The Freedom Clause

Informationen zum Autor Hannah Sloane was born and raised in England. She read history at the University of Bristol. She moved to New York in her twenties and she lives in Brooklyn with her partner, Sam. The Freedom Clause is her debut novel. Klappentext Could one night off a year save a marriage - or destroy it? In this bold and sexy debut, a young couple agrees to open their marriage, but they soon discover that a little freedom has surprising consequences. Soon, Daphne and Dominic are reconsidering everything - each other, their relationship, and themselves. Leseprobe The Agreement New Year's Day. Dominic wakes up and his hangover greets him immediately. His back sticks to the sheets, coated in a sheen of sweat. His breaths are soft and shallow. With closed eyes, his hand skims blindly along the bedside table, landing on a familiar shape. But there are no texts, no interesting emails to read. He opens and closes Twitter, followed by Instagram and, in a fleeting fit of boredom, LinkedIn. It's noon, and he feels a familiar twinge of guilt. Daphne has been up for hours. He hears the spin of a laundry cycle nearing completion. Dirty plates scrubbed clean. The kettle's high and angry whistle. His wife's productivity puts his own to shame. He should help, Dominic thinks, swinging his legs off the bed. He reaches for a discarded sweatshirt, navy and hooded, and pulls it over his head. Opening the door, the scent of lunch wafts toward him. His stomach rumbles happily. Daph-ne, he calls out, aiming for singsongy, but his voice is a low croak. He finds her leaning over the kitchen counter in a faded white top, denim jeans that hug her curves. She doesn't see him. Humming along to Spotify, clutching a pen delicately in her right hand, she's absorbed in her notepad. Dog-eared and tattered, it contains recipes she's crafted over the years, annotated with painstaking precision. Her damp hair hangs in loose curls. Small beads of water drip down her back. She looks fresh and energetic, the opposite of him. The kitchen surfaces gleam and sparkle, the heavy scent of synthetic lemon and lavender hangs in the air. He feels clammy and parched and gross but he can't help himself; he hugs her from behind, pecking her neck with small kisses and breathing in her scent, a mix of honeysuckle and citrus. His hands glide over her hips, and lower, toward her thighs. He nuzzles his nose and lips into the back of her neck in what he hopes is a seductive manner. Morning, sunshine! He attempts a sexy drawl, but it's a hoarse bellow. God, you scared me! she shrieks, swatting him away. You look great, he murmurs into her ear, softer this time, and he tries again, his hand hovering lightly against her hip. She elbows him in the ribs. I'm busy here, get off! So much for trying to start the new year on a spicy note, he thinks, shoulders sagging in defeat. Embarrassed by his pathetic seduction attempt, he switches topic. Grilled cheese? he asks, snaking a hand past her. She slaps his wrist affectionately. Not yet. Here, take some of this. She places something in his hand. A bottle of Nurofen.You're the best, he sighs. And you made coffee. With frothy milk! She beams proudly. Wow, he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest. You used a present from The Parents already! The Parents: Nigel and Plumb, neither of whom treat their daughter well, and his dad and Sadie. Dominic's mum passed away a few years ago and the less said about that, he thinks, reaching past Daphne for a mug, the better. Is the milk frother our favorite Christmas gift this year? he asks. Let's think about this, Daphne responds, tilting her head to one side. My parents got their least favorite child a teeny-tiny cashmere sweater, which could be a genuine mistake?.?.?.??or...

Autorentext

Hannah Sloane was born and raised in England. She read history at the University of Bristol. She moved to New York in her twenties and she lives in Brooklyn with her partner, Sam. The Freedom Clause is her debut novel.

Klappentext

What happens if you find your true love too soon? Could one night off a year save your marriage—or destroy it? In this bold and sexy debut, a young couple discovers that a little freedom has surprising consequences.

“A delicious novel . . . Nora Ephron fans will delight in this debut.”—Amanda Eyre Ward, New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters

Dominic and Daphne met in their first week of college, and they’ve been happily married for three years. They love each other deeply but perhaps have become too comfortable, and their sex life isn’t what anyone would call thrilling. So, on New Year’s Day, Dominic blurts out a suggestion before it’s fully worked out in his mind: what if they open up their marriage?

Daphne reluctantly agrees—with conditions. They can sleep with one other person, one night a year, and the agreement has a five-year expiration date. It’s not a total free-for-all on their vows, but an amendment. They call it the Freedom Clause.

It isn’t long before Daphne and Dominic find themselves—and their marriage—altered in unexpected ways. Embracing the spirit of the Clause, Daphne pushes herself to be more assertive in asking for what she wants. She begins chronicling her journey of self-discovery in an anonymous newsletter, sharing recipes inspired by her conquests, and soon realizes that one night off a year isn’t a small change . . . it’s a seismic one.

Eventually, Daphne and Dominic are reconsidering everything—each other, their relationship, and themselves. Can they survive the Freedom Clause? Do they even want to?

Leseprobe
The Agreement

New Year’s Day. Dominic wakes up and his hangover greets him immediately. His back sticks to the sheets, coated in a sheen of sweat. His breaths are soft and shallow. With closed eyes, his hand skims blindly along the bedside table, landing on a familiar shape. But there are no texts, no interesting emails to read. He opens and closes Twitter, followed by Instagram and, in a fleeting fit of boredom, LinkedIn. It’s noon, and he feels a familiar twinge of guilt. Daphne has been up for hours. He hears the spin of a laundry cycle nearing completion. Dirty plates scrubbed clean. The kettle’s high and angry whistle. His wife’s productivity puts his own to shame. He should help, Dominic thinks, swinging his legs off the bed. He reaches for a discarded sweatshirt, navy and hooded, and pulls it over his head. Opening the door, the scent of lunch wafts toward him. His stomach rumbles happily.

“Daph-ne,” he calls out, aiming for singsongy, but his voice is a low croak.

He finds her leaning over the kitchen counter in a faded white top, denim jeans that hug her curves. She doesn’t see him. Humming along to Spotify, clutching a pen delicately in her right hand, she’s absorbed in her notepad. Dog-eared and tattered, it contains recipes she’s crafted over the years, annotated with painstaking precision. Her damp hair hangs in loose curls. Small beads of water drip down her back. She looks fresh and energetic, the opposite of him. The kitchen surfaces gleam and sparkle, the heavy scent of synthetic lemon and lavender hangs in the air. He feels clammy and parched and gross but he can’t help himself; he hugs her from behind, pecking her neck with small kisses and breathing in her scent, a mix of honeysuckle and citrus. His hands glide over her hips, and lower, toward her thighs. He nuzzles his nose and lips into the back of her neck in what he hopes is a seductive manner.

“Morning, sunshine!” He attempts a sexy drawl, but it’s a hoarse bellow.

“God, you scared me!” she shrieks, swatting him away.

“You look great…