If the title No Ordinary Love made you automatically think of the iconic Sade song, then you’ve come to the right place. While we’re not exactly talking about that track here, we still got the next big thing for you. Myah Ariel is back with her sophomore book and it’s giving us all those kinds of vibes thanks to its celeb romance plot and some of our favorite lyrics from songs that will inspire your next playlist.
Cosmopolitan has an exclusive look at Myah Ariel‘s No Ordinary Love, which is set to be released on April 1, 2025. The book focuses on a singer and an MLB player who start a fake relationship in the hopes to help each other’s career. But with their hearts and their futures on the line, things quickly heat up and they have to figure out what’s real and what’s for the cameras. Check out the official description below from our friends at Berkley:
A PR partnership between a pop superstar and a pro-athlete bad boy turns into so much more in this swoony romance from the acclaimed author of When I Think of You.Ella Simone’s popstar life is what dreams are made of. Her eight year marriage to renowned music producer, Elliot Majors, has helped garner the hits, awards, and adoring fans to prove it. But when Ella tires of Elliot’s many infidelities, she decides to fight for her independence despite the ironclad prenup that threatens her career.
To help her case, Ella is under strict orders to stick to The Plan: no headlines, no rumors, no rocking the boat. But this strategy is thrown a curveball after an awards show wardrobe snafu and quick rescue by Miles Westbrook, MLB’s most eligible player, sends the tabloids into a frenzy. Amid tricky divorce proceedings, Ella’s magnetic connection with the charismatic pitcher might just be her downfall.
Now the pressure is on to turn a scandal into an opportunity and give their teams what they want: a picture-perfect performance that will shore up both Ella and Miles’ reputations. But as the lines between reality and PR begin to blur, Ella will either stick to the choreographed life she knows so well, or surrender to a love that could set her free.
Before you get your lucky jersey out and start belting some of your favorite love songs, you can check out an exclusive excerpt below. Just make sure to pre-order No Ordinary Love and also check out Myah’s other book as well.
An Excerpt From No Ordinary Love
By Myah Arie
Miles Westbrook’s presence looms large backstage. Even with a frenzied sea of people separating us, I am keenly aware of him standing in a dark corner chatting closely with a member of his team. I can’t remember ever feeling this affected by a complete stranger before—wary yet intrigued at the same time.
Prior to tonight I had seen the man before . . . in photographs and on TV.
Briefly, I revisit Sheryl’s ridiculous contributions to the group chat, along with Jamie and Rodney’s relentless teasing. It’s one thing to make jokes with your friends about getting back in the swing of things. But nothing could quite prepare me for the chemical reactions Miles would draw out of me with just a glance. That’s all this is. The body’s natural response when presented with a desirable person, after its most basic wants have been neglected for far too long.
In this case, the person stands a few inches taller than every- one else who is zipping between us and frantically occupied with the business of putting on the show. And considering the fact that almost half of us are tiptoeing around while propped up on what might as well be called stilts, that’s saying a lot. The person has a bright white smile that stretches broadly over a strong chin, is framed by achingly full lips, and bracketed by dimples that curve deep within the rich brown complexion of his otherwise angular face.
“Ms. Simone, if you come with me now, I’ll introduce you to Mr. Westbrook,” a show producer says with a polite smile that knocks me out of my trance. I smile back and follow after her on stiff legs. Something elemental happens in the room as the distance closes between me and Miles. Like somehow, just by walking thirty feet, I’ve traversed a continent and entered a new climate. At about the halfway mark, Miles seems to take note of my approach. And when our eyes lock, for the second time to- night, I can only hold the contact for a moment before I glance away to break the tension.
In the final seconds before reaching him, I give myself the pep talk of the century. It consists of several get it togethers, a few girl, he is just a mans, and a final resounding Elladee Ashley Robinson, your grandmama taught you better than this. So, by the time I am squarely in front of him, I’ve mustered the poise and control to act like the well-adjusted adult I am, but only in the most uncertain terms.
“Hi, Miles, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand with a perfectly professional smile.
“Ella,” he says my name and tapers off, like he meant to follow it up with something and never quite decided on what. But his eyes remain steady on mine. And there’s an indecision there, like he’s willing them to stay put rather than travel the length of me, like they really want to.
I can’t shake the dangerous feeling that I want to be looked at by him. Like I want his eyes to drink me in, have their fill, and wordlessly affirm their delight. It’s even more maddening that he won’t give me the satisfaction of that coveted, languid perusal. Despite what the tabloids have said, Miles Westbrook has self- control, and everything in me wants to test it.
At some point in the past few seconds, we wound up alone. I have a faint memory of the producer telling us she’d be back with our sides. But I’m currently more preoccupied with the two loose buttons at the top of Miles’s silk shirt, which reveal the divot at the base of his neck and just a hint of his strong chest.
My distraction is so utter and complete that I don’t realize how long I’ve been staring as we’ve stood in total silence, until Miles clears his throat. “So, I’m a . . . fan,” he says, piercing the awkwardness. And surprisingly, his words are stilted, like now that we’ve been left alone for probably only a minute—at least I hope it’s only been that long—he’s nervous in my presence. “Of y-your music that is.”
“Ah,” I say, dubious of the claim. Most athletes I’ve come in contact with have Drake or Kendrick on their AirPods, not my subgenre of pop and R&B.
“You’re about to quiz me, aren’t you?” he asks, a sly grin creeping across his perfect face.
I fight the urge to fan myself as I feel sweat beading down my back. “I wouldn’t dare,” I lie.
“Oh, it’s cool. My pop always said if you stay ready, you don’t have to get ready,” he counters, rolling his shoulders like he’s pre- paring for a workout. He sports a panty-dropping grin that’s as boyish as it’s devilish.
“I’m waiting, then,” I say, crossing my arms and cocking my head to the side. I’m aware of what the motion does to my chest in this dress, and I don’t miss the moment his eyes swoop low and then return to my face—or the slight strain of his furrowed brow, like he’s disappointed in himself for succumbing. I’m not.
He rolls his shoulders. “Okay, top-three Ella Simone tracks for me are . . . ‘Cry Alone,’ ‘Thief of Hearts,’ and the new one y-you just released. The Sade interpolation.”
“‘No Ordinary Love,’” I say, referring to the redux Elliot and I recorded a year ago and let linger to collect dust on a shelf until the label released it last week. Mostly, I’m stunned that Miles West- brook just used the word interpolation. Not because I’d be so silly as to make the basic assumption that an athlete wouldn’t have a vast vocabulary. It’s just not a word you hear thrown around by people who aren’t intimately involved in the process of producing music.
But before I can even respond, we’re joined again by the producer, who’s carrying a printout of our lines. She steps up to us gingerly, as if she’s afraid to interrupt. “You don’t have to memorize it,” she says timidly. “There’ll be a prompter. But just in case, sometimes people like to . . . well, you’ve both done this before. Anyhoo, holler if you need me. You’re on in five!”
She hands us one printout to look at and scurries off to other duties. Now that we’ve got our assignment, we put the music talk on ice. Miles casually positions himself next to me and lowers the page so I can look on with him. Then we stand in silence. And I don’t know about him, but I’m looking at the words on the page without really seeing what’s there. Instead, I’m cataloging the subtle notes of his cologne, wondering exactly how tall he is, and fix- ating on how strongly defined his fingers are—curious all of a sudden to know if the hand holding the page is the one he pitches with.
Miles clears his throat. “Uh, so . . . it looks like they kept it pretty straightforward for us,” he says, settling the mystery of whether or not he’s as distracted by my presence as I am his.
I look up at him and notice his eyes are shifty and his jaw is tight. The swagger and ease from a moment ago has all but dissipated. “Wait, don’t tell me you’re . . . are you nervous about presenting?” I ask, careful not to sound like I’m teasing him.
He shrugs. Not dismissively, but more like an admission of de- feat. “Public speaking. It’s uh . . .” He pauses, eyes darting around as if checking for lurkers. “I stutter.” He shrugs again, but this time with a small smile. And such an innocent gesture on this grown, gorgeous man is disarming.
“Oh. I see,” I say, briefly at a loss for what to do or say to put him at ease. “Is there anything that helps when you get blocked? Anything I can do?” My best friend in middle school had a stutter, and eventually she discovered that clapping her hands or snapping her fingers whenever she got held up on a syllable or letter seemed to help get her over the hump. I can’t assume the same trick works for everyone with the same speech impediment, but I figure it couldn’t hurt to ask.
“Nah. It’s okay,” Miles says. “But most people don’t even think to ask that, so I appreciate you.”
I nod, probably a bit too aggressively, and my brain produces no additional thoughts. We stand in awkward silence for a few more seconds.
“I tap my thigh when I get stuck,” Miles offers. “It doesn’t al- ways w-work, but it helps me often enough.”
I’m about to say something totally inadequate for this vulnerable disclosure, like thank you for sharing that with me or oh, that’s nice to know, when I’m saved by the bell.
“There you are!” shouts Rodney. Feeling uneasy and desperate for an escape, I turn and begin walking up to him and Angelo without realizing that one of the long tassels of my skirt is wedged underneath Miles’s shoe.
I hear the pop of fabric before I feel the straps snap one by one.
Excerpted from No Ordinary Love by Myah Ariel Copyright © 2025 by Myah Ariel. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
No Ordinary Love, by Myah Ariel will be released on April 1, 2025. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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