Shipped

Angie Hockman

• Publisher: Gallery Books
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781982151591
• eBook ISBN: 9781982151607

Named a Best Romance Book of 2021 by Entertainment Weekly * Good reads * PopSugar * Marie Claire * Real Simple * Insider * Vulture * CNN * Bookreporter * BookBub * and more!? The Unhoneymooners meets The Hating Game in this witty, clever, and swoonworthy novel following a workaholic marketing manager who is forced to go on a cruise with her arch-nemesis when they're up for the same promotion. Between taking night classes for her MBA and her demanding day job at a cruise line, marketing manager Henley Evans barely has time for herself, let alone family, friends, or dating. But when she's shortlisted for the promotion of her dreams, all her sacrifices finally seem worth it.The only problem? Graeme Crawford-Collins, the remote social media manager and the bane of her existence, is also up for the position. Although they've never met in person, their epic email battles are the stuff of office legend.Their boss tasks each of them with drafting a proposal on how to boost bookings in the Galápagos—best proposal wins the promotion. There's just one catch: they have to go on a company cruise to the Galápagos Islands...together. But when the two meet on the ship, Henley is shocked to discover that the real Graeme is nothing like she imagined. As they explore the Islands together, she soon finds the line between loathing and liking thinner than a postcard.With her career dreams in her sights and a growing attraction to the competition, Henley begins questioning her life choices. Because what's the point of working all the time if you never actually live?Perfect for fans of Christina Lauren and Sally Thorne, Shipped is a fresh and engaging rom-com that celebrates the power of second chances and the magic of new beginnings.

1

Every time I collect my mail from the paint-spattered box in the lobby and see my name printed over and over in bold black ink, I’m reminded that I’m named after a rock star.

Not an endlessly cool rocker like Stevie Nicks, Joan Jett, or Madonna. No, my name is Henley Rose Evans, and my parents consciously named me after the lead singer and drummer of every boomer’s favorite easy listening band, the Eagles.

Too bad I’m the furthest thing from a rock star you can find on planet Earth. My landlord barely remembers my name, let alone hordes of screaming fans, and I’ve trashed precisely zero hotel rooms. I do have dreams though. Big dreams for a shiny, successful career. Just not one that requires me to sing in public.

Tucking my stack of mostly junk mail inside my tote, I huff my way up the carpeted stairs of my downtown Seattle apartment building. By the time I reach my floor, my thighs are burning. I could have taken the ancient matchbox elevator, but I still needed to get my steps in today.

Floorboards creak as I trudge down the hall while the smell of lemon cleaner hangs in the air. My phone buzzes and I pull it from my pocket. It’s a text from my sister, Walsh.

I have a big surprise…

My stomach drops like a stone chucked off a cliff. Walsh’s “surprises” are surprises in the same way that getting hit by a bus is a surprise. I stop to respond, water droplets rolling off my coat and soaking into the patterned green carpet.

What’s his name?

Not a guy. Tell you tomorrow.

Pregnant?

Hell no.

Fired?

Ha!

Come on what is it

Talk soon!

“Motherfu—”

The door beside me opens with a wash of music and laughter. I jolt and my bag slips down the slick fabric of my raincoat to the crook of my elbow, wrenching my arm, and I almost drop my phone. Fumbling, I shove it into my bag.

“Oh,” says my neighbor Sophie. Or is it Sophia? Sophie and Sophia moved into 4E last month, and they’re both roughly the same height with long, highlighted blond hair and the same generically pretty features. They remind me of Walsh. “Hey, Hannah.”

“Henley,” I enunciate. A by-product of having a name outside the mainstream? No one ever gets it right.

“Are you just getting home from work?” Sophie/Sophia asks, glancing at the window at the end of the hall. It’s well after 8 p.m. and completely dark outside.

“Night class.”

“Cool.” Looping a slim purse strap over her head, she closes the door behind her and the music and chatter that had filled the hallway is reduced to a dull rumble. “We’re having a little get-together. Nothing fancy. I’m headed out for a beer run, but feel free to swing by.”

I offer her a genuine smile. “Thanks. Maybe I will.”

I won’t.

My laptop and strategic management textbook weigh my bag—and my mood—down like a couple of bricks. My temples throb with exhaustion from the long day, and it’s not even over yet. I still have the almighty task list to address.

Guilt twinges my gut as I turn the corner, but I brush it away. I like my new neighbors even though they’re younger than I am; I’m twenty-eight and they’re fresh from undergraduate-ville. We’ll just have to hang out some other night. One where I don’t have work or classes hovering over my head. So, sometime next century, maybe?

Reaching my apartment, I shove my key into the lock and shoulder open the door. A raspy yowl greets me. I set my bag on the floor and flip on the light.

“Hi, Noodles.” I hang my keys on a hook by the door and my coat in the narrow front closet. Noodles the cat saunters into the foyer. He’s a long-haired gray tabby with wiry fur that sticks out every which way, no matter how much I brush him, and golden-green eyes that focus in two completely different directions.

One time I googled “What’s the opposite of cross-eyed” and the term “divergent strabismus” popped up, which sounds more like a sci-fi novel than a medical condition, but the vet said in his case it’s hereditary, so nothing to worry about.

Whatever it’s called though, Noodles is one rough-looking cat. Hence his status as the veteran resident of the local animal shelter before I adopted him last summer. I reach down to scratch Noodles under the chin. He croaks a meow like he’s been smoking two packs a day for a decade.

“Miss me?”

Silence.

“I see how it is.” I head to the kitchen and Noodles trots after me. I feed my smug cat before changing into yoga pants and a Boise State T-shirt. Grabbing a container of leftover quinoa salad from the fridge, I pad across the wood floor with a glass of pinot grigio back to my cozy living room.

Anyone who steps into my one-bedroom Belltown apartment would think I’m a first-rate world traveler—if they didn’t know me. Oversized, colorful maps, framed marinescapes, and wildlife portraits are arranged in a collage above my ruby sofa. Along the opposite wall, which I’ve painted the same jewel-toned shade of reddish pink, stacks of marketing and travel books teeter on a trunk, while a Craigslist armchair squats under the window. It’s like National Geographic and Porthole Cruise magazine had a baby and that baby splatted all over my apartment.

But the truth is: except for a handful of trips to Colorado as a kid and one generic spring break in Cancún when I was nineteen, I’ve never been outside the Pacific Northwest. No, I’m not a fraud. I’m a marketing manager for a global adventure cruise line.

So all the posters and prints? Office swag. Thanks, Seaquest Adventures, for the cheap decorating.

It’s not that I don’t want to travel. When I took this job three years ago, I had high hopes of seeing the world. Then life happened. Career ambitions. Grad school. Student loans. The vague, persistent headache that is adulting. But mostly my career. It’s hard to take time out of the office when you’re trying to climb the corporate ladder and make director before the age of thirty.

Setting my dinner and drink on my Ikea coffee table, I plop onto the sofa and yank the elastic band out of my bun. My hair tumbles over my shoulders and I shake it out, massaging the roots to ease my sore scalp. I wish I could turn in right now, just crawl into bed and clock out for the night, but my task list is burning a hole in my to-do app. I won’t be able to sleep until everything is checked off, so I might as well get it over with.

Taking a sip of wine, I pull up the list and read the first item.

Task #1: Confirm Graeme posted British Columbia social media content.

I fish my laptop out of my bag and flip it open. Noodles hops up next to me and nestles against my thigh, purring. Thirty seconds later I’m scanning Seaquest Adventures’s Twitter feed. I shove a bite of quinoa salad into my mouth and chew. I barely taste it as I scroll. Scanning tweet after tweet, I put down my fork, eyebrows furrowing.

When I reach yesterday’s tweets, rage swells inside my chest. I log on to Facebook. Same. Instagram. Same. I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Graeme.”

He didn’t do it. He said he would, but he didn’t. So freaking typical of Mr. High-and-Mighty Social Media Guru. I was right to make “confirm social media posts” the number-one item on my to-do list.

I glare at the tiny photo beside Graeme’s name, at his strong, smooth chin and short brown hair. I hate to admit it, but the first time I saw his picture, I actually thought the arrogant jerk was handsome. And when we spoke on the phone on his very first day over a year ago, oof. I nearly melted. His voice is deep and rich and husky, like a lumberjack dipped in a chocolate fountain.

Then we started working together, and it wasn’t two weeks before Graeme The Rotten Troll showed his true colors.

It started when some gem video footage from one of our Costa Rica cruises landed in my in-box. Most of it was typical—guests having fun on a hike, beaming smiles, high energy—but toward the end, the videographer included B-roll showing two capuchin monkeys grooming each other. It was blink-or-you-miss-it fast: one monkey appeared to sniff the other monkey’s butt, made a sour face, then lost its balance and fell out of a tree. Hilarious, right?

I figured, hey, people love funny animal videos, so let’s cut in some other wildlife clips from our cruises, set it to music, add clever captions, and post it on social media with hashtags targeted to boost engagement. I put my halfway-decent video editing skills to good use, and when I had a version I was happy with, I forwarded it to Graeme, our newly minted ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 27
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 29
• Chapter 30
• Chapter 31
• Author’s Note
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Copyright