The Summer Share - Softcover

McKinlay, Jenn

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593955463 ISBN 13: 9780593955468

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

When two misfits discover they’ve inherited the same beach house, sparks fly in the most unexpected ways, in this hilarious and heartfelt rom-com from the New York Times bestselling author of Summer Reading.

Free-spirited travel influencer Hannah Spencer has spent five years touring the country in her vintage van, alone save for her hulking Great Dane, Dude. Until an unexpected inheritance from her pops has Hannah thinking about putting down roots in Cape Split, North Carolina, where she’s the new owner of a worse-for-wear seaside beach house. Or, rather, fifty percent of one. Turns out Simon O’Malley inherited the other half from his gramps.

As Simon and Hannah spend the summer tag-teaming repairs on the crumbling cottage, they discover it was once home to a timeless love story. As their own relationship shifts from enemies to friends to lovers, they begin to wonder if the house’s romantic past might be a good omen for their future together. But there’s one problem—Simon is set on selling the property at the end of the summer.

For Hannah, the Split isn’t like anyplace she’s ever been, and Simon isn’t like any man she’s ever known—she doesn’t want to let this new life go. She just needs Simon to see their budding relationship and this newfound community in the same way, or their first summer share might also be their last.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jenn McKinlay is the award-winning New York Times, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of several mystery and romance series. Her work has been translated into multiple languages in countries all over the world. She lives in sunny Arizona in a house that is overrun with kids, pets, and her husband’s guitars.

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One

Hannah

"Good morning, travelers," I said to the camera on my phone, which was perched in its holder on the dashboard of my vintage Volkswagen van.

Bang! The right-front tire lurched into a pothole on the sorely neglected road.

"Ah!" I took my foot off the gas and swerved out of the danger zone. The van didn't shimmy or pull so we hadn't popped a tire. Hallelujah. I'd had enough flats in my career as an online camper van enthusiast to know when Buttercup-yes, my baby had a name-was in trouble.

Dude, my Great Dane rescue, lurched to his feet and shoved his big blocky head in between the front seats-to offer assistance, no doubt, as he was always helpful like that. I reached up and rubbed his soft, floppy ears.

"It's okay, buddy. We're almost there." I tapped the camera off on my phone. Given the poor condition of the road, I figured it was better to record my content for next week after we arrived.

I turned my attention back to the narrow lane. There was enough room for only one car so I really hoped no one approached me from the opposite direction. Because with vibrantly green grassy marshland squeezing the road on both sides like a too-tight corset, there was no place for me to go except into the brackish muddy water.

I scanned the area, looking for the cottage where my Pops had spent every summer for as long as I could remember. The Outer Banks had been his special place in his later years. No one in the family had ever been invited into his fishing sanctuary. It was just him and his solitary weeks spent on the water. I think we accepted the banishment only because he kept us supplied with enough grouper, red drum, and little tunny for the entire winter.

Now that I was here, my chest felt tight with a fresh wave of loss for the man who had been my number one fan, my champion, and my best friend. Inhaling through my nose, I slowly exhaled out my mouth, trying to control the grief that had been ever present since the moment Pops had passed four weeks ago.

The van lurched into another pothole. "Damn it."

When I was a kid, Pops and Nana brought me to the Carolina shore for weeklong summer vacations. My memories were full of sand between my toes and ice cream cones, marathon Monopoly games when it rained, and generally just basking in the adoration of two of my favorite people.

When they divorced, in a split my dad called the most amicable parting of ways in the history of marriage, the vacations stopped. Nana started dating while Pops continued his trips to the Carolina shore but he went by himself, making this place his own.

Another large divot appeared and I refocused on the road, weaving around the treacherous-looking pit. The marshland fell away as Buttercup rumbled onto firmer ground and the road widened just enough for two vehicles to fit with a fine hair between them.

Dude and I followed the curved lane, passing by several houses tucked back amid a copse of enormous live oaks. The way the modest cottages were nestled under the massive trees with their thick trunks, wide canopies, and arching limbs, it felt as if I'd stumbled into a sort of magical forest. I glanced at the numbers on the homes and knew I was getting closer.

Excitement zipped through me. I was overcome with curiosity to see the place where Pops had spent so much of his life by himself. Separated from the other residences by a stand of smaller sand oaks was a lone white clapboard house with dark green trim and matching shutters, all of which were closed over the windows. I felt my lips curve up. This was exactly the sort of place where I could picture Pops spending his days, fishing and boating, enjoying the quiet after so many years as the local news anchor in Providence, Rhode Island.

The van chugged to a stop and I turned the key in the ignition off. I double-checked the metal numbers tacked onto the side of the house. Eighty-one. This was it. Dude let out a small whimper and wiggled as if he, too, knew that we'd finally arrived. I turned and patted his shoulder. "Let's check it out."

I opened my door and Dude clambered over the seat-all 150 pounds of him-almost knocking me down in his haste to follow me as if afraid I might leave him behind. He trotted forward two steps and immediately lifted his leg on the trunk of a crape myrtle, identifiable by its peeling brown bark and thick clusters of bright pink flowers. I couldn't blame him; a dog has his priorities, after all.

I took a beat to take in the house in front of me. A sense of déjà vu hit me right in the chest. I had been here before. I was certain of it. I remembered thinking in my little-kid brain that this house was a sentient being, that the dormer windows on the second floor were eyes, the front door a nose, and the porch a wide smile. I supposed it might just resemble the house I'd stayed in with Pops and Nana, but I felt certain it was the actual house.

I remembered Pops had let me ride my bike on the wraparound porch and we pretended I was a race car driver doing laps until Nana declared I was making her dizzy. When had Pops bought the house that we'd rented for our vacations, and why hadn't he ever told me?

I marveled at the place that held a decade of summer memories. When Nana returned from her vacation, I'd call her and ask if she knew this was our old rental. I put my hand on the stair railing and studied the place. Upon closer inspection, the house was less charming and more woebegone in appearance. The roof had missing shingles, the gutters were stuffed with leaves, and several of the shutters were missing slats and in a few cases hanging drunkenly from their hinges.

The paint was peeling and green moss was growing thick in the shadows and crevices. Knee-high weeds filled the front yard, covering the crawl space below and curving up onto the porch railing as if intent upon swallowing the house whole. Several tree limbs had fallen in the yard, probably from recent storms.

Given the state of the outside, I hated to imagine what the inside looked like. A month had gone by since Pops had passed and his estate settled. I knew it had been several months since he'd come down here to fish. I had no idea if he had anyone checking on the house or not. I was assuming not. During those months of vacancy, I feared a wild critter or two might have taken up residence and would now claim squatter's rights.

"Do not bite anything in the house, especially if it moves," I said to Dude. He tipped his head to the side as if he found this order confounding. "I'm serious. You don't know their medical history, if they have fleas, ticks, or rabies. No biting." He opened his massive muzzle and yawned. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I boring you?"

I pulled the key to the cottage out of the side pocket of my beige cargo shorts. The house was much smaller than I remembered, but given that I'd been living in my van for the past five years, it felt like a castle to me. Not for the first time I wondered why-out of all the members in my family-Pops had left his summer place to me. Was it because I presently lived in a van? Unlike the rest of my family, my grandfather had never tried to dissuade me from my current life choices.

Pops had followed me on the socials and actively engaged in my posts. I'd always thought he was proud of me for going my own way when.my career in journalism came to an unexpected and tragic end at the same time that my husband announced he no longer loved me and ended our marriage. But maybe Pops had given me the house so I had a safe place to land when I was tired of my nomadic lifestyle. If so, he'd been right. After several years of nonstop traveling-some might say running away-lately I'd been getting the urge to plant myself somewhere and put down some roots, or at the very least take a sabbatical from the daily quest for...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593955463
• ISBN 13: 9780593955468
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 369
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Deutschland