Book Review: An Academic Affair – 15 Years of Rivalry in 384 Pages

What if two academics who’ve despised each other for 15 years had to marry for a job—and discovered the friction might’ve been something else entirely? Jodi McAlister’s An Academic Affair throws English professors Sadie Shaw and Jonah Fisher into a marriage of convenience that’s equal parts career desperation and unresolved sexual tension. With 384 pages of academic banter, fake-dating shenanigans, and enough imposter syndrome to fill a thesis defence, this romance tries to do it all—but does it actually deliver?

Note:

• Why their 15-year rivalry combusts into a legally binding marriage over one job posting
• How Jonah’s pining (and shared hotel bed) creates tension that’s almost unbearable
• The rushed ending that leaves major subplots dangling like unfinished footnotes
• Whether this really stacks up against Ali Hazelwood’s academic romances

Detailed Summary

The Rivalry Begins

Sadie Shaw and Jonah Fisher first crossed paths 15 years ago as undergraduates in a literature course, and it started with what McAlister calls “a minor altercation” that snowballed into a full-blown academic rivalry. They’ve argued through every class, every seminar, every job application since then—think heated debates over literary theory that their classmates probably found insufferable. By the time they both earn their PhDs, they’re living in the same Sydney share house with other broke academics, still competing for every casual tutoring gig and marking position available.

Their dynamic is peak enemies-to-lovers: Sadie sees Jonah as the privileged son of a professor who’s had everything handed to him, while Jonah views Sadie as brilliant but prickly, someone who won’t let him close enough to prove he’s not just his father’s legacy. The tension between them is so palpable that when they co-lecture together, they literally frame everything as an argument—and their students eat it up. For 13 years (the book uses both 13 and 15 years interchangeably, which is sloppy), they’ve been stuck in this loop of competition and contempt.

The Job Opportunity

A tenure-track position opens up at a university in Hobart, Tasmania, and it’s the kind of job that could change everything. For Jonah, it’s a chance to relocate closer to his recently divorced sister and her children, to rebuild that fractured relationship and escape the toxic shadow of his academic father. For Sadie, this job represents security she’s never had—growing up working-class, relying on her sister’s sacrifices to fund her education, she’s desperate to prove it was all worth something.

They both apply, knowing only one of them can win. The competition explodes into “epic proportions” as McAlister describes it, with both fighting tooth and nail for this opportunity. But then Sadie spots something in the fine print: the position offers spousal hire, a common academic perk where universities hire both partners to attract top talent.

The Marriage Scheme

Sadie hatches an absolutely bonkers plan: what if they got legally married? The university would hire both of them under the spousal hire provision—a win-win that solves both their problems. Jonah, probably because he’s been half in love with Sadie for years (we learn this later), agrees to the scheme. They sign the papers, make it official, and prepare to convince an entire university that their marriage is legitimate.^{[4][9][1][2][3][7]}

The catch? They have to make it look real, which means sharing a hotel room when the university books accommodation before they find a rental. And because the universe has a sense of humour, there’s only one bed. Cue the forced proximity, the accidental cuddling, and Jonah’s internal monologue spiralling as Sadie—who he’s convinced doesn’t feel anything for him—snuggles into him at night.^[2][4]

Settling into Hobart

Once in Hobart, Sadie and Jonah have to navigate not just their fake marriage but also the reality of working together as colleagues instead of rivals. The university throws them into collaboration immediately, forcing them to develop course content and present a united front. For the first time in 15 years, they’re not competing—they’re partners, and the shift is disorienting.^[3][2]

McAlister uses this section to explore the authentic grind of academic life: the uncertainty, the hierarchies, the imposter syndrome that plagues early-career researchers. Sadie and Jonah bond over the shared experience of precarious employment, of being brilliant but undervalued, of fighting for crumbs in a broken system. Their banter shifts from hostile to playful, their debates less about winning and more about genuine intellectual exchange.^{[10][11][4][2]}

The Slow Burn Ignites

Jonah’s perspective is where the real tension lives. He’s been pining for Sadie for what feels like forever, convinced she sees him as nothing more than a convenient co-conspirator. Every shared meal, every late-night conversation, every moment of accidental intimacy is torture for him. McAlister writes his angst beautifully—he’s not a pathetic doormat, but a man with agency and goals who just happens to be hopelessly gone for a woman who doesn’t seem to notice.^[11][4][2]

Sadie, meanwhile, is slower to realise her feelings are evolving. She’s spent so long viewing Jonah through the lens of rivalry and class resentment that recognising attraction feels like betrayal. But as they spend more time together, as she sees him with his sister’s kids and watches him stand up to university politics, she starts to understand he’s not the privileged golden boy she assumed.^{[8][4][11][2]}

Family Drama Intrudes

Both Sadie and Jonah have complicated sibling relationships that add layers to the story. Sadie’s relationship with her sister, Chess, is strained by years of guilt and obligation—Chess sacrificed her own dreams to support Sadie’s education, and that debt weighs heavily. When tensions erupt, it forces Sadie to confront what she really wants and whether she’s been living her life for herself or for her sister’s approval.^{[12][8][11][2]}

Jonah’s dynamic with his sister is equally fraught. She’s going through a divorce, struggling with parenthood, and Jonah wants desperately to be there for her—but their relationship has been damaged by their father’s toxic influence and years of distance. The Hobart job was supposed to fix this, but proximity doesn’t automatically heal wounds.^{[1][8][11][2]}

The Relationship Shifts

As the fake marriage continues, the lines blur. Sadie and Jonah start acting like a real couple—not just for appearances, but because it feels natural. Their literary debates become foreplay, their shared bed less awkward and more intimate. The slow burn McAlister promised pays off in moments of vulnerability where both characters let their guards down.^{[4][11][2][3]}

But neither wants to be the first to admit feelings are real. Jonah’s terrified of rejection, convinced Sadie’s just playing her part. Sadie’s scared of vulnerability, of wanting something—someone—this much and having it snatched away. The mutual pining becomes almost unbearable, and readers familiar with the genre will be screaming at them to just communicate already.^{[13][11][2][4]}

The Conflict Escalates

McAlister introduces university politics as a major conflict source. The spousal hire comes under scrutiny, and suddenly Sadie and Jonah’s fake marriage is under investigation. They have to prove their relationship is legitimate, which means ramping up the performance while also dealing with actual feelings that make everything more complicated. The stakes shift from “get the job” to “don’t lose everything we’ve built”.^{[5][11][2][3]}

There’s also the matter of their employment status, which becomes increasingly precarious as the university plays power games. This subplot feels authentic to anyone familiar with academic institutions—the arbitrary hierarchies, the casual cruelty disguised as policy, the way early-career academics are treated as disposable. McAlister, with her PhD and senior lecturer position, clearly knows this world intimately.^{[14][15][10][11][4]}

The Rushed Resolution

Here’s where the book stumbles badly. The final third feels like McAlister ran out of pages or patience and just wanted to wrap things up. The employment subplot that’s been building tension for 300 pages gets resolved in a throwaway mention in the epilogue, which is lazy storytelling. Side characters who were significant throughout the novel—roommates from Sydney, colleagues in Hobart—basically disappear without satisfying closure.^[16][11][4]

The emotional climax between Sadie and Jonah also feels abrupt. After chapters of slow-burn pining, the resolution happens quickly and without the catharsis readers deserve after investing in 384 pages. There’s a conversation where feelings are finally admitted, but it lacks the depth and emotional payoff that the setup promised. For a romance academic who literally has a PhD in representations of love, this ending feels oddly unsatisfying.^{[15][11][16][14][4]}

The Epilogue

McAlister tacks on an epilogue that jumps forward in time, showing Sadie and Jonah settled into their life together. It’s meant to provide closure, but instead it highlights how many threads were left dangling. The employment situation? Barely addressed. The sibling relationships that drove so much conflict? Glossed over. It reads like McAlister was told to add a happy ending but didn’t want to do the work of actually resolving the plot.^[11][16]

Characters?

Sadie Shaw

Sadie’s the working-class academic with a chip on her shoulder the size of Tasmania. She’s brilliant, prickly, and convinced everyone with privilege had it easier than her—which, fair, but it also makes her judgemental. Her fear of vulnerability is her defining trait; she’s spent 15 years keeping Jonah at arm’s length because letting him close feels dangerous.^{[8][2][4][11]}

The sister dynamic adds depth—Sadie carries massive guilt about Chess sacrificing for her education, which manifests as overachievement and an inability to accept help. But honestly? Sadie can be exhausting. Her internal monologue is repetitive, her assumptions about Jonah border on willful ignorance, and her growth arc feels uneven. By the end, I wasn’t sure I even liked her, which is a problem for a romance protagonist.^{[17][18][2][8]}

Jonah Fisher

Jonah’s the golden boy with daddy issues, which sounds clichéd but McAlister makes it work. He’s been in love with Sadie for years, convinced she’ll never see him as anything but his professor father’s son. His perspective chapters are where the book shines—his pining is exquisite torture, his vulnerability genuine.^[2][4][8]

What saves Jonah from being a doormat is his agency. He has goals beyond Sadie: rebuilding his relationship with his sister, escaping his father’s shadow, building his own academic reputation. The fake marriage isn’t just about getting close to Sadie; it’s about creating the life he wants. His character development feels authentic, and frankly, he deserved better than Sadie’s hot-and-cold routine.^{[18][1][3][4][8][2]}

Chess (Sadie’s Sister)

Chess sacrificed her own dreams to fund Sadie’s education, and the resentment simmers beneath their relationship. She’s not a villain, just a woman who gave up too much and is now realising she’s not responsible for her sister’s choices. The falling out between them is brutal and necessary, forcing Sadie to grow up.^[12][8][2]

But here’s the problem: there’s a scene near the end where Jonah and Chess have a conversation about Sadie that feels infantilising. They discuss her like she’s a child who needs managing, which undermines the feminist framing McAlister attempts elsewhere. It’s a misstep that left a sour taste.^[18]

Jonah’s Sister

She’s going through a divorce, struggling with single parenthood, and serves mainly as motivation for Jonah’s Hobart move. McAlister doesn’t give her enough page time to feel fully realised—she’s more plot device than character. By the ending, she’s basically forgotten, which is disappointing given how much Jonah’s relationship with her supposedly matters.^{[16][1][11][2]}

Jonah’s Father

The toxic academic patriarch who haunts the narrative without appearing much on page. He represents everything wrong with academic hierarchies: the nepotism, the ego, the cruelty disguised as rigour. Jonah’s desperation to escape his shadow drives major plot points, but the father himself remains mostly off-screen.^[8][2]

Plot Twists?

The Marriage Isn’t Actually Fake

The biggest “twist” isn’t really a twist at all—it’s telegraphed from page one that Jonah has feelings for Sadie. His internal monologue practically screams “I’m in love with my fake wife” from the moment they sign the papers. What’s interesting is how long Sadie takes to catch on, and how the fake marriage becomes emotionally real before it becomes physically real.^[3][4][2]

McAlister plays with the marriage-of-convenience trope by making the legal commitment come first, then building the emotional and physical intimacy. It’s a smart inversion—they’re already married when they finally kiss, already legally bound when they first have sex. The question isn’t whether they’ll end up together (this is romance, of course they will), but whether they can transition from fake to real without destroying what they’ve built.^[4][11][3]

The University Investigation

When the spousal hire comes under scrutiny, the stakes escalate. Suddenly Sadie and Jonah have to prove their marriage is legitimate to suspicious colleagues and administrators. This isn’t a dramatic third-act breakup (McAlister wisely avoids that tired trope ), but it does force them to confront what they’re really doing and why.^[2][3][4]

The investigation subplot highlights the precarity of academic employment and the arbitrary power institutions wield. But it also feels undercooked—McAlister introduces this conflict and then doesn’t fully explore its implications. The resolution is mentioned briefly in the epilogue rather than dramatised, which is frustrating. For something that should be a major source of tension, it fizzles out anticlimactically.^{[10][11][16][4]}

Sadie’s Realisation About Class and Privilege

A more subtle twist is Sadie recognising her own prejudices. She’s spent 15 years assuming Jonah had everything easy because he came from an academic family, but proximity reveals the emotional abuse and impossible expectations that came with that privilege. Wealth and academic connections didn’t protect Jonah from a toxic father or familial dysfunction.^[8][2]

This could’ve been a powerful exploration of how class and privilege intersect in complex ways, but McAlister doesn’t quite nail it. Sadie’s arc from resentment to understanding feels rushed, and the book never fully reckons with the legitimate grievances working-class academics have. It’s treated more as a personal failing of Sadie’s than a systemic issue, which feels like a cop-out.^[17][11][8]

Compare With Other Works

An Academic Affair is explicitly marketed for fans of Ali Hazelwood, and the comparison is inevitable. Both write academic romances with STEM or humanities settings, fake-dating elements, and nerdy banter. But where Hazelwood’s The Love Hypothesis balanced humour and heat with genuine stakes, McAlister’s book feels more subdued.^{[19][20][21][9][3]}

Hazelwood’s protagonists have immediate chemistry and the fake relationship serves to accelerate feelings that already exist. In An Academic Affair, the chemistry takes longer to ignite, and the pacing suffers. Hazelwood also delivers satisfying third-act conflicts and resolutions, whereas McAlister rushes her ending. If you love Hazelwood, you might find this slower and less emotionally intense.^{[20][1][11][16][4]}

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The comparison to The Hating Game by Sally Thorne is also apt—enemies-to-lovers with workplace tension. But Thorne’s banter crackles with sexual tension from the start, while McAlister’s takes half the book to heat up. The slow burn works for some readers (those who love longing and pining will eat this up ), but others will find it drags.^{[19][1][11][4][2]}

What An Academic Affair does better than both comparisons is authenticity of setting. McAlister’s PhD in representations of love and her position as senior lecturer at Deakin University mean she knows academia intimately. The precarity, the imposter syndrome, the toxic hierarchies—it all rings true in ways Hazelwood’s STEM romances sometimes don’t. Academics will recognise themselves in these characters, for better and worse.^{[14][15][1][10][4]}

Achievement

An Academic Affair has garnered a respectable 4.01 rating on Goodreads from 2,299 ratings and 1,033 reviews as of November 2025. That’s solid but not spectacular—for comparison, Hazelwood’s books regularly hit 4.2+ ratings. The review count suggests moderate buzz rather than viral success.^[22][20]

Jodi McAlister herself has significant academic credentials: she’s a senior lecturer at Deakin University with a PhD in representations of love in popular culture. She’s also vice-president of the International Association for the Study of Popular Romance, which lends serious credibility. Her previous novel Not Here to Make Friends was named one of the Best Romance Novels of 2024 by New York Times columnist Olivia Waite, so she’s got pedigree.^[15][14]

The book is published by Simon & Schuster/Atria Books, a major publisher, with simultaneous US and Australian releases. The 384-page count is standard for contemporary romance. It’s being marketed as part of a loose “Love Notes” series, though books are standalone.^[23][6][3]

Social media reception has been mixed—NetGalley reviewers frequently cite 4-4.5 stars but note the rushed ending as a major weakness. Some reviewers call it their “top 10 reads of the year,” while others found it disappointing. The book hasn’t hit bestseller lists that I could find, suggesting sales are moderate rather than exceptional.^{[24][9][17][11][4][2]}

McAlister’s strength lies in writing romances about reality TV and now academia—niche settings that appeal to specific audiences rather than mass market. An Academic Affair will likely find its devoted readership among academics and fans of slow-burn romance, but it won’t achieve The Love Hypothesis levels of mainstream success.^{[20][22][14][4]}

Themes Worth Noting

Imposter Syndrome and Academic Precarity

McAlister nails the psychological toll of early-career academia. Both Sadie and Jonah are brilliant PhD-holders who can barely afford rent, cobbling together casual contracts with no job security. The imposter syndrome is relentless—they’re constantly second-guessing themselves, convinced they’re frauds about to be exposed. For anyone who’s been through the academic meat grinder, this representation is painfully accurate.^{[1][10][3][4][2]}

Class and Privilege

The book attempts to explore how class backgrounds shape academic experiences. Sadie’s working-class origins mean she’s fought for every opportunity, while Jonah’s academic family provided connections but also crushing expectations. The tension between these perspectives could’ve been fascinating, but McAlister doesn’t dig deep enough. It’s addressed but not fully explored, leaving the theme feeling half-baked.^{[17][11][2][8]}

Family Obligation and Identity

Both protagonists struggle with what they owe their families versus what they owe themselves. Sadie’s guilt about Chess’s sacrifices has shaped her entire life, while Jonah’s desperate to repair his relationship with his sister while escaping his father. These dynamics add emotional weight, but again, the resolution feels rushed. The sibling relationships that drove so much conflict get minimal closure.^{[11][16][1][8]}

What Works

The authentic academic setting is the book’s strongest asset. McAlister clearly knows this world—the department politics, the terrible job market, the way academics turn conversations into debates. Readers in academia will see themselves reflected, and that specificity elevates the romance.^[10][1][4]

Jonah’s perspective is genuinely lovely. His pining, his patience, his gradual realisation that maybe Sadie feels something too—it’s romance gold. If you love yearning and slow-burn tension, his chapters deliver.^[4][11][2]

The banter and literary debates are fun, even if you’re not an English lit nerd. McAlister makes their intellectual sparring feel like foreplay, which is exactly what academic romance should do.^[3][2][4]

What Doesn’t Work

The rushed ending is unforgivable. After 300+ pages of careful build-up, McAlister speeds through the resolution like she’s got a deadline. Major subplots—the employment situation, the sibling relationships, the investigation—get shoved into the epilogue or ignored entirely. It’s lazy writing that undermines the entire book.^[16][11]

Sadie’s character grated on me. Her assumptions about Jonah persist long past believability, and her emotional unavailability reads less as trauma response and more as selfishness. The scene where Jonah and Chess discuss her like she’s a child is particularly galling.^[18][17]

The pacing drags in the middle. McAlister includes too much day-to-day routine—meals, commutes, mundane conversations—that doesn’t advance plot or character. A tighter edit would’ve improved the reading experience.^[1][11][4]

Final Verdict

An Academic Affair is fine. Just fine. It’s not the smart, scorching romance the marketing promises, and it’s definitely not in the same league as Ali Hazelwood. The authentic academic setting and Jonah’s pining elevate it above generic romance, but the rushed ending and uneven characterisation drag it back down.^{[9][20][11][16][4]}

Rating: 3/5 stars. Authentic setting, decent characters, utterly botched ending.

Drop a comment below if you’ve read this—did the ending piss you off as much as it did me? Or are you team “slow burn is worth any flaw”? And if you found this review helpful, chuck me a donation or click an ad—keeps me caffeinated and reviewing the books romance publishers want you to think are the next big thing when they’re really just… fine.

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