The Underachiever's Guide to Love and Saving the World: A Novel

by Sloane Brooks

Overview

The Hating Game meets Legends&Lattes in this captivating and hilarious fantasy rom-com with a twist about two enemies who must work together to return to their reality.

Courtney’s only goal in life is to have no goals. A reformed overachiever, she’s content with her dead-end job and simple existence. And her “feud” with her neighbor Bryce brings her immense joy. Everything is perfect.

Until Courtney and Bryce are pulled through a portal and flung into a fantasy world where they are met by a prophecy-obsessed sage who claims one of them must be the Chosen One destined to save them all from an unknown Evil One. Neither of them wants the job but also refuse to let the other have the glory. Unfortunately, in their efforts to save the world, they unleash more chaos by accidentally freeing a dragon, summoning an undead army, and almost poisoning their mentor with peanut butter.

To return to their world, Courtney and Bryce—a snarky underachiever and a grumpy hermit—must charm and endear themselves to the people of this fantasy world (or each other) to be able to use magic. With time running out and the threat of the Evil One looming, they must work together to become worthy heroes if they ever want to make it home again. Or else be doomed to eternity in a universe without running water—and with each other—forever.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781668081273
Publisher:	Atria Books
Publication date:	09/30/2025
Sold by:	SIMON & SCHUSTER
Format:	eBook
Pages:	384
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

Sloane Brooks loves writing stories filled with romance, humor, and magic. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, two cats, and too many houseplants. She is the author of The Underachiever’s Guide to Love and Saving the World and, under the pen name Shannon Bright, her debut paranormal rom-com Every Wish Way.

Read an Excerpt

Prologue

PROLOGUE
COURTNEY

There’s a reason stories begin with Once Upon a Time and not The End.

After The End, you’re left cleaning up carnage and wondering how you’re going to afford therapy. You don’t feel victorious; you feel tired, hungry, and grumpy.

No one talks about how unpleasant the aftermath of an epic adventure is. No one warns you that you’ll return home, after gallivanting around a magical universe, to find your car’s been towed. No one mentions the fact that you’ll probably look over at the person you’re supposed to be having your Happily Ever After with and wonder if a week-long adventure is long enough to truly get to know someone.

That’s the predicament Bryce and I currently find ourselves in. It’s the middle of the night, and we’re in our driveway, staring at our duplex as though it’s the strangest thing we’ve ever seen, even though an undead skeleton stands behind us, clutching an iPhone.

Christmas lights strobe over my half of the building while Bryce’s half remains in shadow. It feels like so long ago since the morning when I hung them—the morning everything changed. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to bid Bryce good night and go home to my side, or if I should waltz through his front door and move in.

That’s the thing with adventures. If Bryce and I hadn’t gone on one, we’d still be nothing more than the petty, bickering neighbors we were a week ago. One measly little romp through a magical portal, and suddenly we’ve shared our deepest secrets, but not our middle names. We’ve watched each other cry before we’ve so much as watched a movie together. We’ve fought side by side, but his number isn’t even in my phone.

Bryce clears his throat. “So.”

“Yup,” I say.

After facing the undead and a dragon, you’d think a piddly little thing like talking about my feelings would be easy. Somehow it’s harder outside of life-or-death stakes. Honestly, I’d welcome a monster breathing down my neck. It might make the words come easier. But what words would they be? When the credits roll, the music plays, and the couple rides off into the sunset, what do they say to each other?

Recent evidence suggests emotionally gripping proclamations like “So” and “Yup.”

“Now what?” I ask.

Part of me wants to tell Bryce that, obviously, we’re going to be together forever and ever. A smaller part reminds me that, a week ago, I was the type of person who rolled her eyes at everyone who believed in true love.

“We’ll figure it out,” Bryce murmurs as he dips his head and brushes his lips to mine, and for one blissful minute, everything feels like it will be okay.

But then blurry swirls of blue and orange light shine against my eyelids. I squint, looking through my lashes. For a moment, I think the Christmas lights are malfunctioning, but no. It’s magic. Wisps of light swirl off our skin—the power left over from the other world slipping from our bodies. The vapor-like energy coils over the lawn like a river. Slowly, the tendrils rise, forming a wide arch.

My eyes snap wide, and I step back.

“What...” Bryce begins.

A pterodactyl-like screech splits the night air. The inside of the arch ripples, right before a bristly black blur bursts through, magic swirling off its wings.

Bryce and I duck as an all-too-familiar dragon swoops over our heads, letting out another earsplitting scream. Our necks arch as we follow the dragon’s flight. Its wings snap wide as it dives for the duplex.

Kelly, the skeleton, taps me on my shoulder and shows me her phone screen, where she’s typed: THIS IS UNFORTUNATE.

“It’s fine,” I squeak. “The dragon isn’t inherently evil, right?”

“It’s also not inherently good,” Bryce whispers as the dragon’s mouth gapes wide.

Flames roil within.

“If anyone asks, we had nothing to do with this,” Bryce is saying. “We’re fine. This is fine. I’ll leave an anonymous tip for animal control.”

Right as the words leave his mouth, flames erupt from the dragon and engulf the house, setting the entire structure ablaze in seconds. Kelly whips out a pair of sunglasses from her long floral dress and slips them over her eye sockets. Smoke singes my nostrils and stings my eyes. I don’t think I knew what the word surreal truly meant until now, as I watch a dragon burn down a duplex in twenty-first-century America.

I imagine the scene as though it’s one of those freeze-frame moments in a movie. You know the one. The one where chaos is erupting, and then everything freezes, and a voice-over goes, Yep, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got here.

There’s the dragon, its shadowy silhouette suspended before the inferno, wings flared, neck reared back as it drenches the house in flames that shoot into the night sky. There are the exploding Christmas lights, shards of bulbs frozen in the air, zapping blue electricity merging with orange flames. There’s Kelly the skeleton in a cowboy hat, lifting her iPhone to take a photo, fire reflecting off the dark lenses of her sunglasses. There’s Bryce and me, viewing the scene, not in shock, but with weary dismay, our expressions reading: Not this again.

So, how did we get here?

It started, as these types of stories often do, with an insufferable, universally disliked child who secretly thinks they’re hot shit.


Chapter 1: In Which a Chosen One Suffers from Occupational Burnout CHAPTER 1 IN WHICH A CHOSEN ONE SUFFERS FROM OCCUPATIONAL BURNOUT
COURTNEY

When I was little, I was 20 percent sure I could use the Force, 30 percent sure I was a long-lost princess, and 40 percent sure I could talk to animals because I was 90 percent sure I was special.

It turned out the 10 percent variable was out to screw me.

I was never shipped off to a magic school without parental consent to lead a troop of grown-ass adults and assorted woodland creatures into battle. I never got to vanquish an evil overlord, subsequently earning the undying adoration of every peasant in the land. I was never anything more than just me.

And eventually, that 10 percent variable convinced me until I was 100 percent certain I was not, in fact, special. I was a raindrop, not a snowflake. Snowflakes were unique, but each drop of rain was the same as the one before it and the one after.

So I decided to make myself into a lab-made snowflake and turn my life into the fairy tale I never had. I’d become something great—a real-life heroine. If I wanted to earn a Happily Ever After, I had to be perfect.

I wasn’t totally sure what a real-world Happily Ever After even looked like, but everyone else seemed to agree that it had something to do with having a dream job, house, and spouse, so I shaped my life accordingly.

The rules of the real world were clear. Regarding relationships: I must be sweet and agreeable in order to be lovable. Regarding my profession: I must be the best in order to earn—well, if not the most, then the begrudging respect of my coworkers and a salary that was 18.4 percent lower than a man’s, but which I would receive with a grateful smile because I couldn’t become my world’s version of a villain: an unlikable woman.

Although I secretly thought Earth’s world-building left something to be desired, I complied with the guidelines and set out on my quest.

Initially, I thought I’d be a doctor, but I couldn’t figure out all those Latin words. My grades weren’t good enough for me to become a scientist. My gag reflex was too sensitive for the everyday heroism of plumbing. During all the time I spent trying and failing to do meaningful things, I began to worry the rest of my Happily Ever After would fall apart too. (Sure, maybe princes in Disney movies had soft spots for reclusive unemployed bookworms, but this was real life.)

Luckily, I ended up with a respectable degree in marketing and then a respectable job in marketing. Was it perfect? Maybe not, but it was good enough to get me into the real-world version of a magical ball—the business mixer where I met my boyfriend, Will. With a square jaw, strong nose, and wavy blond hair, Will had the sort of all-American good looks that made him seem approachable and like he was probably good at golf. A modern-day prince.

I’d almost done it. Almost conned my way into a quintessential Happily Ever After...

“Courtney?” my mother asked, snapping me into reality. Around me, seated at the long cherry dining room table, my family chatted and ate, no one else noticing my distress. “I asked if there’s something wrong with your turkey. You’ve barely eaten a thing.”

I realized my fingers were clenched too tightly around the delicate stem of my wineglass, threatening to snap it. I loosened my grip, fighting the urge to hold on to something, even though my idealized future was slipping through my fingers.

“Turkey is excellent.” I popped a bite into my mouth and choked it down before I could admit that I had no idea why people convinced themselves that turkey was a special holiday treat and not an atrocity.

The lie seemed to do its job, because Mom smiled, pleased, and returned to her conversation with my uncle. Probably, in her mind, if the turkey was fine, everything was fine; she’d never dream her perfect daughter wasn’t.

The house was overstimulating—too bright, too hot, too loud. Silverware clinked and conversation hummed, peppered with the occasional polite chuckle. Heavy Thanksgiving scents assaulted my nose—nutmeg, stuffing, and the sweet tinge of yams. The marble countertops and vaulted white walls were a monochromatic blur. I hated marble countertops. They stained too easily to be practical, yet they were a staple in every Westra home because everyone knew your life had to look grand for your life to be grand.

I reached up and touched my mouth. My fingers hit teeth.

I was smiling.

I was somewhat of an expert at smiling convincingly through clenched teeth. I’d mastered the art of becoming what people expected of me. I could be everyone’s hero. It was just a matter of switching capes to look the part. I was currently wearing the daughter cape, the one that would make me look smart and successful in the eyes of my family.

If it weren’t for what happened yesterday, today might have been the beginning of my epilogue—that wonderful conclusion where everything I’d worked for would come together to create my Happily Ever After.

Maybe I wouldn’t return to a hobbit hole as a lauded hero where I’d feast for weeks, but Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’ house was a decent compromise.

I wouldn’t chop the head off an ogre and bellow in triumph before an army of adoring soldiers, but I would tell my family about my promotion.

There wouldn’t be a prince whisking me away to a castle, but there was Will. He even had a ring. I saw it in his sock drawer. We’d discussed it, so it wasn’t a surprise. I’d say yes when he asked. Of course I would. That was what you did in an epilogue.

I dug my nails into the edge of the table. My stomach hurt. My stomach always hurt. I couldn’t remember a time when it didn’t. I’d thought having those ulcers treated in college would fix the issue, but it didn’t.

Having ulcers was a rite of passage in the Westra family. It displayed your grit, your drive. You didn’t truly want success unless you had the stress-induced medical problems to prove it.

“Ooh, quinoa!” Will exclaimed beside me, reaching for the dish my dad passed his way. It was, perhaps, the most excited anyone had ever been about quinoa in the history of the world.

“Great for the heart,” I said. It took all my effort to pretend like I cared about the health benefits of quinoa, but I slipped on a different cape—the girlfriend cape—a perfect blend of cute and sexy. I winked and leaned in. “Which is good news. Taking care of your heart is a priority of mine.”

Will smiled and squeezed my hand, which still had a death grip on the edge of the table. He was a good guy who didn’t deserve my messes. I still hadn’t told him what happened yesterday. Couldn’t. Not after I’d been assuring him for weeks I’d be getting that promotion.

I fought the urge to vomit.

For years, I’d been cramming myself into perfect glass slippers, but now the magic had worn off. Once everyone knew of my failure, they’d realize I wasn’t the success I’d been pretending to be. Maybe a girl who squeezed into Cinderella’s shoes and fooled a prince didn’t even deserve a Happily Ever After.

Will moved from an animated discussion about the country club to one of his other favorite topics: our future. “Courtney’s up for this great new promotion at work,” he was saying. “Senior marketing director.”

He went on to talk about things like Roth IRAs and early retirement, and I tried not to dwell on why talking about our life made me feel so lifeless. At twenty-five, I was definitely old enough that I should enjoy participating in boring adult conversations, yet the topic of retirement made me feel like a clueless little kid and like I was ninety years old all at once.

As everyone started going around the table, sharing what they were thankful for—yachts, vacation homes, expensive handbags—I scrutinized their smiling faces. Sometimes, most times, I felt distanced from everyone, as though my body were just a sim in a game that I was controlling from very far away. My life didn’t feel like my own, but someone’s idea of what a life should be. I wondered if anyone else felt as lost as I did.

It was like I blinked, and someone thrust this whole life on me that I’d somehow committed to seeing through, even though I never remembered choosing it. I picked a path, thinking I could figure out specifics later, only later was now, and I’d already gone too far to turn back.

I looked at my aunts, cousins, and parents, all at different points on the same sort of road I’d been pushing myself down. The younger ones were full of fire and hope. The older ones leaned back in their chairs with pride, like they’d really accomplished something, when I knew for a fact Uncle Lenny had three stress-related heart attacks in two years, my cousin Dina had a drinking problem, and my grandfather never took a vacation because he planned on enjoying life once he was retired, but he’d been spending his entire retirement in that urn on the mantel. Everyone was comparing achievements, and they were asking me about mine, and everything became too loud.

But then Will stirred beside me. Before I could ask what he was doing, he stood. Time slowed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little black box.

He dropped to his knee.

My ears rang, muffling the delighted exclamations from everyone else in the room.

Once again, my future was here, and once again, I was too far in to turn back.

My vision went dark around the edges. I’d read an article once that said Olympic athletes convinced themselves the feeling they got in the pit of their stomachs before an event was simply excitement, not nerves, seeing as the two emotions felt so similar.

That twisting knot in the bottom of my belly was excitement.

In the corners of my eyes, my family’s smiles seemed to close in, twisting grotesquely as though distorted by fun house mirrors. I couldn’t breathe. Except it wasn’t the breathlessness of a blushing bride-to-be. It was the breathlessness of someone dying. This was the life I’d always wanted, and yet the thought of accepting it made me feel as though my life was slipping away.

I sprang to my feet. “I got fired yesterday!” I yelled.

A collective gasp rose from the dining table.

“I’ll talk to your supervisor,” Will said after a pause, jumping into fix-it mode. “With my connections, I’m sure we can work something out. And if not, we’ll polish up your résumé and get you back out there. Everything will be fine.”

With a jolt, I realized my employment status was to Will what the turkey was to my mother. Neither saw me. I was the thing that wasn’t fine.

The thought of beginning another job search made me want to hide under a quilt and sleep for the next thousand years. But would they even still love me if I wasn’t turkey-loving, perfectly fine girlboss Courtney?

“What if I don’t want to get back out there?” I whispered, staring at that black box looming between us.

Dead silence.

Worst of all, slowly, slowly, Will shut the lid on that little black box.

I guessed I had my answer.

Fairy tales weren’t real. Unicorns were a myth, evil didn’t always lose, and trolls only existed on the Internet, but true love...

Well. I’d always assumed it existed.

But if that was true, why did Will shut that box after finding out his princess was a pauper?

He’s just saving the proposal for later, some rational part of my brain tried to assure me. You’re the one who ruined the moment. After we had time to talk it out, he’d propose again, surely. It wasn’t like closing that box meant he was kicking me out of his metaphorical castle.

Probably.

I couldn’t take the silence anymore.

So I ran away. Out the front door. Into the yard.

And then I felt as though, for the first time, I could finally stop. I had spent my whole life running toward something. Now I walked nowhere. Slowly. Like I’d never walked before.

Outside it was quiet, and I could finally breathe. The cold air was sharp in my burning lungs. I’d only made it to the middle of the lawn, but it was far enough to feel like I’d escaped. I turned to look at the house, the large dining room window like a movie screen displaying the scene of my family within—everyone clustered around Will, comforting him, even while their eyes gleamed with the thrill of witnessing Family Drama.

Thanks to the light inside the house and the darkness out here, I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. It didn’t feel so different from how I’d felt my whole life. Apart. Distant.

It stung that no one bothered to check on me, but it wasn’t unexpected. Why would they comfort me? I was the one who had lost her job and ruined a proposal. Will represented everything they valued. Success ran thicker than blood, I supposed.

I turned my back on them, accepting my place. Every family had a screwup.

I wasn’t special. I wasn’t a hero. I was some random nameless peasant with delusions of grandeur, wearing underwear outside my pants and a bath towel as a cape. A peasant who picked up the Chosen One’s sword and waved it about was only ever a fool.

I looked up at the stars, realizing I’d sort of forgotten they were up there. Earth was still turning, despite the fact some random girl named Courtney lost her job and had a bad day.

It all suddenly felt so stupid. My career had been utterly meaningless yet had felt like the most important thing in the world.

Budget cuts. That was what my boss had told me when she called me into her office. I’d tried to do everything right. I’d worn my Professional Courtney cape. I’d gotten ulcers for that job, and yet I’d still fallen short.

Really, though, I’d only been chasing after success because I had no goals of my own other than to do something that people valued, that would make people value me. My life had felt like a lie because it was. I’d donned capes to be loved, and so the capes were the only things that were loved. No one knew the real me, not even me. I’d tried so hard to be everything for everyone that I’d become no one.

I turned in the yard, crossing my bare arms against the chill. An abandoned tricycle one of my nieces had been playing with earlier sat in the driveway, lit by a house sconce. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ridden a bike for fun, cardio be damned. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done anything for fun.

The average adult spent one-third of their life at work and one-third of their life sleeping. That left you with only one-third of your life left. I’d been spending that third eating quinoa and being stressed and having ulcers treated.

In a burst of resolve, I walked over and got on the tricycle, my knees nearly touching my chest. The wheels squeaked as I pushed my foot against the pedal.

What was the point of trying to meet the conditions of everyone’s “unconditional” love when the result was superficial affection?

I could give up. I would give up. This would be the last time I’d ever have to feel this way. If I stopped trying, I’d stop failing. Instead of living a miserable lie, I’d find small happiness in a quiet life where I belonged.

I went a little breathless, thinking of the possibilities. If I reclaimed that third of my life I’d spent feeling miserable, I could start caring about the tiny things that used to make me happy that I’d started taking for granted. I could do all the things I told myself I would do “one day” and then never got around to. I could dye my hair a weird color or get a piercing. I could bartend or bungee jump.

I yanked the handlebars toward the street and pumped my legs. Cold air lifted my hair off my neck as I peeled out of the driveway, going up on two wheels for a second before slamming back down as I straightened out. Legs burning, I pedaled, squeaking my way down the street. I didn’t know where I was going, and I didn’t care. Without a conventional, stifling Happily Ever After looming in front of me, my future was suddenly bright and endless.

Life was too serious to take seriously. I wanted to care deeply about insignificant things, like ice cream flavors and favorite colors and whether I’d rather fight a horse-sized duck or one hundred duck-sized horses. Surely, Will would understand.

Editorial Reviews

You’ve heard of a meet cute, but what about a mean cute? Courtney and Bryce manage to literally annoy each other into love, and they might both be underachievers, but they overachieve at winning my heart.

Audrey Goldberg Ruoff

"The enemies-to-lovers fantasy romcom I didn’t know I needed. Full of laughs and full of heart."

Kelley Armstrong

Pure chaos. Top notch banter. Absolute romantic perfection. Courtney and Bryce’s bickering is now my new gold standard for foreplay. Sloane Brooks’ writing is so brilliantly witty. I laughed/cried/snorted through every single page.

Kate Robb