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  Praise for Nina Bocci

  ON THE CORNER OF LOVE AND HATE

  * A Goodreads “Most Anticipated Romance Novel of 2019” *

  * A Hypable “20 Most Anticipated Summer Book Releases for 2019” Pick *

  * A Bustle “21 New Rom-Com Novels to Spice Up Your Summer Reading” Pick *

  “Romance at its finest with a colorful cast of characters and a couple to root for.”

  —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Sylvain Reynard

  “Emma’s everywoman appeal lends charm to the story, and her self-deprecating humor is a plus. This is a fun bit of fluffy entertainment.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “I flew through On the Corner of Love and Hate. Written with wit, quick banter, and heartfelt moments, I wished and rooted for Emma and Cooper’s happily-ever-after, for that opposites-attract heat to smolder and catch fire. And Nina Bocci delivered!”

  —Tif Marcelo, author of The Key to Happily Ever After

  “Fans of Hallmark Channel rom-coms will flip over this sassy love story. … What follows is a rediscovered spark, steamy banter, and the art of finding love in unlikely places.”

  —Woman’s World

  “Impossible to read without smiling. On the Corner of Love and Hate is romantic fiction at its finest.”

  —Lauren Layne, USA Today bestselling author of Passion on Park Avenue

  “Bocci’s warm, romantic novel deals with love, friendship, and family ties. This page-turner is filled with quick, witty banter from likable characters living in a realistic small town. The character-driven novel will have readers rooting for the confused friends. Fans of Jill Shalvis will thoroughly enjoy this swoon-worthy story.”

  —Booklist

  “Fans of enemies-to-lovers rom-coms (such as Sally Thorne’s The Hating Game) will enjoy, as will political junkies.”

  —Library Journal

  “A delightful slow-burning romance that I adored!”

  —Mia Sheridan, New York Times bestselling author of Archer’s Voice

  “Charming. … Bocci puts her characters through an emotional wringer, but balances the pining and misunderstandings with humor and an overall uplifting message about community involvement, family and hope. Readers looking for a feel-good romance set in a diverse, quirky small town will be entranced by On the Corner of Love and Hate.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  “Plenty of wit and feisty characters. … If you’re looking for one last summer read, something comfortable and warm to help you settle in and get ready for even cozier reading this fall, you most definitely don’t want to miss On the Corner of Love and Hate, because it’s everything you’re looking for … and probably a little bit more.”

  —Hypable (4 stars)

  “With its picturesque cover and super cute (and clueless) hero and heroine, On the Corner of Love and Hate was an absolute joy to read. I can’t wait to see what entertaining story Nina Bocci has for her readers next.”

  —Harlequin Junkie (4 stars)

  “Nina Bocci is a wonderful storyteller. I love her characters. … On the Corner of Love and Hate is a delight with a cast of characters that you will adore. Brava, Nina Bocci.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Slow-burn romance with great banter and plenty of laughs!”

  —Daily Waffle

  ROMAN CRAZY

  WITH ALICE CLAYTON

  “A comedic and deliciously whimsical romp only this pair could deliver. Alice Clayton and Nina Bocci have struck gold.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren

  “I went CRAZY over Roman Crazy—this is simply a perfect romance!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Probst

  “Remarkable, refreshing … Clayton and Bocci have written a tender love story … all nestled within a love letter to the beauty of Rome.”

  —RT Book Reviews (four stars)

  “There are books that make you laugh out loud, make you teary, make you hot and bothered, make you smile. And then there are books that make you want to crawl inside them and live within their pages. That’s what Roman Crazy is.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Emma Chase

  “Roman Crazy is a laugh-out-loud romantic comedy about second chances, friendship, and the beauty of Rome. You won’t simply read this novel, you’ll devour it as Alice Clayton and Nina Bocci transport you to Italy and guide you on an unforgettable adventure.”

  —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Sylvain Reynard

  “Roman Crazy is a sexy, steamy slow burn. A visceral reading experience that takes you from the cobbled streets of Rome to the bedroom and everywhere in between. Get your fans out! Five stars of smolder.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting

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  To the real Nana. I think I miss your laugh the most. I hope you’re having a beer with Pop Pop. Love, 6-pack

  PROLOGUE

  We ran across town, holding hands and laughing as we darted through yards. The warm summer night was sticky, the humidity heavy on our skin. Neighbors shouted over the crickets and the owls, yelling for us to get home. It was well past dinnertime, but we’d made each other a promise that we wouldn’t stop until it was safe. What exactly safe meant was another story.

  We didn’t exactly have a plan. Who does when you’re ten and running away from home? The idea had formed after we’d read From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler together at the library. We had packed the essentials, just like Claudia and Jamie from the book: clean underwear, our life savings of eighteen dollars and forty-seven cents, a change of clothes, and pajamas.

  “I brought some LEGOs in case we get bored,” I told him, holding up a plastic bag filled with a few dozen random pieces.

  The tips of his ears turned bright pink. “I brought, uh, some books. You know, in case of boredom.” He opened his backpack to reveal a small library inside.

  “Some?” I teased, zipping it back up for him. “Come on, we’ve got to get moving.”

  The streetlights flickered on one by one, almost as if they were following us, lighting the way for our families, who were by now surely trying to find us.

  “Do you think Emma is mad we ducked out on her party? She hadn’t gotten to the presents yet, and you know how much she loves opening them with an audience,” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

  We’d skipped out on our friend Emma’s birthday party just after the cake had been served. It was the height of excitement, and no one except the birthday girl herself knew that we had scooted out the back door. But that was at least thirty minutes ago, and our dads would be at Emma’s to pick us up by now.

  “I told her what we were doing. She was going to try to keep them distracted to give us more of a head start,” I explained.

  “Was she mad?” he asked, wondering if our mutual best friend was upset that we were running away.

  “Worried, I think. You know Emma.”

  He nodded in agreement. Our friend was always looking out for us.

  “I promised that we’d write to let her know once we arrived safely at your aunt’s house. Are you sure your aunt won’t tell your mom where we’re going?”

  He nodded. “She hasn’t talked to m
y mom in years. They’re mad at each other for something.”

  Adults!

  Dogs barked, nipping at our heels as we climbed the fence that spilled into the small backyard behind my grandmother’s office.

  She wouldn’t come out and yell. Not at us.

  Glancing behind me to the large brick building that sat in the fading darkness, I saw her cheering me on from the back window. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I had a feeling what it was.

  Run. Or maybe: I love you. At the moment, they both meant the same thing.

  If this had been any other day, she might have stopped me, talked some sense into me, as all grandmothers enjoyed doing. Maybe she—Dr. Bishop to everyone else, but Gigi to me and my friends—would have suggested that I stay with her as an alternative, either tucked away safely in her big sprawling house or even hidden away inside the doctor’s office where my dad was staying during the divorce. Anything instead of leaving me to listen to my parents’ constant fighting.

  But not today. I think she hoped we would get away with our plan, given the circumstances. Not many people urged two ten-year-olds to run away, but Gigi suggested it without actually saying it. Better than anyone, she understood why I was desperate to leave.

  I needed to leave, so that I could stay.

  We scaled the last fence, leaving the majority of the small town behind. All that was beyond that was the railroad tracks and the woods.

  Freedom.

  But as I jumped down from the fence, a strangled cry spilled from my lips. With a thud, he hit the ground beside me, but just far enough away from the prickly branches that grew behind the fence.

  The ones that I had landed right on top of.

  “That looks really bad, Charlotte,” he said worriedly, glancing down at the two long gashes that had appeared on my leg. Bits of spiky branches poked out from the wound in my pale skin.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be fine,” I bit out, wincing when I tried to stand. “We have to keep going.” I wiped a muddy hand through the blood that slid down my leg.

  “Maybe Gigi should look at it? Clean it up?” he asked, glancing down at the blood squeamishly. “She’s right there. I just saw her looking through the window when we cut through the yard behind her office.” He looked from my leg to the direction of the building over the fence behind us.

  “No, they’ll look for us there,” I explained, trying to blink back the tears that welled up.

  We both turned to look behind us. We’d heard the loud voices at the same time.

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am. Promise.”

  He nodded. “I can tie a tourniquet,” he offered, looking surprisingly steady as he examined my leg. “It’s how I got my first-aid merit badge,” he said proudly.

  “Always a Boy Scout.” I smiled, but it faded quickly when we saw the telltale sign of a flashlight beam signaling above the fence.

  Waving him off, I felt guilty not letting him show me his skills, but we didn’t have time. I rolled back my shoulders, wincing again through the shooting pain. “I’ll take care of it once we get to the river,” I said, limping away.

  The sound of voices was getting louder. Shouts from our parents, concerned neighbors, and the—

  We both looked back at the fence worriedly at the sound of the police siren.

  “How did they get Birdy here already?” I asked, hearing the static from the walkie-talkie.

  “Your dad probably called him as soon as he found the note you left. Between him and my parents, there’s no way that they wouldn’t get Birdy, if not all the police, involved.”

  I felt defeated, wishing I hadn’t left the note stuck with a magnet on my dad’s refrigerator. “I hoped we would have had more of a head start,” I explained, trying to keep the weight off my injured leg.

  Seeing my struggle, he frowned. “Here, hop on,” he offered quickly, turning so his back was to me.

  I looked at him, then down at me. I had a couple of inches and at least ten pounds on him. “I’m so much bigger than you! You can’t carry me!” I said, just as another shooting pain radiated through my leg.

  “I can do it. Trust me, Charlotte,” he insisted. “We have to hurry.”

  His sky-blue eyes shone with kindness and compassion, the sentiment that I knew in my heart was honest and real. That’s what best friends did—they helped when you needed it. And this might be our only chance of getting out of Hope Lake.

  I hopped on, wrapping my arms around him. “Are you okay?”

  In response, he gently squeezed my legs and took off as fast as he could toward the river, the chorus of voices fading behind us.

  When we finally made it to the train tracks, he helped me slide down to sit on one of the large rocks that lay between the tracks and the river.

  Our tracks. Our parents and the others searching for us wouldn’t know to look for us here. It was our secret spot. Sure, it was an odd place for a couple of kids to run away to, but in a small town you’re limited to where you can disappear.

  That was the first lesson I remembered clearly from my decade in Hope Lake: you can’t keep many secrets; everyone knows everyone’s business.

  We would escape here when my parents fought. Or if he was getting picked on at school. Anytime we needed a friend, we knew to head here. Because that’s what best friends did.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, swiping the hem of my shirt across his sweaty forehead. He was breathing heavily and collapsed beside the rock I was sitting on.

  He nodded, his dark hair slicked with sweat. “I can’t believe how hot it is,” he said, still panting.

  It was unseasonably warm for the end of September. “It feels more like the middle of summer,” I groaned, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

  School had barely started, which brought up another sad realization. “I won’t be here this winter.” I felt the tears well up. “No snow tubing or sledding through the woods. I won’t even get to be in the Christmas pageant this year.”

  “That sucks. It’s our year to be Charlie Brown and Lucy,” he said, reminding me of the parts that we should be performing in this year’s play, A Charlie Brown Christmas.

  “Your mom can’t just let you stay until June when school’s done?” he asked hopefully.

  I shook my head. “She said her new job in New York starts next week. We have to get settled, so that’s why we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  He hung his head, keeping his eyes down. “And she won’t let you stay with your dad?”

  “He won’t be here. He’s going on a mission trip to Ghana for the next four months.” I couldn’t keep the tears from plopping onto my hands. “And before you ask, there’s no way she’ll let me stay with Gigi. I already asked. So did Gigi. It’s hopeless.”

  “What about Emma? The Peronis would let you stay with them. They’d love it. Or, me. You can come stay with us!”

  The hopefulness in his tone was heartbreaking. We had been best friends for as long as either of us could remember, walking into kindergarten holding hands and being virtually inseparable ever since.

  He sighed, long and hard. “We should have brought food and water.” He rubbed his stomach. I heard it growl when he leaned over to check on my leg.

  Blowing out a shaky breath, he looked up, worried. “You’ve got to clean this, Charlotte. It’s going to get infected. I knew we should have stopped at Gigi’s,” he mumbled.

  I dug around in my pack for napkins or tissues but came up empty. Sliding off the rock, I hobbled over to the river to splash water on my leg. “It burns.” I watched the diluted blood slide down and color my white socks pink. “I don’t know if it’s supposed to sting like this.”

  When I looked up, he was beside me, handing me a shirt from his backpack. “Use this.” His face was pulled tight, expressionless.

  “No way,” I said, pushing the Transformers shirt back to him. “That’s your favorite.”

  He shrugged, tipping his head back toward the rock I was on.
/>   “It’s what best friends do.” With the shirt balled up in his hand, he bent down and soaked it in the river. Then, with careful hands, he blotted the white shirt against the cuts on my leg, careful not to rub too hard.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with a sympathetic voice when I winced from the sting. I couldn’t imagine how sad he was using that shirt. He’d saved his own money to buy it from the mall in Barreton.

  Now it was streaked with blood and dirt because of me.

  It’s what best friends do. There was a sticker on the pole beside my makeshift seat that read BEST FRIENDS. We had put it there last year when we had coincidentally taken off from another birthday party. That time, it was mine. “I remember that,” I said, pointing up to it. Seeing the sticker brought back the drama my mother had caused at my tenth birthday party.

  My father and Gigi had planned all of it: the invites, the food, securing the location and getting a copy of the movie The Goonies for all of us to enjoy. My mother’s only job was to get me a cake. It should have been simple, but she arrived late and forgot to pick it up. When she ran to the bakery to get it, she insisted someone else had bought it—with my name on it—which was unlikely.

  My father drove me to Gigi’s with my presents, but the embarrassment was thick and heavy around me and I couldn’t enjoy anything. When we pulled up to her house, my friend was already there waiting. As if he knew that I would be upset and need to escape. We took off for our spot until the sounds of crickets told us it was time to go home.

  This time, we were ignoring the crickets. We didn’t have a home for me to go back to.

  I smiled up at the sticker, trying to shake off the overbearing sadness creeping in. The sticker looked as though it was brand-new. “I wonder if that sticker will look that good when I come back to visit.”

  We both knew that running away wouldn’t work and that we would have to face the inevitable. But it was still worth a shot.

  “Of course it will. You’ll be here next weekend,” he said, with his usual hopeful tone. “Your mom promised.”

  “Of course,” I lied, hoping to spare him the pain that I was feeling. I didn’t know when I’d be back, but I was determined that it would be soon. I took out the Polaroid camera that was a gift from last year’s doomed party and snapped two pictures. One for each of us.