From the New York Times bestselling author of In Five Years and One Italian Summer comes a love story that will define a generation. Being single is like playing the lottery. There’s always the chance that with one piece of paper you could win it all.

Spice rating: 3/5 open door.

Daphne Bell believes the universe has a plan for her. Every time she meets a new man, she receives a slip of paper with his name and a number on it—the exact amount of time they will be together. The papers told her she’d spend three days with Martin in Paris; five weeks with Noah in San Francisco; and three months with Hugo, her ex-boyfriend turned best friend. Daphne has been receiving the numbered papers for over twenty years, always wondering when there might be one without an expiration. Finally, the night of a blind date at her favorite Los Angeles restaurant, there’s only a name: Jake.

But as Jake and Daphne’s story unfolds, Daphne finds herself doubting the paper’s prediction, and wrestling with what it means to be both committed and truthful. Because Daphne knows things Jake doesn’t, information that—if he found out—would break his heart.

Told with her signature warmth and insight into matters of the heart, Rebecca Serle has finally set her sights on romantic love. The result is a gripping, emotional, passionate, and (yes) heartbreaking novel about what it means to be single, what it means to find love, and ultimately how we define each of them for ourselves. Expiration Dates is the one fans have been waiting for.

Don't just take our word for it...

“Serle provides an interesting conceit and a healthy dose of wit that readers will appreciate. An entertaining love story with moments of depth.”
– Kirkus

“Daphne’s sometimes heart-wrenching, often heartwarming search for meaningful relationships, both romantic and platonic, is sure to inspire.”
– Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)

“Serle’s compulsively readable prose will attract fans of Jennifer Weiner and Emily Henry.”
– Booklist

Taste the very first page

The paper is blank save for the name: Jake. The four letters rest on cream stationery lacking any additional information but sporting a firm black border. It’s weighty, this note. Significant in my hands.

I find it slipped under my door on my way to dinner. The dinner that, if this paper is to be believed, will introduce me to the man I will spend the rest of my life with. This has never happened before. But then again, it’s not the kind of thing that happens twice.

The restaurant is in West Hollywood, not far from where I live. I like to choose the place. If I get the paper late, like, say, at dessert—and it says two hours—I can wrap things up quickly.

Tonight we are at the tail end of summer in Los Angeles, and warmer nights are descending into the low seventies. The wind has even started to pick up—reminding us of all that fall can bring. I tuck my hair behind my ear and toss it over my shoulder as I climb the steps and open the door.