Six-time Tony nominated Broadway writer Chad Beguelin (Aladdin, The Prom, The Wedding Singer) has released his first novel, Showmance, a queer rom-com set in the world of developing new musicals. The novel releases October 1 from Penguin books.

In Showmance, we follow playwright Noah Adams who returns home to Illinois after his first Broadway musical closes on opening night. Once he arrives in his hometown, he learns that he's been recruited to stage the ill-fated musical at the local community theatre, a production whose cast—including Noah's once high school bully now turned oddly kind town favorite—might actually make the show a success after all.

Get an exclusive first read of the book's first pages below.

Chapter One: “Opening Night”

The thing about the opening night of a Broadway show is that it’s supposed to be this glamorous, boozy, buzzy extravaganza. There’s a red carpet before the performance for the creative types to pose in front of a step-and-repeat with the show’s logo splashed across it. There’s usually a huge party after the show, someplace criminally expensive with everyone swanning around in tuxedos and Academy Awards–style dresses. There’s insanely loud music blaring so everyone has to shout over their canapés and glasses of champagne. And that’s exactly how it is: exhilarating, glitzy, and fun.

Unless.

Unless you’re the author.

If you’re the author of the show, it’s as if you’ve swallowed a ticking time bomb, but you have to keep smiling and shaking hands and filming interviews about what a magical night it is. When you’re the author of the show, there is a very public reckoning coming that could possibly not only destroy your career, but close the show and throw countless actors, musicians, stagehands, dressers, ushers, and so on out of work in the blink of an eye.

It all depends on the New York Times review. Unlike television or film, most Broadway shows need a rave from the Times if they want to keep running. And that review comes out right in the middle of the opening night party. So if you get panned, the magic turns into a nightmare of epic proportions. So, you know, no pressure. Have fun with that.

And I was doing my level best to do just that. Have fun. Celebrate the milestone. Stage of Fools was my first Broadway musical, and I was trying to focus solely on that achievement and not the possibility of a soul-crushing failure. And damn it, it was a milestone. An achievement. I nearly passed out the first time I saw the marquee at the theater. “Stage of Fools—book, lyrics, and music by Noah Adams.” How did I go from being a small-town hick in Southern Illinois to having my name plastered across a Broadway theater? So no matter what the reviews were, I was going to have fun.

Fun, fun, fun.

I’d only had two musicals previously produced in New York. Both off-Broadway and both reviewed by the same New York Times critic. Carrie Payne.

The first one was called The Docents. Probably not the greatest choice of subject matter, I’ll admit. I’m not sure why I thought that audiences would find people who explain museum exhibits galvanizing. Carrie Payne called the book “sitcom-y” and the score a “nothing burger.”

My second show was a slightly pretentious experimental musical about a dying girl lost in a ghost-filled forest called The Jade Corpse. There might have been shadow puppets. Carrie deemed it “an avant-garde rabbit hole, except boring.”

But here I am on the great big Broadway. At long last I’ve moved up from the kiddie table. This is my one and possibly only shot at the big time. If Stage of Fools is a hit, all of my childhood dreams will come true and it will be the kickoff to what I can only hope is a long career as a Broadway writer. If it’s a flop, well, there really isn’t a plan B. I guess I could start an OnlyFans? Become one of those manically gleeful people who sprays cologne at strangers in Bloomingdale’s? No. This musical has to be a hit. But of course, the Times chose Carrie Payne to review it. The woman who vehemently hates every single thing I’ve managed to get produced. But I’m still trying to be, you know, smiley.

In the midst of all this insanity, I see Chase and my world steadies a little.

Jesus, that man has swagger. Why he’s dating me, I’ll never know.

He’s typing furiously into his phone about God knows what. And he looks exactly like George Clooney if George Clooney decided to be slightly younger and more handsome. And he has this British accent, mainly because he’s British. And the accent is there, even when he’s just moaning. Which means every time I sleep with him, it’s like I’m banging all of the Bridgerton brothers at once.

And he’s completely out of my league. And he’s my agent.

Stop judging, it’s complicated.

With his usual psychic abilities, Chase notices me staring at him and nods to a nearby nook. I follow him, pushing my way through the frenzied throng and smiling at everyone like a brain-damaged idiot. I’m trying to give off an “isn’t this just amazing” vibe, but I think it might be coming across as “which way is the electric chair?” at best.

Chase rests his forearms on a high table littered with abandoned drinks, still typing into his phone. “I want you to know that I’m here for you and that I am a very good boyfriend, but I am also trying to close a film deal and if I do, I will be able to buy you many pretty things.”

“I don’t feel much like talking anyway. I just . . . I don’t know. I keep telling myself that there are wars and famine and hunger running rampant on this planet and I’d be an asshole if I worried about one little musical when there are bigger problems in the world.”

Chase freezes. His cobalt blue eyes flood with surprise and then concern. “Oh my God.” He actually puts his phone into his suit pocket. His very expensive suit pocket. No matter how much money he spends on tailoring, and it’s a lot, his well-toned shoulders and biceps still look like they’re trying to fight their way free from the Armani fabric. “Did you just get philosophical?”

“Just in a very selfish, ‘make my problems seem small’ way.”

Chase looks worried. “You are nervous.”

“Of course I’m nervous! Any minute now I could be denounced as a charlatan in The New York Times.”

Chase gives a sexy yet possibly patronizing chuckle. “Relax, Noah. You’ve got Danielle.”

Danielle Vincent. The most prolific and lauded director of musicals since Hal Prince. She could make orchids bloom in the Sahara. She has a string of bulletproof mega musicals under her belt and I’m pretty sure they had to reinforce the floor of her penthouse to support her massive collection of Tony Awards. Chase is right. Truth be told, Danielle and I have a slightly unbalanced working relationship. I’m the newbie and she’s the Svengali. So any time I disagreed with her, I never put up a fight. I mean, who the hell do I think I am, anyway? Since the very first read-through my strategy was to smile pretty and let Danielle be Danielle. It had gotten me this far.

Chase, whose phone is inconceivably still in his suit pocket, goes sympathetic around the eyes. Those dreamy cobalt eyes. “You’re very talented, Noah. And you work harder than anyone I know. You deserve to take this moment in.”

And then he’s enveloping me in a much-needed hug and our ears graze one another for a brief second. And though we’ve been together for almost two years, even ear grazing is still strangely hot. He gives me a brief peck on the lips and says, “Would it calm you down any if you were to give my bum a little cuddle?”

I consider his proposition for a nanosecond and decide it couldn’t hurt. So I pretend that I’m putting my right hand around his waist, but secretively slide it down to his unbelievable ass and silently command my knees not to buckle.

“Well done, my lad. Stay above the trousers, though. We are in public.”

I swallow a laugh. “How on God’s green earth is your ass so fucking awesomely distracting?”

Showmance is now available wherever books are sold.