When a former pop star enrolls in college, the last thing she expects is A-plus chemistry with her psychology professor in this sexy and tender romance from #1 New York Times bestselling author Rachel Lynn Solomon.
“This is Rachel Lynn Solomon at her absolute best: a moving love story between two people learning to trust not only the good in each other, but in themselves.”—Ellen O’Clover, author of The Heartbreak Hotel
Ramona Wilder has spent her whole life in the spotlight. After a hit kids’ TV show, she transitioned into music, singing in arenas around the world and becoming an icon for millions of teenage girls. Now at age twenty-six, exhausted by the inhumane lack of privacy, she’s done—with all of it. She wants a chance at normal, whatever that might mean for her. And she’s starting with college.
Professor Nick Navarro is recently divorced but determinedly optimistic, allowing himself a very reasonable ten minutes per day to wallow. When his department calls a meeting about a celebrity enrollment, he plans to treat whoever it is like any other student. Except when Ramona blazes into class and causes an uproar, the typically easygoing professor is rattled, maybe for the first time in his career.
Ramona loves the way she flusters him, taking every opportunity to push Nick’s buttons, though what she really wants is to unbutton them completely. When a crisis brings them closer outside of class, they begin a tentative friendship amid an undeniable attraction. But Ramona can’t be so easily finished with her old life, and they’ll both have to confront their pasts if they want a chance at something real.
Excerpt
If she can’t find a parking spot in the next two minutes, she might have to burn the entire school to the ground.
This is the third lot she’s tried. The university gave her a parking permit with access to any of the lots on campus, and though she didn’t ask, she had a feeling most students don’t get the same privilege. She goes up and down each row, mentally cursing out each one of her enemies. None of them have anything on whoever designed this parking lot. And there, fucking finally, a spot that looks just her size next to an ancient Toyota Prius that’s the same color as the gunk that builds up in her shower drain when the cleaners haven’t shown up in a while.
Ramona swerves her Range Rover—and she must misjudge the distance, because there’s a harsh scrape of metal on metal as she pulls in.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she mutters. Right after she got her car back from the shop. She takes a moment to readjust, then eases herself into the spot without hitting the other car this time.
When she gets out to inspect the damage, she sucks in a lungful of air. The Prius got the worst of it, a long crooked line dragged through the copperish, silverish paint. She really can’t tell what color it’s supposed to be.
For a moment, she considers finding another spot. Pretending none of this ever happened.
The car’s beat-up, anyway—what are the odds the owner will notice?
Yeah, no. She’s not that much of a dick, so she gets back in her car and goes to work searching for a piece of paper to write her number on. An apology note so the owner can contact her. She recalls DeeAnn doing the same thing when they hit a parked car on the way to an audition once.
Except—Jesus, is there really no paper in here? No stray receipts from Starbucks or Del Taco? The dealership must have cleaned it all out when she brought it in for its scheduled maintenance. She digs through each compartment. Upends her purse. Wallet, phone, lip balm, protein bar, makeup wipes, hand lotion, MacBook. Evidently she didn’t think a paper notebook would be useful on her first day of school.
Fuck. Once again, she weighs her options. Imagines this stranger coming back and leaving her a note, because of course they’d have paper in their car. They might be reasonable—or, once they realize who she is, might milk this for far more than it’s worth. Is that a thing? She has no idea, but she doesn’t want to take the risk.
So. She’s an asshole after all, she supposes, grimacing as she backs the Range Rover out of the spot and starts hunting again. Karma, strike her down.
She’s late getting to go to the main office for some paperwork and her student ID.
Grateful when the registrar doesn’t blink twice at her name. Psychology is up first, and then marine biology an hour later, because she’s mystified by most people and loves most animals, and it might be nice to learn why. Then Philosophy 101 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just to really round out her desire to understand what the fuck is going on around her.
Obviously people do this, trade in their celebrity for a normal life. An actor who played the love interest on one of her favorite TV shows retired and became a lawyer. A musician she once played a festival with is now an EMT. Maybe none of them were household names, but the transition still couldn’t have been an entirely smooth one. And plenty of famous people take breaks and go to college. Maybe the parking lot debacle rattled her, but she isn’t unique, she tells herself.
This was what she wanted—to be a normal fucking person.
Normal fucking people do not awkwardly loiter inside the bathroom of the psychology building, waiting for their first class to start, and yet here she is.
“Pull it together,” she urges herself. “These are college students. Not critics or label execs.”
The moment she opens the classroom door, the low chatter and rustling of backpacks turn to frantic whispers before dropping to a hushed, agonizing silence.
Excerpted from Extracurricular by Rachel Lynn Solomon Copyright © 2026 by Rachel Lynn Solomon. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may
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