret. And what's more, she finds it increasingly difficult to keep her heart under control too...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Oct 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781788548434

Anna Premoli

Anna Premoli is a bestselling author in Italy. She began writing to relieve stress while working as a financial consultant for a private bank. Her novel, Love to Hate You won the Bancarella prize in 2013.

Book preview

Prologue

Still half asleep, I stretch languidly while I reach out to take the coffee my boss is holding out to me. He’s obviously trying to bribe me…

Unfortunately, the cup is so hot that I almost drop it as soon as my fingers make contact. Despite its inviting aroma, I decide to put it on the desk and avoid burning my stomach with it for the moment – I do desperately need a caffeine shot, but I do not need third-degree burns.

I’ve never understood the reason why office vending machines produce beverages at temperatures hot enough to trigger nuclear fusion. Could it be that it’s a way of quietly bumping off incautious employees and saving the bosses a bit of money?

So, did you have an interesting night? asks my boss with a chuckle.

The dark circles under my puffy eyes show just how committed I am to my job. I am a journalist, and I am responsible for writing about the night life of New York City. And needless to say, I am as meticulous about my job as is humanly possible.

Well, you know what they say, I reply with a wink. Friday night is the new Saturday night.

He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. What a load of bull! When I was young, Friday night was just a night like all the others. Those were the days! We didn’t need Fridays to always be epic. But I guess that only goes to show that I’m old, he mutters quietly. ‘I’m not really up to date with the new trends in night life…

It was getting married that did for you, I tease him, I know you used to be the king of New York’s night life back when you were a young buck.

Yeah, right… And which marriage are you referring to, exactly? he says, playing along. The first or the second?

It takes a hell of a lot of self-confidence to be able to joke about your own life that way. Not many people would be willing to give that much about themselves away, and that’s why I respect Roger so much more than I ever actually tell him. At the end of the day he’s still my boss, though, so it’s wise not to pay him too many compliments.

The second, of course, I say with conviction. It made you too happy, and happy people are really annoying.

What a dumb thing to say, he scolds me with a chuckle.

Ok, maybe I meant more boring than annoying… Really boring! I insist in the tone of someone who knows what they’re talking about. Come on, don’t you try and deny it!

Roger looks at me with a benevolent smile. Aren’t you a little too cynical for a thirty-two year old woman who’s never been married? I mean, you need to get a good two or three divorces under your belt before you’re eligible to join the holy matrimony haters club, you know.

Hah, ‘holy’! That’s a good one, boss.

What can I say, I’m a funny guy, he agrees. What I said before is still true, though: you’re too cynical, and it’s not even lunch time yet! Hell, Kayla, what am I supposed to do with you?

I shrug and don’t bother replying. It’s half past eight in the morning and I wasn’t even supposed to be working this Saturday, so I’m not really in the ideal mood to try and engage in this kind of existential conversation. I feel like I’ve already been nice enough just showing up in the damn newsroom after I got his message.

The truth is that I like Roger, even though everything is always terribly urgent for him – and he likes me too, even if I, unlike him, have never met something that was so urgent it couldn’t wait. We are absolutely chalk and cheese, but luckily we work well together.

Ah, forget about it, he says, giving up. Let’s get down to the important stuff instead. Are you still determined not to write anything about the new district attorney? He has the resigned expression of someone who is obliged to ask the same old question yet again but has no expectation of receiving a different answer. And rightly so.

"I sure am. You know that Amalia’s my best friend, I could never write articles about her and her partner."

He gives a resigned sigh. Okay, sure, I get it, but it would have been a great opportunity for you to start writing about new things and moving your career forward. Pretty soon, you’re going to be too old to party all night and write about where to get the best cocktails in Manhattan, he points out, trying to put it as gently as possible.

"Hey, whatever you might think, I can assure you that my readers are way more interested in drinks and parties than they are in Middle Eastern affairs," I reply. And unfortunately, we both know I’m right.

Well, that ought to tell you something about the world we’re living in… he replies, sounding disheartened.

A journalist isn’t supposed to judge. A journalist’s duty is to simply tell the truth and allow the readers to make up their own minds. It was you who taught me that, I remind him.

He shakes his head again. You really are a piece of work…

I hope that he means it in an affectionate way, but I’m not 100 per cent sure he does…

So anyway, since you can’t write about the city’s politicians, what would you say to going on an assignment? he asks.

My ears perk up and I start listening with more attention. Roger has never sent me anywhere before, even though I’ve asked him often enough. The furthest I’ve been was a theatre out in Queens, the Westchester, and I don’t really think that qualifies as an assignment.

I would certainly say that it’s a possibility… I reply in a cautious voice. My expression, though, must reveal all my enthusiasm, even if I am doing my damnedest to hide it. Now he knows that he’s got me where he wants me.

Great – so you’re leaving—

Hold on a minute: you haven’t told me anything about the job yet. I’m not saying yes until I’m sure that you’re not just trying to get rid of me by sending me thousands of miles away to investigate the slave trade or something. So please tell me what this is about first. I’m very proud of myself for actually managing to fake a bit of reluctance.

He stares at me. "The slave trade? Where the hell do you get these weird ideas? Even if I was planning to commission something about stuff like that, do you think I’d assign the job to someone who’s only ever reviewed bars and clubs?" he says, then laughs out loud for a very long time.

I glare at him.

Hey, don’t put me down! Not many other journalists have the experience I’ve accumulated in my years in the field, I reply proudly.

"Okay, but don’t you want to start accumulating some experience in other fields? Maybe get some bigger thrills than just hitting on guys in bars?"

He’s making fun of me, the asshole. I give him an offended look.

"Of course I want to change – but I don’t want to give up men. I like that part of my life."

That’s all I needed to hear: the job is yours! he exclaims cheerfully. I can’t believe I’ve fallen into another of his traps… I stare at him with a discouraged expression.

So where are you sending me, then?

To Arkansas, he says, as if it was perfectly normal.

I open my eyes wide in panic. No! Not to Arkansas, please! I’m all set to get down on my knees and beg.

My sadist of a boss is actually looking amused by my desperate reaction. What the hell are you getting so worked up about going to Arkansas for? It’s hardly the Far West! And isn’t it where you were born anyway? he asks as he scratches his chin.

"That’s the point: I know the place well enough and I hate the countryside! Can you imagine me living out in the boondocks? I need to see the crowds in the street and smell the awful stink of the underground: it’s reassuring!" I say. Hey, as far as I’m concerned, everybody is entitled to their own weirdness.

Girl, you are out of your mind. Well I think that spending a few months in the countryside can only be good for your health…

"Months? Did you say ‘months’?"

My voice is starting to get a little loud, but Roger doesn’t seem to have noticed.

I have a fantastic project in mind, and you’re going to love it too, he explains. But to avoid raising suspicion, I need someone local to take care of it.

I am not ‘local’! My mother and I got the hell away from there when I was only five! I say imploringly, trying to get him to change his mind.

Don’t you have an aunt who still lives there? he asks innocently.

Never, and I really do mean never, ever speak to your boss about your family. Sooner or later, they will use all the information they’ve managed to gather against you.

She’s not really my aunt, I reply in a quiet voice, she’s my late grandmother’s sister.

Look, Kayla, let me be blunt: I don’t care if she is or isn’t your aunt… She’s still a damn good excuse for you to spend a bit of time there. Where exactly does she live? he asks, peering at me the way a predator looks at its prey.

In Heber Springs… I mumble, hoping that he won’t be able to hear me. But my hopes are vain, because he seems to be able to hear me perfectly well. Scores at the moment: exceptional Hearing 1 – Kayla 0.

That’s perfect! His face is so ecstatic that for a moment I’m scared he’s about to kiss me. I still don’t understand what the hell he’s so happy about, though.

I really don’t get why you’re suddenly so interested in a small town that nobody has ever heard of before, I say with a disgusted expression.

Have you ever heard about shale gas and shale oil? he asks me cryptically.

The question takes me by surprise. I hadn’t really been expecting him to come out with something like that. Err, kind of, I guess. Like everyone else… I mean, I know what it is, in theory. Let’s say I have a very superficial knowledge of the matter. I guess it’s when you drill a hole in the ground and put various substances in there until you provoke a hydraulic fracture that liberates some gas or oil or something? That’s all I know. I’ve never had the chance to study the subject in depth, as I’m sure you can imagine. And who cares about it anyway?

That’s because you spend all your time drinking Cosmopolitans instead of getting informed about the real problems of the country, he scolds me in a teasing voice. I feel like a lazy student being criticised in front of the whole class, and it’s working – I’m actually starting to feel guilty. But luckily, I’m only capable of feeling guilt for a couple of seconds at a time.

Look, I don’t know anything about nuclear fusion or fission either and I don’t think that’s a problem for anyone, to be honest. What am I anyway, an environmental engineer? I don’t think so. My job is to take care of our newspaper’s New York social life column, I remind us both.

And on paper that’s what you’ll continue to do, except that you’ll be doing it from Heber Springs. You current assignment will be your cover.

I’m trying very hard to follow him, but I still don’t know where he’s going with all this. "There is no social life in Heber Springs, and so there’ll be nothing for me to talk about. The place is just straight up dead! There’s nothing there, except for the few hundred people who haven’t run away from it yet."

"Few thousand, to be precise," Roger corrects me while checking the town on the Internet.

"That’s only if you count the whole county. In any case, it doesn’t change the fact that more people live in my block than in miles and miles of that deserted wilderness of Arkansas." I hope he’s getting the message: I need to be surrounded by people at all times. I love crowds!

Roger’s face, though, tells me that he’s not actually inclined to sympathise with my personal necessities. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"It’s going to be a great column: A City Girl in the Country. Our female readers will love it," he says, completely ignoring me.

"But I am going to hate it! I reply stubbornly. Don’t you think it’s important for me to like my assignments?"

He doesn’t even bother to answer.

And when you’re not busy with your cover column, you’ll be investigating the shale gas thing.

"In Arkansas?" I ask doubtfully. The last time I was there – which was a fair few years ago – the local economy was mainly based on agriculture, farming and not much else. I know that there were some bauxite caves or something like that, but I never really looked into it. I just wasn’t interested, and I bet nobody else would be either.

You need to catch up, Kayla. In Fayetteville, Arkansas, there is one of the biggest shale gas sites in the whole United States. And as soon as you start to look into it, you’ll realise how important shale gas is for the energy independence that the US is hoping to achieve. All our future energy plans are based on this new method of methane extraction, and it’s all on the basis of assumptions which have yet to be completely proven, in my opinion, he says cautiously.

His last words pique my curiosity. What do you mean? I ask.

"Let’s just say that some States, like Arkansas, are embracing fracking without hesitation while in other states the authorities are doing the exact opposite: they are banning it completely."

Are they? Where? I’ll admit that I’m no expert on all this fracking stuff, but if different states have adopted such radically different approaches, the journalist in me wants to know why. Luckily my curiosity didn’t completely die when I heard that I had to move to Arkansas.

For example in Los Angeles, in some parts of New Mexico and in a lot of cities in Colorado. Local authorities are not convinced that injecting a mysterious mixture of water and chemicals into the ground is a good idea. And what’s more, the web is full of studies into the connection between the horizontal perforations, which are necessary for obtaining shale gas and oil, and earthquakes. Nobody is really talking much about all this in the US, but people are studying and debating it abroad. It’s a delicate subject: they promised us we would become energy independent, but they didn’t explain to us at what cost. One of the most immediate consequences, for example, is that a ton of aquifers across the country have been polluted.

I look at him in disbelief. So how come the local residents aren’t raising hell, then?

Easy: they get huge paydays for letting their land be used.

Okay, I get it. The same old story. It’s amazing how some things never change.

Ok, but if that means that they risk having an earthquake and having their water polluted… I say. If I were in their place, it wouldn’t be easy to convince me to let them do that to my land. I mean, I don’t actually own any land, but still. My only precious possessions are my shoes. Which are quite precious; I certainly wouldn’t put them at risk for the sake of some dumb shale gas.

The thing is that they only usually find out about these problems after the operations have been concluded. As I said, the press hasn’t spoken much about all this because in 2000, shale gas amounted to barely 2 per cent of national natural gas production in the United States. Whereas now, it constitutes over 40 per cent. The industry has been growing exponentially while the press has been too busy with more urgent matters: 9/11, al-Qaeda, Syria… you name it. Whatever the reasons for the lack of interest, though, American industries can now benefit from a substantial competitive advantage, which is that on average they pay three times less for their gas than their competitors in the rest of the world, thanks to this sudden abundance. It’s a very efficient way to have the upper hand when you’re negotiating with Arab countries, Latin American countries and even with Russia, which hasn’t exactly been friendly over the last few years… When you produce as much gas as we do, whether oil is involved in the process or not, you’re in the position of deciding its price at an international level, and that way, you can also control the exchange rates and trade balances of countries which still rely on traditional production methods.

Wow, I say in astonishment while I try and process all that information.

Always remember that wars nowadays aren’t fought by armies. Conflicts are more subtle – they’re fought through the prices of commodities, finance, exchange rate balances and so on. You can be a big country, but if the international markets want to destroy you, they will. There’s no way anyone can win against them. What matters is determining what is going to trigger it.

"Now do you see why I stick to writing about cocktails? I ask ironically, I’m a very wise woman."

You are, and that’s the reason why I thought of you when I heard about Arkansas.

My expression immediately becomes less cheerful. The mere word ‘Arkansas’ gives me a weird uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach… and no amount of ginger tea is going to make it go away.

Yes, my dear Kayla. In Arkansas they are giving out permits to set up wells for the extraction of shale gas. Everybody there saw how rich the people from Fayetteville suddenly became, and now they all want a piece of the pie. The point is that the environmental problems involved are massive: desertification, destruction of landscape, methane being released into the atmosphere and, last but not least, the greenhouse effect. And on top of that, the companies who are actually managing all these operations have extremely unstable ratings. They’re in business now, but nobody knows for how long.

So why didn’t I know anything about all this?

Roger smiles: Exactly – and you’re not the only one. We all need to be informed about it. People need to know how the local authorities are managing the whole process and how they are studying the related problems. I want to know if they’re just being ignorant and uncaring or if it’s something worse: corruption.

After hearing all this, moving to Arkansas still feels like a tragedy but I have to admit that it also sounds a little more interesting. And I’m certainly not going to tell my boss that I was actually starting to get a bit bored of having to write about cocktails all the time… I’m a well known journalist in the city, but I’ve never really written anything important. It would be pretty cool to accomplish something worthwhile at least once in my career.

So, can we tell Arkansas that you’ll be there soon? Roger asks me with a smile.

I guess you can, I reply, using words that I would have never imagined being able to say without being high on something. Arkansas, here I come.

1

I realise that there’s something a little – or even a lot – ironic about managing to get yourself lost in the twenty-first century, but then I’m the type of woman whose bad karma is legendary. When it comes to unlikely or even downright impossible adventures, hey, I’m the queen.

I’m always the exception to the rule, the odd number that ruins a perfect statistical sequence. If I were an economist, I’m pretty sure that notorious black swan would choose my chimney to build its nest on. There aren’t many chimneys in New York, luckily, though I’m not sure about here in Arkansas…

After touching down in Little Rock, I’m now driving my rented economy car towards Heber Springs, and hoping and praying that I’m on highway number 65. Because there’s always the possibility that this is not, in fact, state highway 65, and in that very unfortunate case, I’m in serious trouble. Before some genius suggests it: yes, I did try and read the signs along the road. They didn’t help. In fact, I think they might have confused me even more.

Anyone else in my position would just turn their mobile on and use the navigator to work out where the hell they are, but I can’t, because the battery of my mobile phone is flat at the moment. The damn thing turned itself off as soon as I left state highway 40, near Conway, to take the 65.

I really don’t know why people think mobile phones are such a useful bit of tech if the batteries don’t last even half a day. As my mother would put it: this kind of thing just didn’t used to happen ten years ago. And for once I’d say that she’s absolutely right.

My sense of direction is appalling, so although I’m fairly certain that I’m on the correct road, I wouldn’t bet my new bag on me being right. I wouldn’t even bet an old bag, to be honest. I have a special relationship with my bags. Together with my shoes, they represent one of the truest loves of my life. But if I was a bit closer to my family and if I’d come to visit my late grandmother’s sister, Aunt Jill a bit more often in the past, I would be able to work out where exactly the hell I am right now.

But the fact is that I’m allergic to human relationships, whether in the context of romance or family. My mother and I are both proud that we have a relatively balanced rapport: there are no unresolved problems or traumas between us, we both simply live our own lives. We don’t call each other very often, which might sound strange to some people, but we are just too busy, and I certainly don’t have time to tell her every single thing that happens during my day. She, on the other hand, not only does she not find my behaviour offensive, she actively encourages me not to spend hours on the phone, as she has neither the time, nor the desire, to listen to me talking for long.

Feeling pretty demoralised by my inability to work out where I’m going, I decide to stop somewhere along the road and see if there’s a map anywhere in the car. I’m just hoping that hire car companies still equip their cars with them.

If my newspaper paid a little more for assignments, I could have chosen a car with more accessories. I could have rented a car with a built in navigator, for example, but instead I had the to choose the most basic model available. It’s no surprise that the monthly rent for this car is less than what a normal one would cost for a week.

I brake hard and turn off towards a stopping place, and a huge cloud of dust submerges the whole vehicle. What the hell… I shout in disbelief as I climb, coughing, out of the car. Aren’t pull ins tarmacked in Arkansas? Evidently not.

I wait for the dust to clear a little so I can see the view and then I head towards the trunk. I open it and only barely manage to avoid bursting into tears of joy: it’s full of maps! I love people who ignore technology and stubbornly continue to use things like paper road maps.

I take out the one I need and start looking at it and turning it in every possible direction in the hope of finding my location. I peer around, but can’t see any landmarks anywhere… Of course, if the dust would stop obstructing my view for a moment I might have a better chance at finding one.

While I’m trying to study the horizon, I hear someone braking very close to me. Startled, I turn to see a dark pickup truck pulling up behind my car. Before it appeared the dust had almost settled, but now the air’s full of it again, damn it!

Oh, what the hell! I can’t help shouting. And my next instinct is to go grab the pepper spray I keep in my bag: you never know how many psychopaths there are roaming the streets these days – especially the dustier ones. And on top of that, I’m a New Yorker, and we’re suspicious of everything. The world is full of serial killers, and given my luck, I might have bumped into one just as soon as I entered this state with its dusty pull-ins.

The door of the pickup opens and out climbs a guy dressed in clothes that have seen better days: his jeans look so old that the pair I’ve got at the back of the closet, and that I considered totally out of fashion, look almost brand new in comparison. He’s also wearing a very dusty black t-shirt, worn boots, sunglasses, and has a cowboy hat on his head.

Is this guy actually wearing a cowboy hat in 2015? Someone should tell him this isn’t Texas. I wouldn’t wear one of those things if they put a gun to my head. My expression is half worried by the possibility that he might be dangerous and half amused at the sight of him – he’s a very different specimen from the city people I’m used to seeing. His tight t-shirt reveals very toned muscles, which makes me think that if he is a serial killer, at least he’s a buff one. Not that it makes the situation any better… Ok, I’ll admit it: it does make it a tiny bit better.

He notices my rigid posture and takes off his hat and glasses as though to reassure me. The sight of his face makes me at least relax my grip on my bag and its contents a little. Maybe I won’t need to use my pepper spray after all.

His dark blond hair is cut very well. It’s short and practical in a way that suits his face perfectly. But there is nothing at all practical about those eyes, though: they are light blue and somehow remind me of my friend Amalia’s. I’m guessing a man with eyes as beautiful as those can’t be a psychopath, right?

Do you need help? he asks. The man has a deep voice, and I can’t detect any accent. That is a very suspicious trait around these parts. I stand there perplexed for a moment. Should I ask for directions or shouldn’t I? I can’t decide.

He waits for me to say something, but after my prolonged silence adds, I saw your car parked here and was wondering if you’re having some kind of trouble. If possible, I’m even more suspicious after those words. I’m not used to strangers stopping on a road to ask me if I need help. That type of thing just doesn’t happen in my city.

Are you a serial killer? I ask him seriously.

Instead of taking offence or punching me in the face, he bursts out laughing, showing his perfectly straight teeth. "Do you really think that if I were a serial killer I’d come out and tell you I was?" he asks, visibly amused.

The world is full of crazy people, and some of them like to terrorise their victims, I reply.

He shakes his head incredulously. Do you know what the real problem in this country is? he says, talking a step towards me.

I instinctively step backwards. Is it that China owns such a large share of our public debt? I say, hazarding a guess. It happens to me all the time when I’m stressed: I come out with weird, but strangely intelligent, things. Luckily it doesn’t happen often… He looks at me surprise. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the kind the answer you were expecting to hear, I get that.

You’re not from around here, he says with conviction.

Reviews for What's Love Got To Do With It?

[nelispelusa · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Rcvd an ARC at no cost to author..(netgalley) I was disappointed I really didn't like this book and couldn't even continue and I dislike giving bad reviews. I must admit I had a read a book from Anna a while ago and while I enjoyed it to a point it wasn't fantastic in my opinion so I kind of avoided reading this author for a while I just didn't think it was my cup of tea. Anyhoo I decided to give this book a chance, don't get me wrong I didn't hate author just wasn't someone who made me excited to grab book, however the blurb caught my attention and I really didn't think it lived up to the interest, you may like it but me nope nope nope and this sealed the deal and that is also something I dislike but I dont want to waste anybody's time nor mine, so no I don't recommend.