Book Extract: The Side Project by Laurel Osterkamp

Published June 25, 2025 | By Laura

I am delighted to be welcoming Laurel Osterkamp to Novel Kicks as we shine a light on her book, The Side Project.

For anyone who’s ever wondered “what if,” Laurel Osterkamp’s The Side Project is a deeply resonant story about second chances, unfinished business, and the redemptive power of storytelling.

Rylee once dreamed of moving to California and becoming a writer, but life had other plans. A decade later, she’s stuck in her Minnesota hometown, working odd jobs, caring for her teenage brother, and haunted by the incomplete novel her late father left behind. Carson was her high school love—the one who got away, or perhaps the one who ran. Now a single dad, he’s focused on providing for his daughter and avoiding the messiness of emotional entanglement. When the two are unexpectedly assigned as writing partners in a graduate workshop, a no-strings-attached collaboration emerges—but the emotional strings are impossible to ignore. With their final class approaching and unspoken truths threatening to break their fragile trust, Rylee and Carson must decide: will they keep editing their past, or finally write a new ending?

Laurel Osterkamp has shared an extract with us today. We hope you enjoy.

*****beginning of extract*****

I steel myself and step out of my car, determined to keep things businesslike today. The sight of Carson outside raking leaves, ruggedly adorable with Ferris running circles around his feet, does nothing to break my resolve. I tell myself: You’re here to work. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Hey, Rylee.” He grins, pushing up his sleeves. “You’re right in time to hold the leaf bag.”

I don’t have time to respond before a happy splash of black fur races past us, yipping and barking. I laugh, and Carson shakes his head, smiling as well.

“Ferris loves chasing leaves,” Carson says.

Ferris circles us. Running in the autumn wind, his mouth is full of fluttering colors and twigs.

I contemplate Carson’s leaf bag. “The hardest part is always getting in the first few handfuls of leaves. Did you know they have these cardboard insert thingies that keep the bag open?”

Carson holds his rake with one hand. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. My dad was excited when he discovered them at the hardware store. It used to be our thing, my dad and I, bagging leaves together.”

“Oh.” Carson’s mouth goes slack, and his eyes pool with sympathy. It’s like he backed over a bunny rabbit by accident. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up old memories.”

I wave off the awkwardness as if I’m shooing away bugs. “No worries. It won’t break me to hold the bag open, and I’ll even push down the leaves as you put them in.” My words come out in a rush. “Where should I put my computer?”

“I’ll put it inside. Do you also want me to take your purse?”

“Sure, thanks.” I hand him both.

He takes them through his front door as a gust of wind threatens to upend Carson’s carefully constructed leaf pile. I snatch up the rake, ready for battle. “You won’t escape me, bitches!” I yell at the flying leaves.

I look over to see Carson on his front stoop, watching my wild efforts like I’m a vaudeville spectacle he can’t quite believe. Embarrassed, I kick at the ground. “I didn’t want all your hard work ruined.”

His expression is serious. “Have you tried positive reinforcement? I’ve found that fallen leaves don’t respond well to punitive measures.”

“Right,” I reply, “because they have nothing to lose. Their fate is inside a garbage bag or being trapped by an uncaring tire. Snow will cover the lucky ones until after the thaw.” I run the rake through the grass at my feet. “Then they’ll get scooped up—along with all the dog poop and candy wrappers the trick-or-treaters leave behind.”

Using his index finger to rub his chin, Carson considers this. “Trick-or-treaters leave behind dog poop?”

“Some of the angry ones do.”

He laughs—and darn if he isn’t cute when he smiles—before saying, “Guess I’d better buy good candy this year.”

“No black licorice or breath mints.” I let out a low groan. “But the worst are those peanut butter-flavored taffies wrapped in orange or black wrappers.”

“Those are the worst. I never ate them.”

“Me neither.”

I hold open the bag, and Carson bends down, scoops up the leaves, and stands very close as he shoves them inside. I’m painfully aware of how his Levis-clad butt looks oh-so-good when he bends over. After the bag is full, he glances up at his tree and down at his yard, thanking me for my help. Then he sort of stands there, gazing at me, and I can’t help but ask. “What?”

“Nothing. Sorry. You’d lose all respect for me if I told you,” he mumbles.

“Now you have to tell me.”

He brushes a leaf from his sleeve. “No, really,” he stammers, “it’s ridiculous.”

I nudge his ankle with my sneaker’s rubber toe. “Try me.”

Rolling his eyes skyward, he asks, “Did you ever read The Majestic Seven? That fantasy about the seven heroes who must save their kingdom?”

“No,” I reply. “But I’ve heard of it. Why?”

Carson’s cheeks turn the slightest bit pink. “I was thinking how you’re like Lady Seraphina.”

My hands fly to either side of my face. “It’s because of my pointy ears, right?”

“What? No.” He blinks in confusion. “Why would you make that connection?”

“Because I saw the trailer for the movie adaptation, and the only female character is an elf. The tips of her ears are like razors.”

“No!” Carson swallows a laugh. “God, no, that’s not what I meant.”

I look him up and down. “Well, what did you mean?”

His voice sounds like a worn vinyl record, smooth in the center but scratched at the edges. “You’re the type of girl who could save the world.”

“You mean ‘woman’ and not ‘girl,’ right?”

“Of course. Sorry.” He releases a self-conscious chuckle. “You’re the kind of woman who could save the world. One hundred percent.”

“Thank you.” Then, feeling that magnetic pull, I drop my gaze to the ground.

He hits his forehead. “God. I’m such an idiot. I promised I’d be professional today, and I’ve already blown it, haven’t I?”

I search for a response. Thankfully, Ferris runs up to me, and I busy myself with petting him. “It’s fine. But I don’t understand. Why would I lose all respect for you?”

“Because you’ll realize I like fantasy novels.”

Kneeling down, I let Ferris nuzzle my shoulder. “Please. As if I didn’t already know? Remember how in high school, you’d check out The Prince of Saturn and slide it into your backpack before anyone could see?”

Carson raises an eyebrow. “Except for you.”

I notice a renegade leaf on my shoulder and brush it off. “That’s right. Because I was also always in the media center after lunch, most likely checking out some gothic romance, which is way more looked down upon than science fiction or fantasy.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t on the hockey team.” He smirks. “If the other players knew about my reading habits, they’d have kicked my ass.”

“So, you tried to pretend you weren’t smart? How’d that work out for you, college boy?”

He opens his mouth to respond but laughs instead. “Hey, you mentioned gothic romance, and that reminds me. I dug your story. A contemporary Charlotte Brontë! It was so original. I don’t have very many revision notes for you, because the story flowed. And I’m worried that if you rework it a lot, you’ll lose that.”

“Thanks, I’m glad you liked it. I liked your story too, and not just because you liked mine.” Shifting my weight, I say, “Should we go inside and get to work?”

He nods. “Yeah. Let’s do that. Follow me.”

At this moment, I’d be happy to follow him anywhere.

*****end of extract*****

About Laurel Osterkamp:

Laurel Osterkamp is a writer who brings emotional depth and relatability to every page. Her novels frequently explore how love, ambition, and personal grief intersect, particularly for women trying to redefine themselves in midlife.

Her writing has topped bestseller charts, resonating with fans of Emily Henry and Annabel Monaghan. In addition to being a novelist, she’s a devoted teacher, a runner, and a believer in the healing potential of storytelling.