Spotlight & Giveaway: ACCIDENTALLY AMY by Lynn Painter

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Lynn Painter to HJ!

Hi Lynn and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, ACCIDENTALLY AMY!

HIIIIIIIIIII HARLEQUIN JUNKIES!!! 😉
 

Please summarize the book for the readers here:

Isabella Shay is usually a very honest person. But when she’s running late for her first day at her dream job and the barista yells for “Amy” three times with no answer, she does the unthinkable.

Izzy takes that PSL.

It’s the exact drink she ordered and paid for, only way further ahead in the queue—and she’ll take whatever bad karma is coming for her; she’s desperate and very late. But when she turns around and runs directly into the most attractive man she’s ever seen, spilling the drink all over his made-for-GQ shirt and tie, she ends up having the ultimate meet-cute. Karma who? Sparks fly and things feel beyond promising, until he says to her: “See you tomorrow, Amy.”

Izzy reasons she can just straighten things out the next day, no biggie. Only when she gets to her new office and meets the VP of her department, it is none other than Blake Phillips—the hottie from Starbucks. And the man might’ve been charming to “Amy,” but he is an arrogant grump to Izzy, an arrogant grump who does not find her explanation funny at all.
 

Please share your favorite line(s) or quote from this book:

It isn’t a quote, it’s a game. I love these two playing Billboard Assholes together.

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

It started as a serial newsletter story, a way for me to GIVE people something for being nice enough to let me drop into their inboxes with book promotion! 🙂 Once I started writing chapters, though, I fell in love with writing Blake and Izzy and couldn’t stop.

What first attracts your Hero to the Heroine and vice versa?

Banter. I mean, it’s a romance novel so OF COURSE they’re attractive people – lol – but it’s the quick sarcasm they exchange when they meet that sets the chemical reaction.

Did any scene have you blushing, crying or laughing while writing it? And Why?

Multiple elevator scenes lol. Their second meet-cute is in an elevator, and waaaay later in the book they have…ahem…ANOTHER elevator scene that’s a bit spicier…;)

Readers should read this book….

if they like low-angst rom-coms. It’s big on banter and fun – probably my happiest book!

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have in the works?

In July, Maid For Each Other comes out, which is an adult rom-com that’s sort of a Pretty Woman-meets-While-You-Were-Sleeping.

In May, I have a middle-grade book coming out – The Wish Switch.

And in Sept/October, I have a YA hockey rom-com coming. 2025 is a very busy year for me!!!!
 
 

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: A finished copy of ACCIDENTALLY AMY by Lynn Painter

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: What is your favorite movie rom-com?

 
a Rafflecopter giveaway

 
 

Excerpt from Accidentally Amy:

“Amy?”
I sighed impatiently and watched as the barista yelled out the name (not mine), then set down the cup. I could see it was a large pumpkin spice latte, the same drink I’d ordered, and I found myself wildly jealous of Amy, whoever she might be.
Because I wanted— no, needed— to get my drink and get the hell out of there.
Please yell Izzy next. Please yell Izzy next.
If I were a responsible adult, I would’ve seen the long line at Scooter’s Coffee and opted not to get a coffee that morning. But it was the first day of the pumpkin spice latte, so my annual vice refused to be denied, regardless of the fact that I was starting a new job in T minus thirty minutes.
Yes, I was taking quite the moronic risk.
My new employer, Ellis Enterprises, was a big tech company with a reputation for being environmentally conscious and
2
employee-friendly. They had workout facilities, a childcare cen ter, a free cafeteria, and a 4:00 p.m. daily happy hour; Ellis was renowned for being a great place to work.
Which meant that I was definitely going to punch myself in the face if my lack of self- discipline made me late on the very first day.
“Amy?” The barista said it again, and I looked around the busy coffee shop. There was a group of women at a big table on the other side of the café, all dressed in athletic clothes and looking like barre fitness models; perhaps one of them was Amy.
I felt like Amy was quickly becoming my nemesis.
Come get your coffee, Amy, you lucky son of a bitch.
I glanced down at my watch and stifled a groan. Shit, shit, shit. If they didn’t call my name in the next three minutes— and they probably wouldn’t, because there were a lot of empty cups sitting in front of the espresso machine— I was going to have to kiss that overpriced drink goodbye and abort the mission.
“Amy!” The barista said it again, sounding agitated this time, and before I had time to think, I heard myself mutter— “I’m Amy.”
And . . . I reached out and grabbed the cup.
I knew it was wrong, I really did, but I needed to go and I needed that drink and I’d already paid, so it wasn’t really stealing, right? And obviously Amy was in no hurry whatsoever. She’d probably changed her mind and had already left the building. Surely that was a possibility.
Right?
I put my palm over the name Amy, closed my fingers around the cup, and turned, ready to sprint out of the shop before some
3
Scooter’s security officer tackled me to the ground for my egregious latte thievery, or Amy herself appeared before me.
But then I rammed right into a wall.
“Gah!” Oh, my God. It wasn’t a wall at all, but a rock- hard chest, encased in a starched white dress shirt and a charcoal tie. I stared in horror as my cup crushed on impact, the lid popped off, and hot pumpkin coffee splurted all over the chest. “I’m so sorry!”
I looked up and—whoa.
You know how in movies everything can freeze when a character sees the Big Thing? Well, that was happening to me as I made eye contact with Mr. Chest. He was looking down at me with dark eyes, really intense dark eyes that weren’t so much brown as they were the richest shade of burnt amber. His eyebrows were black, his hair was black, his perfectly maintained scruff was black, and even his suit was black, which all worked together to form some sort of contrasting frame for his face’s gorgeous bone structure and perfectly shaped mouth.
He was like Roy Kent’s taller American brother or something, and I didn’t think I was physically capable of closing my mouth at that moment.
Until I felt the hot coffee seeping into my own shirt.
That made the moment unfreeze itself. I muttered another charming, “Gahhhh,” tossed my crumpled cup (RIP latte) into the trash can, and grabbed a stack of napkins from the end of the counter.
“I can’t believe I ran right into you,” I babbled, rubbing the clump of napkins over his shirt with one hand while I dabbed at my own (thank God it was black) with the other. I was kind of
4
mashing the napkins against the man’s chest, patting and dabbing and trying to do anything to make the huge splotch of coffee disappear. “One minute I was grabbing my drink, the next I was ramming your chest with boiling latte. I’m not even sure— ”
“It’s fine.” His voice was dark, too, rich and baritone and a little bit raspy. I glanced up, and he was giving me a half smile, like he was entertained by the impromptu pectoral rubdown, and something about that look hit me square in the gut. He
said, “I hated this shirt anyway.”
I dropped my hands and said, “I did, too, but I didn’t know how to tell you. Hence the pumpkin spice latte.”
He gave a little laugh. “Subtle, but effective.”
I set the napkins on the bar top beside us and bit down on my lower lip to stop myself from grinning. Because I should feel bad about scalding the man, right? Smiling is not the appropriate reaction here, correct? I cleared my throat and said, “I really am sorry. I’d be happy to get it dry- cleaned for you or something . . . ? A better person would offer to replace it, but I have a feeling it’s out of my price range.”
He did the half- bark, half- laugh sound again that I could feel in my toes, and he said, “What makes you say that?”
“It’s soaking wet and I still can’t see through it. That has to mean it’s quality.”
“Were you trying to?” he asked. “What— see through your shirt?” He gave a nod.
I shrugged. “I wasn’t trying, per se, but I am a curious girl. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t checking for a third nipple.”
He didn’t say anything for a minute, still sort of smiling but
5
now with a tiny wrinkle between his brows, and I knew my cheeks were turning red. Did you really just say third nipple, you dumbass? Sometimes I wondered why it was so difficult for me to just keep my mouth shut.
He cleared his throat and said, “I promise there isn’t one, not that there’s anything wrong with having three.”
I did grin then. “I mean, the more the merrier, right?”
His mouth split into a slow, wide smile that was oddly powerful. It was almost like I felt it pass over me, like hot summer sun warming cool skin. “Are we sure that applies here?”
“Definitely not, but I couldn’t let a moment pass without speaking,” I said.
“I can see that about you.”
“Hey,” I said with a dose of fake offense, “just because I scalded your chest doesn’t mean you can insult me.”
“I feel like it actually does mean that.”
“Fair.” I nodded in agreement and said, “I’ll even give you one more. Go.”
“This seems like a trap.”
“Do it,” I said, crossing my arms and wondering if he felt it, too, this delicious bit of chemistry. “Go. Slam me, bro.”
His eyes crinkled at the edges when he looked at me, like he was amused by the fact that someone would dare to call him bro, and he said, “Fine. I’m shocked you can see out of those
glasses— they’re very dirty.”
“Oh, my God,” I said around a laugh, “you actually insulted me.”
“You told me to,” he said, then he gestured with his hand— very big, not that I noticed— for me to give him my glasses.
6
“No.” I knew my eyebrows were all screwed together as I shook my head. “No. Seriously?”
“Come on.”
“Okay,” I relented, laughing at the ridiculousness as I removed my glasses and handed them to the guy. “Here you go.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket— very nice suit, by the way— and pulled out a microfiber cloth. He looked down at my glasses (which were always dirty) as he buffed the lenses, and I wondered what in God’s name was actually happening.
Was this GQ model seriously cleaning the filth off my spectacles? I said, “They’re usually not— ”
“Yes, I think they probably are,” he teased, without looking up.
“Yeah, they usually are,” I agreed as he handed them back. I slid them up the bridge of my nose, tilted my head, and said, “Oh, wow, you’re a man.”
For a split second he blessed me with a grin that acknowledged my stupid joke, but then . . . then. The grin was gone, and all that was left behind was this wildly potent, one- hundred- proof, undiluted expression of interest as he gave me full- on eye contact. With a jaw flex. The moment held, and I felt like I was being physically pulled closer to the guy. The entire world went quiet as an invisible string tugged me toward him.
“Blake!”
Both our heads whipped toward the barista, and I might’ve audibly gasped at the interruption, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Um, that’s me,” he said, his eyes narrowing on me for a split second— like he was thinking something about me — before
7
he pointed and leaned forward to reach around me for his cup. The faint smell of cologne hit me as he grabbed his coffee, a subtle scent that was crisp and somehow woodsy, and I had the inexplicable urge to nuzzle his throat. Get it together, dipshit. Be cool.
He leaned down so I could hear him over the noise of the crowded coffee shop, and his deep voice found my ear with,
“Do you want to grab a table— ”
“Oh, no— what time is it?” The word table jolted me into real life and damn it, I was screwing up. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He might’ve said the time, I don’t know, but I was too busy pulling my phone out of my pocket to hear him. I looked at the display, panic surging through me, and I muttered, “Oh, my God, I’m late, I have to go.”
He was still watching me with that look on his face as I fished my keys out of my pocket, and I knew I needed to say something before sprinting to my car like a lunatic.
“I come here every morning around seven forty- five, so if you want to be reimbursed for the dry cleaning or say hello and eat a cake bite or, um, anything else,” I rambled, “I’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Okay— ”
“Gotta run— nice meeting you!” I bolted for the exit, literally jogging around tables in my three- inch patent leather pumps. And as I pulled open the door, I heard that butterfly-inducing
voice say from behind me—
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Amy.”
Amy?
Oh, no.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

A stolen latte results in a meet-cute for the ages in this brand-new edition, with bonus content, of New York Times bestselling author Lynn Painter’s rom-com Accidentally Amy.

Isabella Shay is usually a very honest person. But when she’s running late for her first day at her dream job and the barista yells for “Amy” three times with no answer, she does the unthinkable.

Izzy takes that PSL.

It’s the exact drink she ordered and paid for, only way further ahead in the queue—and she’ll take whatever bad karma is coming for her; she’s desperate and very late. But when she turns around and runs directly into the most attractive man she’s ever seen, spilling the drink all over his made-for-GQ shirt and tie, she ends up having the ultimate meet-cute. Karma who? Sparks fly and things feel beyond promising, until he says to her: “See you tomorrow, Amy.”

Izzy reasons she can just straighten things out the next day, no biggie. Only when she gets to her new office and meets the VP of her department, it is none other than Blake Phillips—the hottie from Starbucks. And the man might’ve been charming to “Amy,” but he is an arrogant grump to Izzy, an arrogant grump who does not find her explanation funny at all. But day by day, an attraction simmers between them and they’ll have to find a way to work together without ripping each other’s heads – and clothes – off!
 
 

Meet the Author:

Lynn Painter is the USA Today bestselling author of Better Than the Movies and Mr. Wrong Number. She writes romantic comedies for teens and adults, and when she isn’t reading or writing, she can usually be found binge-watching rom-coms or shotgunning energy drinks.