When romance readers are in search of a good book about a summer fling, they know to pick up a novel by Carley Fortune. Ever since her debut, Every Summer After, shot to the top of The New York Times Best Seller list in 2022, she's been synonymous with the "perfect beach read." From Meet Me at the Lake to This Summer Will Be Different, her popular titles transport readers to idyllic vacation towns and make them swoon with the charming love stories at their center.
Fortune has sold over three million copies worldwide, and there are Prime Video and Netflix adaptations in the works for some of her most popular series, but she shows no signs of slowing down. On May 5, she releases an all-new novel, Our Perfect Storm. It follows lifelong friends Frankie and George as they take what would have been Frankie's honeymoon together when she's stood up before her wedding day. As they travel together, the two attempt to repair their friendship—and question whether there's more to their connection.
Below, read an advanced excerpt of Our Perfect Storm, when George suggests they go on Frankie's honeymoon.
I slip on my sunglasses and close my eyes, imagining I’m fourteen and that George is inside getting us Grape Crush. Summer stretches before us, glittering with possible adventures, and my biggest problem is squeezing them all in before it comes to an end.
I must dream it, too, because I hear the snap-hiss of a soda can being opened followed by a familiar low laugh.
I peel one eye open and tilt my head. A tall man looms over me, silhouetted by the sun. He takes a long drink then extends his soda towards me.
I’m dreaming. I was imagining being a kid again, hanging out with George. And now he’s in my sleep.
“You’re not fourteen,” I say.
“You sound disappointed.” A deep voice. A man’s voice to match the long, ink-stained fingers around the sweating purple can.
I hum, and shut my eyes, falling into a deeper sleep. Things were so much easier when we were fourteen.
“Frankie, wake up.”
I sit up, gasping. My sunglasses slide off my face as I blink up at this man. He isn’t dream George. He’s real-life George. With a squeal of delight, I leap to my feet, throwing my arms around him, squeezing so tight that his laugh sounds strangled. He’s as stiff as a pallbearer, and I don’t care.
“Succumb,” I say, and he relaxes a little.
Somewhere around the time I got boobs and he started hiding stuff from me in a locked wooden chest beneath his bed, we reached a silent agreement that most forms of touching were off the table. Dancing was an exception. A shove to the shoulder or a handshake were both acceptable; tackling each other to the grass and holding hands were not. We no longer played in the creek in our underwear, and George wasn’t allowed to sleep over in my room. Though there was nothing for my parents to worry about: George made it clear when were sixteen he had no dishonorable intentions where I was concerned.
I breathe him in, and he smells different. Not in a bad way, like in the ninth grade when I had to hide his toxic body spray. He smells leathery and smokey and far too elegant for someone who’s been living out of a carryon for the past two months.
“Frankie,” George says, prying my hands from his sides. “I can’t breathe.”
I reluctantly let go. “You’re my surprise,” I say, jumping a little.
“I’m your what?”
“Mimi said she had a surprise for me. You’re it!”
His eyes dance. “I feel like I should have jumped out of a cake.”
“Would you?”
“No.”
“But for me?”
“Never.”
I take a minute to give George a thorough once-over. There’s no visible new scars or wounds—he’s fearless in his pursuit of whatever story he’s covering. Right now, it’s a series about the restoration of mangroves in biosphere reserves throughout the Caribbean and Latin America. Since I last saw him, he’s spent time in Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, and Cuba. He’s cut his hair, the sides now neatly trimmed, but it’s still swirling mayhem up top. He’s got on a pair of leather hiking boots, faded black jeans, and a gray T-shirt. But most importantly, he’s also wearing…
“New glasses?” I raise my brows.
They’re tortoiseshell horn rims, but the bottom of the lenses are frameless, and the arms have chic gold touches. These are far more sophisticated than the heavy black ones he always wears.
I hum, tapping my finger against my chin. “New haircut, new glasses, and new cologne.”
“Don’t start.” George glowers at me, but his eyes twinkle, ready to play. It’s the spark
I’ve been missing, and I grab for it.
“I could be wrong, but it seems like you’ve given yourself a makeover.” My smile is maniacal. “Some might say that’s a little… I don’t know… What’s the word?”
George tips his head back, looking to the sky. “I knew you’d give me shit.”
“Vain!” I clap my hands.
George and I spent our childhood running away together—to the cupboard in the library at the Big House, to the top of the red oak tree, to the creek at the far end of the field.
George once claimed that he gave no thought to his appearance. We were roommates, and he was watching me get ready to go out one night, baffled by the amount of time I was spending on my hair and outfit. “I never knew you were so vain,” he’d grumbled. In response, I not only chewed him out but listed every single time he’d shown concern for the way he looked. I reminded him how his life changed when he got hot. I reminded him of the exact moment he realized the power in being more attractive than anyone else in our school. (When he made out with Tish Torres in the hallway on our first day of grade ten. Tish was a senior.) George was full of crap, and I made sure he knew it.
Teasing George is a favorite pastime, and it’s been a long time since I had the opportunity. So I press on, rubbing my hands together with glee. “Now who was it who once said he was above vanity?”
George lets out a groan. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best.”
He meets my eyes, a hint of a grin flitting across his lips. “You’re a monster.”
“I’m an angel, and as proof of my benevolence, I’ll stop now.”
He replies with an amused arch of his brow. “Will you?”
“At least momentarily. But you smell expensive, and you do look very handsome, George.”
He gives me a bored expression.
“Are the glasses Prada? Are you a Prada man now? Is there someone new you’re trying to impress?”
I fold my arms under my chest, and his eyes quickly follow the movement. I glance down. I’m wearing a microscopic bikini to maximize the surface area of my tan—my breasts are smooshed together, and my top is indecently askew.
George grabs my T-shirt off the chair and chucks it at me, and I slip it on.
“You told me you didn’t take it.” He eyeballs the Parks Canada logo. “I knew you were lying.”
“I knew you knew.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Pulling a full smile from George is one of my greatest pleasures.
I pinch the glasses from his face. Both lenses of his glasses are smudged, and I clean them on the hem of the shirt. An old habit George tolerates. After I set them back on his nose, a crease forms between his brows.
“Jesus, Frankie. You look terrible.”
I can imagine what he sees. My eyes will be red and puffy from the chlorine. My cheeks are hollower than they were two months ago. I haven’t bothered much with washing or brushing my hair lately.
“That’s weird,” I say, pretending that the horror on his face doesn’t bother me. “Because I feel amazing. Frankly, my self-esteem was far too high and my self-worth too healthy—but now both are well under control. Not only have the last two months been free of stress, they’ve also been extremely satisfying. I keep bumping into people we went to school with, and wow, are they jealous.”
“Frankie.” George’s voice has become gentle, as if he thinks I’m fragile. “Come on.”
“Despite how terrible I look, I’m actually doing pretty well. If you’d been here, you’d know that.” I prod his arm.
“Aurora messaged me a few times. She’s been worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say firmly. I don’t want George to see me as weak.
“I’m worried, too.” He dips down, bringing his nose a few inches from mine. His deep blue eyes, eyes that once felt like home, bore into me. “How are we going to fix this?”
“We don’t need to fix anything, and don’t talk to me like I’m a broken faucet.”
His gaze brims with sympathy.
“Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you pity me.”
His patience snaps. “For fuck’s sake, Frankie. I don’t pity you. I pity your ex for missing out on a life with you. It matters to me if you’re not doing well. You’re my best friend.”
I have a bad habit of lashing out when I’m hurt, and I can’t stop myself from asking, “Am I?”
As if I’ve hit him, George rears back, blinking at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I went through hell two months ago, and you abandoned me.”
“I had to work.”
“You could have taken me with you. I begged you to take me with you.”
Regret flashes in his eyes. “I couldn’t, Frankie. Not then.”
Not ever.
“Then when? When are you going to be there for me?”
“What are you talking about? I’m always there for you. And I’m here. I came as soon as I could figure things out.”
“Come on. You’ve basically been gone for the last three years.”
He looks away.
“I get that you have your own life,” I say. “But so do I, and I’d been trying to figure it out. Then, when I finally start to feel steady, you swoop in and shit all over it. How do you think that felt?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step closer. “I was out of line at Christmas.”
He not only accepts me for who I am but embraces all of me. George makes me feel like I’m home. But I’ve never had the language to tell him how much he means to me.
I can tell he means it, but I don’t know what to do with his apology. The truth is that I’ve felt George’s absence every day since he moved out of our apartment—more so over the last few years. Even though he’s standing a few feet away, it feels like we’re in different time zones. I think of what Mimi said earlier. Do George and I even know each other anymore?
I chew the inside of my cheek, rejecting the notion. George and I know each other in a way you only can when you’ve grown up with someone. He understands me better than anyone.
He not only accepts me for who I am but embraces all of me. George makes me feel like I’m home. But I’ve never had the language to tell him how much he means to me. I don’t know how to say I’m afraid I’m losing him, that I have already lost him.
“Forgive me?” he asks. A squiggle of hair falls over his brow.
But there’s nothing to forgive. George behaved exactly as I would have. “I’ll think about it,” I tell him. “For now you’re on probation.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Because I have a problem.”
“Is that so?” I try to fight the smile from stealing across my lips, but it’s no good.
“Yes.” He sighs deeply. “You see, I’m utterly desperate for an adventure.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard him say those words, but they hold no less power. My heart races. Because, god, so am I.
“Did you have something in mind?” I ask.
A smile spreads across his face. “We’re running away.”
George and I spent our childhood running away together—to the cupboard in the library at the Big House, to the top of the red oak tree, to the creek at the far end of the field. When we were older, we’d take Dad’s truck down to the end of an old dirt logging road, high up on a hillside. In the day, we’d rest on the tailgate, staring at the lakes and rivers that shone in the distance. On a clear summer night, we’d lay a blanket on the ground and talk to the stars. But we had dreams of going further afield, of traveling the world together. Only George followed through.
“Oh?” I ask. “Where are we escaping to this time?”
His eyes glimmer. “Tofino.”
I blink.
“It’s the perfect time for a honeymoon, don’t you think?”
“We’re what?”
“You. Me. Tofino.”
“You want,” I say slowly. “To go on my honeymoon together?”
“That’s right. You owe me one, Frankie. We never got to go on ours.”
I stare at him a moment longer, and then I realize what a gift this could be. How much I need a shake-up. I’ve been stuck in limbo for the last two months, and here is a chance to be released. An adventure. An opportunity to finally travel together. A week to get our friendship back on solid ground.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
“Really? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” I say.
“You’re not going to fight me on it?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Maybe a little. I had a whole speech prepared.”
Classic. “How many times did it involve saying, I told you so?”
George’s smile is gentle. “Not even once.”
From OUR PERECT STORM published by arrangement with Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2026 by Carley Fortune.