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“What Henry is especially skilled at is writing dialogue. The banter between Poppy and Alex is so natural, quick and witty that it would make Shonda Rhimes do a slow clap.”
―The Associated Press

“Beach Read fans, assemble. Emily Henry is back with another smart, steamy romance….Warning: you will feel all the feels. And probably shed a few tears.”
―The Skimm

“The strength of People We Meet on Vacation [is] the clever observations, the dialogue (which is laugh-out-loud funny) and, most particularly, the characters. Funny and fumbling and lovable, they’re most decidedly worth the trip."
―The Wall Street Journal

“A delightful love story full of hilarious one-liners and winking asides, making it the perfect poolside companion.”
―Real Simple

“Emily Henry is my newest automatic-buy author, and People We Meet on Vacation is the perfect getaway: a heartfelt, funny, tender escape that you wish could last forever.”
―Jodi Picoult, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Book of Two Ways

“People We Meet on Vacation is a gorgeous slow-burn romance, full of sexual tension and tantalizing possibility. I fell head over heels for Alex and Poppy, and loved travelling all over the world with them both.”
―Beth O'Leary, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Flatshare

“This is a perfect rom com, and I completely adored it. I think Emily Henry might be our generation's answer to Nora Ephron. A witty, warm page turner.”
―Sophie Cousens, New York Times bestselling author of GMA book club pick This Time Next Year

“Emily Henry is a STAR! Deeply emotional and starkly funny, People We Meet on Vacation cements Emily Henry as the Queen of Banter. Rom-com fans will swoon over this slow burn friends-to-lovers romance. Poppy and Alex are real and flawed and ultra-lovable, and their Summer Trips will scratch an itch for those of us who’ve missed traveling. A perfect summer read!”
―Alexis Daria, bestselling author of You Had Me at Hola

“A compulsively readable book full of sparkling wit, dazzling prose and a romance that grabbed me by the heart and wouldn't let me go.”
―Abby Jimenez, USA Today bestselling author of Life’s Too Short

“An absolute delight: swoony, legitimately moving, and packed with witty banter that makes Alex and Poppy jump off the page. We are already waiting impatiently for whatever Emily writes next.”
―Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan, USA Today bestselling authors of The Royal We and The Heir Affair

“Henry’s biggest strength is in the sparkling, often laugh-out-loud-funny dialogue, particularly the banter-filled conversations between Poppy and Alex. The end result is a story that pays homage to classic romantic comedies while having a point of view all its own. A warm and winning When Harry Met Sally update that hits all the perfect notes.”
―Kirkus Reviews

“Henry’s skills with sensory detail and lovable characters shine through. This is a strong choice for readers looking for a vicarious summer vacation of their own.”
―Publishers Weekly

PROLOGUE

Five Summers Ago

On vacation, you can be anyone you want.

Like a good book or an incredible outfit, being on vacation transports you into another version of yourself.

In your day-­to-­day life, maybe you can’t even bob your head to the radio without being embarrassed, but on the right twinkly-­light-­strung patio, with the right steel drum band, you’ll find yourself whirling and twirling with the best of them.

On vacation, your hair changes. The water is different, maybe the shampoo. Maybe you don’t bother to wash your hair at all, or brush it, because the salty ocean water curls it up in a way you love. You think, Maybe I could do this at home too. Maybe I could be this person who doesn’t brush her hair, who doesn’t mind being sweaty or having sand in all her crevices.

On vacation, you strike up conversations with strangers, and forget that there are any stakes. If it turns out impossibly awkward, who cares? You’ll never see them again!

You’re whoever you want to be. You can do whatever you want.

Okay, so maybe not whatever you want. Sometimes the weather forces you into a particular situation, such as the one I’m in now, and you have to find second-­rate ways to entertain yourself as you wait out the rain. On my way out of the bathroom, I pause. Partly, this is because I’m still working on my game plan. Mostly, though, it’s because the floor is so sticky that I lose my sandal and have to hobble back for it. I love everything about this place in theory, but in practice, I think letting my bare foot touch the anonymous filth on the laminate might be a good way to contract one of those rare diseases kept in the refrigerated vials of a secret CDC facility.

I dance-­hop back to my shoe, slip my toes through the thin orange straps, and turn to survey the bar: the press of sticky bodies; the lazy whorl of thatched fans overhead; the door propped open so that, occasionally, a burst of rain rips in off the black night to cool the sweating crowd. In the corner, a jukebox haloed in neon light plays the Flamingos’ “I Only Have Eyes for You.”

It’s a resort town but a locals’ bar, free of printed sundresses and Tommy Bahama shirts, though also sadly lacking in cocktails garnished with spears of tropical fruit.

If not for the storm, I would’ve chosen somewhere else for my last night in town. All week long the rain has been so bad, the thunder so constant, that my dreams of sandy white beaches and glossy speedboats were dashed, and I along with the rest of the disappointed vacationers have spent my days pounding pina coladas in any crammed tourist trap I could find.

Tonight, though, I couldn’t take any more dense crowds, long wait times, or gray-­haired men in wedding rings drunkenly winking at me over their wives’ shoulders. Thus I found myself here.

In a sticky-­floored bar called only BAR, scouring the meager crowd for my target.

He’s sitting at the corner of BAR’s bar itself. A man about my age, twenty-­five, sandy haired and tall with broad shoulders, though so hunched you might not notice either of these last two facts on first glance. His head is bent over his phone, a look of quiet concentration visible in his profile. His teeth worry at his full bottom lip as his finger slowly swipes across the screen.

Though not Disney World？level packed, this place is loud. Halfway between the jukebox crooning creepy late-­fifties tunes and the mounted TV opposite it, from which a weatherman shouts about record-­breaking rain, there’s a gaggle of men with identical hacking laughs that keep bursting out all at once. At the far end of the bar, the bartender keeps smacking the counter for emphasis as she chats up a yellow-­haired woman.

The storm’s got the whole island feeling restless, and the cheap beer has everyone feeling rowdy.

But the sandy-­haired man sitting at the corner stool has a stillness that makes him stick out. Actually, everything about him screams that he doesn’t belong here. Despite the eighty-­something-­degree weather and one-­million-­percent humidity, he’s dressed in a rumpled long-­sleeve button-­up and navy blue trousers. He’s also suspiciously devoid of a tan, as well as any laughter, mirth, levity, etc.

Bingo.

I push a fistful of blond waves out of my face and set off toward him. As I approach, his eyes stay fixed on his phone, his finger slowly dragging whatever he’s reading up the screen. I catch the bolded words CHAPTER TWENTY-­NINE.

He’s fully reading a book at a bar.

I swing my hip into the bar and slide my elbow over it as I face him. “Hey, tiger.”

His hazel eyes slowly lift to my face, blink. “Hi?”

“Do you come here often?”

He studies me for a minute, visibly weighing potential replies. “No,” he says finally. “I don’t live here.”

“Oh,” I say, but before I can get out any more, he goes on.

“And even if I did, I have a cat with a lot of medical needs that require specialized care. Makes it hard to get out.”

I frown at just about every part of that sentence. “I’m so sorry,” I recover. “It must be awful to be dealing with all that while also coping with a death.”

His brow crinkles. “A death?”

I wave a hand in a tight circle, gesturing to his getup. “Aren’t you in town for a funeral?”

His mouth presses tight. “I am not.”

“Then what brings you to town?”

“A friend.” His eyes drop to his phone.

“Lives here?” I guess.

“Dragged me,” he corrects. “For vacation.” He says this last word with some disdain.

I roll my eyes. “No way! Away from your cat? With no good excuse except for enjoyment and merrymaking? Are you sure this person can really be called a friend?”

“Less sure every second,” he says without looking up.

He’s not giving me much to work with, but I’m not giving up. “So,” I forge ahead. “What’s this friend like? Hot? Smart? Loaded?”

“Short,” he says, still reading. “Loud. Never shuts up. Spills on every single article of clothing either of us wears, has horrible romantic taste, sobs through those commercials for community college―­the ones where the single mom is staying up late at her computer and then, when she falls asleep, her kid drapes a blanket over her shoulders and smiles because he’s so proud of her? What else? Oh, she’s obsessed with shitty dive bars that smell like salmonella. I’m afraid to even drink the bottled beer here―­have you seen the Yelp reviews for this place?”

“Are you kidding right now?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Well,” he says, “salmonella doesn’t have a smell, but yes, Poppy, you are short.”

“Alex!” I swat his bicep, breaking character. “I’m trying to help you!”

He rubs his arm. “Help me how?”

“I know Sarah broke your heart, but you need to get back out there. And when a hot babe approaches you at a bar, the number one thing you should not bring up is your codependent relationship with your asshole cat.”

“First of all, Flannery O’Connor is not an asshole,” he says. “She’s shy.”

“She’s evil.”

“She just doesn’t like you,” he insists. “You have strong dog energy.”

“All I’ve ever done is try to pet her,” I say. “Why have a pet who doesn’t want to be petted?”

“She wants to be petted,” Alex says. “You just always approach her with this, like, wolfish gleam in your eye.”

“I do not.”

“Poppy,” he says. “You approach everything with a wolfish gleam in your eye.”

Just then the bartender approaches with the drink I ordered before I ducked into the bathroom. “Miss?” she says. “Your margarita.” She spins the frosted glass down the bar toward me, and a ping of excited thirst hits the back of my throat as I catch it. I swipe it up so quickly that a fair amount of tequila sloshes over the lip, and with a preternatural and highly practiced speed, Alex jerks my other arm off the bar before it can get liquor splattered on it.

“See? Wolfish gleam,” Alex says quietly, seriously, the way he delivers pretty much every word he ever says to me except on those rare and sacred nights when Weirdo Alex comes out and I get to watch him, like, lie on the floor fake-­sobbing

THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER!

Named a Most Anticipated Book of 2021 by Newsweek / Oprah Magazine / The Skimm / Marie Claire / Parade / The Wall Street Journal / Chicago Tribune / PopSugar / BookPage / BookBub / Betches / SheReads / Good Housekeeping / BuzzFeed / Business Insider / Real Simple / Frolic / and more!

Two best friends. Ten summer trips. One last chance to fall in love.

From the New York Times bestselling author of Beach Read comes a sparkling new novel that will leave you with the warm, hazy afterglow usually reserved for the best vacations.

Poppy and Alex. Alex and Poppy. They have nothing in common. She’s a wild child; he wears khakis. She has insatiable wanderlust; he prefers to stay home with a book. And somehow, ever since a fateful car share home from college many years ago, they are the very best of friends. For most of the year they live far apart?she’s in New York City, and he’s in their small hometown?but every summer, for a decade, they have taken one glorious week of vacation together.

Until two years ago, when they ruined everything. They haven't spoken since.

Poppy has everything she should want, but she’s stuck in a rut. When someone asks when she was last truly happy, she knows, without a doubt, it was on that ill-fated, final trip with Alex. And so, she decides to convince her best friend to take one more vacation together?lay everything on the table, make it all right. Miraculously, he agrees.

Now she has a week to fix everything. If only she can get around the one big truth that has always stood quietly in the middle of their seemingly perfect relationship. What could possibly go wrong?