Exclusive Cover Reveal + Excerpt: Alicia Thompson’s In Every Possible Way

The latest novel from the USA Today bestselling romance author behind stories like Love in the Time of Serial Killers and Never Been Shipped is set to hit shelves next year, just in time to bring a little Irish magic to our collective summers. Alicia Thompson’s In Every Possible Way is described as a title that’s perfect for armchair travelers and those who love romances with a touch of magic, in the vein of Ashley Poston.

A whimsical romance with a touch of wanderlust, In Every Possible Way follows the story of a young woman who hits her head and wakes up in Ireland, where the first person she meets just might be the man of her dreams.

Here’s how the publisher describes the story.

After yet another disastrous date where Jess is too awkward, too earnest, too whatever, she’s ready to put her romantic daydreams aside. Other than an enchanting Irish accent, her latest date is no prince charming. Then the night goes from bad to worse when she’s mugged in the parking lot and hits her head. Hard.

Hard enough that when Jess wakes up, she’s in Ireland.

The first person she meets is Eamonn, a quiet, gruff mechanic. Since Jess is stranded with no passport, cell phone, or way to get home, Eamonn becomes her reluctant knight in shining armor.

Over the next forty-eight hours, they meander through the cobblestone streets of Dublin and explore the Irish countryside, sharing their deepest fears, quiet hopes, and softest aches. It’s a connection that is as electrifying as it is terrifying, because what if Jess falls asleep and Eamonn vanishes like a dream? But a love like this—touched by magic and a little bit of luck—is never quite as it seems.

In Every Possible Way won’t hit shelves until June of 2026, but we’re thrilled to be able to reveal its (gorgeous!) cover for you right now — along with a sneak peek at the story itself.

Chapter One

It was probably a bad idea—spending my thirty-seventh birthday on a first date—but I admit I’d let myself daydream. It would make a great story, wouldn’t it? If we ended up together forever?

I didn’t even know it was her birthday at first, he’d say to our… well, kids felt like a bit much, but maybe he’d be telling the story to his big, happy family who marveled at the way he lit up around me. But when she told me I said, Okay then, let’s keep the night going.

And we’d do something extra romantic, I didn’t know what because what was there romantic to do near this strip mall Thai food restaurant, but it’d be something. It’d be magical.

Instead, my date was fifteen minutes late and the night only went downhill from there.

“Jess?” he said, pointing at me. The way his gaze swept down my body, I could tell he was disappointed. It’s just one of those things you can pick up on, after you’ve been on enough dates. I was wearing my favorite dress, made of a gauzy fabric with a lining underneath except for the sleeves, which were sheer and a little blousy, ending in cuffs with a line of buttons on them like something out of the Victorian era. Two overlapping panels of fabric over my chest made a deep V neck, and the skirt was swirly and tied with a string around my waist that was more fashion than function. I’d owned this dress forever, so it was kind of shabby, if you looked too closely at it. It was also a little loose on me, but in a way I personally thought looked good—skimming my body without clinging to it. It also happened to be the most beautiful color I’d ever seen, a deep purplish-blue or bluish-purple depending on how you wanted to describe it. I didn’t even know the name of the color.

“Sure,” I said, because in my mind I was like, Sure, of course, this is how it always goes so why did I think it would be any different?

“Is that not your name?” he asked. His was Niall, as I knew from the app, and there was a hint of an Irish accent in his voice that said maybe he’d come by the name honestly.

“No, it is,” I said. “Should we—”

An apathetic hostess had grabbed two menus and was showing us to a booth by the window, where I had a perfect view of the advertisement for $3.99 Botox next door.

“I feel like I got robbed,” I said, gesturing to the sign. “They charge five dollars a unit down the street.”

He looked at me blankly. “If you’d rather me call you Jessica, just say so. Your profile had your name as Jess.”

“My name is Jess,” I said, trying to give him a smile. It occurred to me that maybe he was nervous, which endeared him to me a bit. He didn’t look like a man who’d be nervous on a first date—he was attractive, with dark hair and blue eyes, and then there was that accent. His profile had said he was younger than me by a year—two years now, I guessed, technically—but I’d figured that age gap was so small as to be inconsequential. Who cared about a couple of years when you were in your thirties? At the same time, I couldn’t help but be conscious that most of the men my age on the app seemed to be looking for women ten years younger. My Botox joke had only been because there happened to be a sign outside the window, but maybe it had been a poorly chosen reminder of one of the differences between us.

“Sorry.” I fiddled with one of the buttons at my wrist, which was starting to come loose. “I don’t know why I said sure when you asked me that the first time. I think I’m a little nervous? I always get nervous before first dates because I don’t know if I’m any good at them.”

He’d already flipped the menu over and was looking around for the server. “I usually get the panang curry here. It has a bit of a kick, if that’s a problem for you. I know some people really can’t handle spice.”

“I read a lot of romance,” I said. “Believe me, I can handle spice.”

What the fuuuuuuuuck. I didn’t even know what I was saying, or why I was saying it. I was stuck in some horrifying I need a vacation from my vacation type nightmare, except in this one I wasn’t just spouting clichés but potentially opening up a can of worms I really didn’t want to open. I’d made the mistake of talking about the books I was reading on a date before, and even if it was a mix of genres somehow the romance was always the one that got interrogated. It bummed me out, having to argue for my own interests like there was something wrong with them in the first place. I didn’t even like the word spice when applied to books, for god’s sake, it had just flown out of my mouth.

The worst part was that I think I’d been trying to flirt.

Niall had flagged down the server and was already placing his order. “One panang curry, with a Diet Coke to drink. And she’ll have—”

He looked at me expectantly, but I hadn’t even had time to review the menu yet. The server was a young woman in her early twenties, probably enrolled in classes at the university ten minutes away. I felt a sudden pang of tenderness for her, just thinking about my own food service and retail jobs in college, while I was studying to be an artist. I’d often been surprised by how much habit and muscle memory could pull me through when my head was somewhere else, thinking of brushstrokes and composition and shadows and light.

Not unlike now, when this woman just wanted my dinner order.

“The same, please,” I said. “Only with water.”

Once the server had left, Niall looked at me full on for the first time since we’d sat down. His gaze dipped to my cleavage, which would’ve been gratifying except it kind of awkwardly just stayed there.

“Diet Coke underwent hundreds of tests to make sure it met Coca-Cola’s standards before it was brought to market,” he said to my chest. “Some people think it’s Coke with the sugar subbed out, but it’s a completely different formula.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s cool. Are you big into the history of soda?”

I’d meant the question sincerely—I could settle in to learn some interesting facts about carbonated beverages over the years—but he gave me a look like I was out of my mind. At least he was looking at my face again.

“No,” he said. “I just take an interest in what I put inside my body.”

Me, too, buddy, I wanted to say, but of course I couldn’t. I thought about making a joke about the market testing for water, remembered his non-reaction to the Botox joke, and decided against it.

I cast around for things to say related to what he’d put in his dating profile, or the few conversations we’d had through the app’s messaging function. I knew his name was Niall and he was thirty-five, he had a job in marketing but I wasn’t quite sure what, and he’d picked this restaurant because it was around the corner from where he lived even though it was so far from my work that I’d had to ask to shift the start time for the date back half an hour. I’d liked his profile picture—not just because he was attractive, but because he’d been standing in front of the greenest grass I’d ever seen. Something about it had called to me.

“You must be from Ireland?” I said, thinking of that picture, that accent.

“God,” he groaned. “What do women find so compelling about Ireland? Let me guess, you’ve seen Leap Year a few times? It’s a rainy backwater shithole, is what it is.”

I had, in fact, seen Leap Year a few times. But obviously I wasn’t going to say that now. I thought randomly of a painting I’d studied as part of a twentieth-century art history class, The Liffey Swim, the way it put you as one of the spectators to an annual sporting event in Dublin. The colors had been all grays and greens, unexpected streaks of red in the water, and then the contrast of the pale clouded sky above. I thought of everything else I knew about Ireland—how green it was, that it rained a lot, yes, that it had a rich history of folklore and fairy tales and storytelling. I’d gone through my own phase of looking for four-leaf clovers, believing in them as a symbol of luck.

“That’s how some people would describe Florida,” I said with a smile, trying to show that I hadn’t meant anything more by the question than idle curiosity, something to talk about. “Sunshine State reputation aside. How long have you lived here?”

“Just over a decade.”

“It must’ve been a bit of a culture shock.”

“Not really.”

I was grateful when our drinks came and I could take a sip of my water just for something to do. There was no way I was going to tell this man that it was my birthday. I just hoped I could get home in time to read a few chapters of my book before I was too tired to keep my eyes open. It had been a long week.

“I’ve never been out of the country,” I said. “I don’t even have a passport.”

He made a face that had to be because of what I’d said and not because of his Diet Coke, which had been meticulously formulated to be delicious. “That’s irresponsible,” he chided. “If you haven’t traveled, you haven’t lived.”

“Well, I’ve traveled,” I said. “I went to Washington, D.C., on a class trip. When I was a kid, we spent a lot of time in St. Augustine. My parents both worked a lot and couldn’t always take more than a long weekend off, so that was where we’d go for family vacations.” I brightened as I thought of something that might actually get his attention. “Oh, and I’ve been to Atlanta—we did the Coke museum and everything.”

“But that was all when you were a child,” Niall said. “And by car, which doesn’t count. I went on enough school trips to Carrowmore and you don’t hear me going on about it.”

I didn’t think listing a few cities was going on about it, but I just took another sip of my water. “Maybe you should,” I said. “Do you still have a lot of family there?”

He stared at me for a beat, like he was trying to work out if that first comment was sarcastic or not. It weirdly lifted my mood, gave me a tiny sliver of hope. Before that, it wasn’t always clear how much he was even following my side of the conversation—so far, he’d either ignored what I’d said or seemed to want to debate a slightly different version of it. Maybe by the time dinner came, he’d be ready to ask me questions or reciprocate in any way.

“My older sister Kathleen,” he said. “Then after me, my sister Siobhán. My brother Eamonn. And then there are the twins, Rachel and Claire.”

That snagged my interest. “Oh wow. You have a lot of siblings.”

“Yes, well done,” he said. “Go ahead and make the joke. I’ve heard it before.”

I was sorry I’d gotten us down this path at all. Somehow, I seemed to have really offended this guy, but I couldn’t figure out how. “No, no joke,” I said. “I don’t know, I’ve always liked the idea of a big family. I’m trash for—”

“Stop,” he said, harsh enough that I flinched. “Don’t do that. I hate when you do that.”

His mouth was a tight line, and he looked genuinely upset. Not just upset . . . angry. I couldn’t believe the way he’d said that—I hate when you do that—like he’d known me for longer than fifteen minutes, like we had a relationship deep enough for him to have already developed a strong distaste for some pattern or habit of mine. I wasn’t even entirely sure what he was talking about.

“You hate when I . . . do what?”

“That self-deprecating kind of humor, I hate that.”

I still had to trace backward through what I’d said to piece it together. “I’m trash for? That’s just an expression. You know, a meme. I’m trash for iced coffee, that kind of thing.”

“And then earlier you said you weren’t good at first dates,” he pointed out. “Just stop it. It’s unattractive, putting yourself down like that.”

If anything, that had been a vulnerable confession in hopes of easing the early awkwardness between us. One that he hadn’t even bothered to respond to in the moment, so I was surprised to hear him bringing it up now. “I’m not very good at first dates,” I said, my voice flat. “Clearly.”

“Well, if I can give you some constructive feedback, you could try being a little more positive. Smile more. You looked a lot happier in your profile picture.”

That’s because my best friend took the shot, I wanted to say, and she wasn’t in the middle of giving me any constructive feedback while she did it.

“So did you,” I said. Come to think of it, he hadn’t smiled at me once, not even the reflexive one you usually give someone upon meeting them for the first time. “Any more feedback?”

His gaze flickered over me, and immediately I regretted asking. This was a man who’d take that kind of question literally, so I’d just opened myself up for it. “That dress looks like a bag on you. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your figure.”

I could feel my face growing hot and I really, really didn’t want to cry. I was, unfortunately, one of those people who cried for almost any reason. When there was a particularly gnarly paper jam in the printer at work and it was just the last thing I needed that day. When I turned a corner in an art museum and happened upon an abstract painting with an evocative title that hit me in the gut. I couldn’t even hear the opening notes to “Fast Car” without my throat getting tight.

“I’m not ashamed of it,” I said. “I like this dress.”

“You don’t think that when someone has an accent, it might be the first thing anyone ever asks them about? It gets old. It’s problematic, when you get down to it. And sure doesn’t make a guy feel great, like you’d rather be on a date with his brother just because his accent’s stronger.”

“I wish I was on a date with your brother,” I said. Anything had to be better than this.

“Eamonn’s a waste,” he said. “And even he wouldn’t waste his time. He’s also too young for you.”

We just stared at each other then, like we’d both suddenly realized how mean the last five minutes had gotten out of nowhere. No, that wasn’t it. He’d gotten mean but I doubted he saw himself that way. Meanwhile, I was torn between wanting to apologize for that one jab about dating his brother and wanting to say, Actually, I’m not sorry if I do insult you. I was also mentally sorting through the few messages we’d exchanged before agreeing to meet up, trying to figure out if I should’ve been able to guess that Niall with the green grass picture would be this much of an asshole. His responses had been delayed sometimes, even when we’d just been going back and forth a few seconds before. I’d told myself it could be organic—people had lives! They got pulled away from their phones!—but I’d suspected he was playing games. But even that hadn’t struck me as too big a red flag. It seemed like everyone played games. Maybe my only problem was that I wasn’t better at them myself.

The server approached the table with steaming plates then, putting one in front of each of us. “Two panang curries,” she said. “Need anything else?”

I knew the question was just about refills, extra napkins, something on the side, but still it reminded me that whatever it was I needed, this date was the last place I was going to get it. The sad part was that I wanted to walk out but knew I was going to stay, because if nothing else I was starving and the food was hot and in front of me. If I ate fast, we’d barely have to talk.

But we were only unwrapping our silverware when Niall said, “That was a compliment to your figure earlier, you know.”

If I had to hear this man say your figure one more time, I might never have an appetite again. “Thank you,” I said, knowing that if he didn’t like self-deprecating humor he really wouldn’t like my sarcasm, but also that he hadn’t seemed to clock it thus far.

“I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

The curry was so bland it was almost a culinary feat. It should be studied, how to take a savory meal and somehow strip it of all its distinctive flavors.

“At this point, Niall,” I said, loading up another forkful of the underwhelming food. “I’m not looking to have any ideas at all.”

In Every Possible Way will be released on June 16, 2026, but you can pre-order it now. 

Lacy Baugher Milas writes about Books and TV at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter and Bluesky at @LacyMB