Book Title: It’s Different This Time
Author: Joss Richard
Publisher: Headline
Publication Date: January 2026
Even before its release, It’s Different This Time has been one of those romance debuts that everyone seems to be talking about. The early reviews are effusive — five stars abound, with readers describing it as warm, witty, and quietly devastating. That makes it easy to approach this book with both intrigue and caution: is it genuinely the love story of our times, or a series of darling romance tropes strewn together?
A few chapters into the book, the intrigue feels entirely warranted. Joss Richard’s debut is an absorbing, emotionally astute take on the second-chance romance — one that balances charm with realism and knows exactly when to be tender, when to hold back, and when to let the ache of unspoken words fill the silence.
The story follows June Wood, an actress whose TV show in Los Angeles has just been cancelled. When her former landlord dies, she’s called back to New York, and to Adam Harper, the roommate she once shared a brownstone with. By the terms of the will, whoever last resided in the apartment inherits it, forcing the two to reconnect and confront what was left unsaid a decade ago.
“This flimsy sheet of paper is telling me that I own a house with a man I don’t have the stomach to even look at? Being sued for a small fortune in rent money sounds like the ideal scenario right now.”
Told in dual timelines, the novel alternates between the present and their earlier years of cohabitation, allowing Richard to peel back the layers of their relationship with precision and restraint. The pacing between timelines feels seamless; the emotional rhythms are deliberate but never forced. Richard handles the switch between timelines with impressive ease, giving the novel a layered rhythm that feels both cinematic and intimate.
What makes this debut stand out is how seamlessly everything comes together: the banter, the pacing, the dialogue, the characters, all work in concert. The chemistry between June and Adam feels earned, their interactions are sharp and organic, capturing a sense of familiarity and friction that feels lived-in rather than manufactured. Even the secondary characters are endearing, their presence adding depth rather than decoration. None of it feels contrived or trope-driven; instead, the narrative flows with a natural ease that reflects a deep understanding of emotional timing.
The book is reminiscent of Romantic Comedy by Curtis Sittenfeld and Funny You Should Ask by Elissa Sussman, in its deft blending of creative ambition, fame, and intimacy, but it has a voice entirely its own. There’s also a quiet affection for New York running through it; the kind that makes the city feel alive, not just as a backdrop, but as a place of return, rediscovery, and reluctant hope.
“I didn’t realize I was homesick for a place that I refused to think of as home.”
June herself is a particularly layered protagonist, who could have easily fallen into a “difficult to like” mould. There’s an entire sub-genre of female leads who are misunderstood because they challenge reader biases about likeability, and Richard seems fully aware of this when crafting June, so we see empathy and nuance in her portrayal. June comes from a cold, emotionally distant family and carries the lifelong burden of feeling unwanted. But, instead of letting that emotional neglect define her, she has gone out into the world and built her own support system — found her own people, her own chosen family. Watching her rebuild her sense of home and self — finding her chosen family, learning to stay — becomes one of the novel’s most rewarding threads. Her tendency to bolt, to flee rather than fight, is not framed as weakness but as a deeply human response to a life spent without unconditional safety.
“Adam Harper is the one person who can make me feel like everything is going to be okay and at the same time the only person who can thoroughly crush my entire world.”
Adam, too, is not reduced to the archetype of the grounded, good-hearted counterpart. His ambition as a chef and his own vulnerabilities give him dimension, making the romance a meeting of equals rather than opposites. Together, they form a portrait of two people who have grown in parallel — who had to live, fail, and succeed separately before they could meet again on level ground. It’s also worth noting how the novel handles miscommunication — a trope that often feels contrived in the genre. Here, it’s handled with care and emotional clarity. The tension between June and Adam feels rooted in who they are, not in convenient misunderstandings. Their shared history — bonding over creative ambitions, striving for recognition, working toward separate but parallel goals — adds a genuine sense of poignancy to their reunion.
“You know, despite being just friends”—he pulls me up from the bench and we walk over to the skate rental booth—“ this is still the best date.”
“Why?”
“Because I know that whatever happens tonight, you’re still coming home with me.” He winks.
It’s refreshing to see a romance that engages with adulthood in its full complexity — with protagonists in their thirties, still finding direction after the messy experiments of their twenties. The anxieties about being left behind, the ache of ambition, and the search for stability are captured with striking realism. For a book that reads as effortlessly as this one, that is no small achievement.
What results is not just a love story between two people, but also a story of what it means to find home — in a city, in another person, in oneself. In that sense, It’s Different This Time doubles as a love letter to New York, capturing the city’s capacity for reinvention and belonging. It’s touching without being sentimental, grounded without losing its warmth.
“You got it.” He plugs the address into his phone and starts driving. “So, are you visiting or are you home?”
“I’m home,” I say.
Ultimately, It’s Different This Time is as much about rediscovery as it is about reunion & second chances, and the idea of finding home where you least expect it. It delivers all the pleasures of the romance genre — the meet-cute, the creative tension, the emotional catharsis — while grounding them in characters who are fully realised, flawed, and achingly human.
Joss Richard writes with an assured rhythm rare for a debut. Her prose is crisp yet emotionally fluent, the dialogue sharp without being performative. The dual timelines are woven together with care, allowing subtext to do the emotional heavy lifting. She has an instinctive grasp of pacing — knowing when to linger and when to move — and a talent for making internal conflict feel alive on the page. If this is the standard she’s setting for herself, her future work will be one to watch.
Thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for providing an ARC of this book in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.