Night for Day - Softcover

Lim, Roselle

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593335643 ISBN 13: 9780593335642

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

Two people destined to be together, but to never see each other again, fight against the greatest odds in this powerful and moving fantasy novel by critically acclaimed author Roselle Lim.

Exes Ward Dunbar and Camille Buhay thought they would never see each other again. They had broken up to pursue their dream jobs on opposite sides of the country—her to New York City, and him to Los Angeles. But years later, they unexpectedly reconnect in London, where they are interviewing for similar jobs. The spark they feel when they meet again is palpable—the attraction comes back like muscle memory, reminding them of what they had lost. When Ward and Camille discover they both got the job working opposing shifts, they vow to give their relationship another try.

Ward starts the day shift and finds the immortal clientele unusual and dazzling. When he clocks out at the end of the day, he finds the door locked and himself trapped in the building. After a horrific first night shift contending with restless spirits and ghosts, Camille is also unable to escape. In their respective prisons, they discover that they’re able to talk to each other a few minutes before dawn. This fleeting encounter incites longing for each other, but their promise to be together feels impossible. Because they are caught in the middle of a war of the gods—and their choices will determine the outcome.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Roselle Lim is a Filipino Chinese writer who came to Canada from the Philippines as a young teen and learned English by watching wrestling shows on television. She has a degree in humanities and history from York University.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

Camille

Present day

Mistakes were meant to be in the rearview mirror-not walking, breathing, and able to cup your cheek to stoke every single smoldering memory long buried for self-preservation.

He shouldn't whisper my name as if he never stopped doing so for the past two years.

Even now, my fingers itched to reacquaint myself with the beauty of his face, then to trace the slight cleft in his chin down his smooth throat, and ever farther down, to where our once shared intimacy implied permission and invitation.

"Camille, I never thought I'd see you again, let alone in London." The way my name rolled off his tongue and slid through his lips always elicited the same response-it felt like a hot kiss at the nape of my neck.

Ward Dunbar. The mistake I'd commit again and again even knowing that the result would always be heartbreak.

"Job interview. If I get it, I'll be moving here." I adjusted the neckline of my buttoned dress shirt, expanding the view of bronzed skin below my collarbones. My traitorous body always reacted to him when he was in physical proximity. Easier to shut down my hormones through the sterility of a black glass screen.

He brushed an errant dark blond strand off his forehead. "I'm here for the same. Though I've passed the interview part."

The skies overhead darkened-clusters of gray clouds huddling together in conference. It had been sunny five minutes ago. Late spring weather in London changed on a whim with wicked fickleness, and we were sliding into the heat of summer. I packed an umbrella and a cardigan in my lavender vegan leather tote, but I didn't account for him. My purse didn't contain what I'd need to cope with the nuclear fallout of a failed relationship.

Avoidance therapy was the only method that worked. Putting thousands of miles between us and preventing myself from checking his social media accounts fueled a comfortable sense of forgetfulness-the kind that allowed me to function on a daily basis, but didn't prevent an occasional damaging slipup. It didn't hurt that he hadn't had any long-term relationships since then. Moving to Manhattan helped, and London should have cured me completely.

I was wrong.

Two days ago, I slipped and checked his Instagram. The selfie at an outdoor bookstall on the South Bank caused me to stop breathing for a few seconds. He was here and in the same city. I wasn't thinking when I sent him a direct message asking to meet at this bookshop. It was pure instinct-I turned off my brain and my heart took over, grabbing the wheel and changing the direction of my life.

"I never thought you'd leave LA." I resisted the urge to straighten the bent corner of his collar. No tie. I'd been the one responsible for those. His long, elegant fingers had other talents.

"I needed a change. This opportunity was as good a time as any." He tipped his head toward the bookshop. "It's going to rain. Can we duck in and chat?"

I followed him into one of the most beautiful little shops in Westminster. These buildings reminded me of an eclectic bookshelf-the windows and architectural details were charming, decorated spines of antique leather. Weathered stone, traditional painted wooden signs mixed with flashy modern ones and clean-line aesthetics. The mix of old and new fitting together in seamless coexistence.

To me, the past and present were constantly at war when I thought about Ward.

As if on cue, the curtain of rain began as he stepped into the shop. I caught a bit of it at the ends of my long hair and the back of my shirt. Again, I was reminded of what I'd be getting into if I decided to have another round in his bed-because that was where it always began.

He headed for the science fiction and fantasy section. He plucked the newest N. K. Jemisin novel from the shelf, tucked it under his arm, and continued to browse the titles, tracing his finger downward on the ones that perked his interest.

"So how does this affect your job in LA?" I took a step forward but maintained a safe distance. The scent of his subtle cologne along with the aroma of Irish cream coffee would undo my crumbling defenses. "Are you on sabbatical?"

Ward's cushy position at a very exclusive and trendy art gallery in LA was everything he ever wished for-flexible hours, the heavy array of movie stars and wealthy client meetings, and the perfect conduit to maximize his appeal. No one was impervious. He disarmed you with his good looks and gentle tone, then went in for the kill with the way he could make you feel. Empathy combined with charm was lethal.

"I quit."

I almost fell against a nearby bookcase. "You did what?"

"It's . . . I needed a change." He reached for my elbow to help me regain my balance. The heat of his touch distracted me. "I accepted a job yesterday and I start tomorrow. Now knowing that you're here, I'd say it's a great move."

Ward didn't let go yet. The worst part was that I didn't want him to. Instead, his fingertips grazed the inside of my forearm, tracing lazy circles with his thumb. I placed my hand on his.

"Do you ever think that-"

I didn't let him finish.

I covered his mouth with mine, devouring his words-my hands pressed against his hard chest, fingertips clinging against the thin silk fabric yearning for the lean muscle lying underneath. He kissed me back as if the present never existed, as if the past two years were a hazy dream and that the truth was that we were never apart.

It was a lie, but we both wanted to believe it. My mistake to repeat and, yes, it was his as well.

Everything rushed back. The flood of every single reason why we were so good together: the Sunday picnics and walks in Humboldt Park to visit the ducks, the easy late-night conversations curled up on the couch dissecting what we watched on movie night, merienda at my parents' house on the weekends, and those spontaneous escape room dates.

I never forgot how we met-he helped calm my nerves heading into my exams. I had one of my usual panic attacks before finals in college. It didn't matter how much I'd studied, I always panicked. He recognized the signs right away. He led me into a quiet, unused workroom and talked me through breathing exercises while holding my hand. He told me that his younger brother had them and he could understand.

Before this, I chalked him up as one of those pretty white boys who had no substance. This was the first time I came to realize that he was one of those origami magic balls with infinite folds. Every time I peeled back a piece of paper, I found another reason why I liked him, and in due time, it turned into love.

Even now, I still loved him.


The marathon between the bedsheets was always the easiest part of our relationship. The language of skin against skin silenced any objections. The complications began as soon as the scorching kisses ended.

As I lay in bed with him, I didn't want to acknowledge the time; instead, I dragged my fingertips across the smooth muscles of his abdomen. When it came to this, I was the child who didn't want to leave a party because it was too much of a good time. Didn't want to deal with any consequences after the fun was over.

Through the slight part in the blackout curtains, the capsules in the London Eye hung static with the rising sun, marking the transition from dim blue to radiant pinks, violets, and eventually golds and oranges. If he'd been awake, he'd wax poetic about the contrasting palettes of sunrises and sunsets. His fascination with them fueled his need to highlight passages in his beloved books whenever they were mentioned.

"That internal alarm clock of yours is uncanny." Sleep still coated his voice. He drew lazy circles on my naked shoulder with his thumb. "Your interview isn't until closer to noon."

"I still...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2024
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593335643
• ISBN 13: 9780593335642
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 352
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Penguin Random House Ireland; penguinrandomhouse@penguinrandomhouse.com; ; 1745 Broadway; New York; 10019; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: Penguin Random House Ireland; https://eu-contact.penguin.ie; ; Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street; Dublin; D02 YH68; Irland