Sarina Bowen's Blog

Three City Book Tour! Will I see you in...

Join USA Today bestselling author Sarina Bowen on tour this November to share in the release of Thrown for a Loop. If you can’t make it and still would like a signed copy, check out the list of indie bookstores offering a very special signed bookplate!

Tuesday November 4, 2025 / 7:00PM EDTLaunch Event: Love Struck Books

Join Sarina Bowen and Kate Canterbury for a release day celebration with Love Struck Books.

Cambridge, MA

Reserve your spot!

Thursday November 6, 2025 / 7:00PM EDTThe Ripped Bodice

Join Sarina Bowen and Lauren Kung Jessen for a night discussing all things Thrown for a Loop!

Brooklyn, NY

Reserve your spot!

Friday November 7, 2025 / 7:00PM CDTTropes & Trifles

Join Sarina Bowen and Sloane St. James for a chat about hockey romance, second chances, and Thrown for a Loop!

Minneapolis, MN

Reserve your spot!

Tuesday November 11, 2025 / 7:00PM CDT(Virtual) Blue Willow Bookshop

Join Sarina Bowen and Ally Carter to discuss all things Thrown for a Loop!

Virtual Event

Reserve your spot!

Preorder a signed copy of Thrown for a Loop at your local indie bookstore!

Not too long ago I announced a special preorder campaign for Indie Bookstores where they’ll be able to preorder Thrown for a Loop and offer a signed bookplate along with it—and today I’m happy to share the start of that list!

Check out (sorted by state):

Beauty and the Book (Anchorage, AK)

Heartbound Book Shops (Anaheim, CA)

The Fleuria (Torrance, CA)

In Bloom Bookery (Temecula, CA)

The Spice Cabinet / Em & Bee (Wallingford, CT)

The New Romantics (Orlando, FL)

Steamy Lit (Fort Lauderdale & Tampa, FL)

Bookish Boutique (Panama City, FL)

Eagle Eye Book Shop (Atlanta, GA)

Shelf Love (Austell, GA)

Sincerely Yours (Smyma, GA)

Shelf Love DSM (Pleasant Hill, IA)

Its a Love Story Books & Cafe (Hayden, ID)

The Last Chapter Book Shop (Chicago, IL)

The Pink Couch (Wilamette, IL)

Love’s Sweet Arrow (Tinley Park, IL)

A Novel Romance (Louisville, KY)

Blush Bashful (Hopkinsville, KY)

Lovestruck Books (Boston, MA)

Romance Landia Bookstore (Centreville, MD)

Park Books and Park Books on Main (Severna Park, MD)

Pages & Peonies (Grand Rapids, MI)

Pages & Grapes (Wyoming, MI)

Bedpost Books (Republic, MO)

Curious Turtle (Jefferson City, MO)

Read & Rooted (Blue Springs, MO)

XOXO, Book Boutique (Las Vegas, NV)

Kiss and Tale (Collingswood, NJ)

Burn Bright Books (Rochester, NY)

Lit Actually (Baldwinsville, NY)

Flame & Fable (Lakewood, OH)

Cupid’s Bookshop (Philadelphia, PA)

Fable Tree (Titusville, PA)

Blue Willow Bookshop (Houston, TX)

Flutter (Austin, TX)

The Cookie Plot (Corpus Christi, TX)

Lovebound Library (Salt Lake City, UT)

Novel Grounds (Chesapeake, VA)

Norwich Bookstore (Norwich, VT)

Miss Willa’s Bookshop (Charles Town, WV)

The Well Red Damsel (Wauwatosa, WI)

So You Want to Visit Portland Maine

This pier is less than a quarter mile from the spot where the Five Year Lie cover photo was taken. Photo from Unsplash.

One of the unexpected joys of writing fiction is hearing from readers who decide to visit the places I write about. It happens more than you’d think. After all those books in Vermont, I get pictures from covered bridges and maple syrup shacks. The Bruisers are responsible for a bunch of photos of bridges in DUMBO, especially a certain cookie shop!

So now I’ve picked Portland, Maine—a salty, history-rich gem on the Atlantic—as the backdrop for The Five Year Lie and Dying to Meet You. And I’m ready for your photos of lobster rolls and little brick streets! Portland features charming old buildings, great food, and haunted historic mansions that belong on a postcard. It’s basically begging to be the setting of a twisty, romantic mystery.

So if by chance you’re planning a trip, here are all my favorite touristy spots in Portland!

Commercial Street and the waterfront:
This is the heart of Portland’s working waterfront, where fishing boats and ferries come and go all day long. It’s the best place to grab a lobster roll, spot some salty dogs (literal and figurative), and watch the harbor sparkle in the sun. There are lots of seafood restaurants on the pier, like the ones where Rowan worked in Dying to Meet You. Thirsty? Try the Luna rooftop bar for the views.

Sarina’s books set in Portland   

Exchange Street:
Cobblestones, cute shops, and old brick buildings—Exchange Street is where you wander aimlessly and end up with a new candle, a Maine-themed tea towel, and a fresh-baked cookie you didn’t mean to buy. It’s also a great spot for people-watching and window shopping. If you need a snack, Gelato Fiasco is tasty.

The Eastern Promenade:
If you like a view, this one’s hard to beat. The trail winds along the edge of Casco Bay, with sailboats bobbing below and picnic spots tucked into the grass. It’s the kind of place where you can clear your head—or imagine what secrets might be buried just out of sight.

The Western Promenade:
This is the neighborhood where Ariel grew up! Pretty historic homes abound here. And there’s another scenic sidewalk path to walk.

The Victoria Mansion:
This is the real-life model for the mansion in Dying to Meet You. In the novel, I moved the house a couple blocks toward the water, and I changed the subject of the wall paintings to suit my whim. But the design and materials are all pretty accurate. The house is a museum now, and you can visit.

In case you wondered why I set books in Portland, Maine. Photo from Unsplash.

Food from the Books

Becky’s Diner is real.

The Holey Donut is real.

Standard Baking Company is real.

Honey Paw is real.

Black Cow is real.

Also Recommended

My other favorites include The Lucky Cheetah for Chinese fusion, Bar Futo for hip Japanese yakitori, Terlingua for BBQ, Ocotillo for Mexican fusion, Nura for hummus and falafel.

  

The 10 Rules of Hockey Romance

Rule #1: The Meet-Cute Must Involve Equipment

Whether it's a stick to the face, a puck ricocheting into someone's coffee, or a collision with full gear in a hallway, first contact requires someone to be wearing skates.

How I’ve respected this rule: see, Bombshells! Our hero swears off women…then meets the loveliest new goalie on the women’s team…

Rule #2: At Least One Character Has Emotional Baggage the Size of a Zamboni

Past trauma, family drama, career-ending injuries, or secret shame—your hockey player needs issues that run deeper than surface-level commitment phobia. The bigger the baggage, the more satisfying the eventual healing.

See: Overnight Sensation! Castro is a hottie but the dude has some lingering issues. Heidi Jo is undeterred!

Rule #3: The Love Interest Must Be Impressive at Something Non-Hockey

Whether they're a brilliant athletic trainer, the team yoga teacher, or a savvy PR specialist, they need their own expertise. They're not just there to cheer from the stands—they have their own life worth disrupting for love.

How I’ve respected this rule: this is the fun stuff! See Love Lessons for hockey player vs. fashion stylist! He hates shopping. Or so he thinks…

Rule #4: There Will Be At Least One Scene in the Locker Room

Tension, vulnerability, steam from hot showers, the intimacy of a sacred space—the locker room is where guards come down and truth gets spoken. Use it wisely.

See: hilarious scenes in Bombshells when the team plays a prank on Anton. Honestly, see all my hockey books for locker room fun!

Rule #5: The Team is a Found Family (With All the Dysfunction That Implies)

The men’s teams are brothers, and the women’s teams are sisters! Which means they'll chirp each other mercilessly, have each other's backs completely, and meddle in personal business with zero boundaries. The team dynamics should feel lived-in and real.

Aw, heck yes! How about O’Doul in Hard Hitter demanding that every player submit a suggestion for how to woo a woman! (Spoiler: not all these suggestions are good or reasonable.)

Rule #6: Hockey Comes First (Until It Doesn't)

The sport isn't just a job—it's identity, purpose, sometimes the only thing they've ever been good at. The moment they're willing to risk it for love is when you know it's real.

See: Eric Bayer’s identity crisis in Moonlighter when he’s suddenly in love with a pregnant CEO. You’re welcome. :)

Rule #7: There Must Be One Scene That Makes Readers Clutch Their Chests

Whether it's a quiet moment of vulnerability, a grand gesture, or a perfectly timed "I love you," there should be at least one scene that hits so hard readers have to put the book down and collect themselves.

I don’t feel comfortable telling you which these scenes are. You’re gonna have to choose for yourselves!

Rule #8: Goalies are Weird, and Very Bendy

Goalies are hockey's beautiful weirdos—they have to be, standing alone in front of 100mph slap shots while wearing enough padding to stop a small car. They're superstitious, intense, and operate on a completely different mental frequency from the rest of the team. Plus, that flexibility from all the stretching and positioning? Pure romance gold.

How I’ve respected this rule: so many goalies! See: Beacon in Pipe Dreams, Silas in Superfan, Hale in The Last Guy on Earth, Sylvie in Bombshells…

Rule #9: The Hockey is Real Hockey

Research rules! The game, the culture, the superstitions, the way players talk and think. Readers will know if we’re faking it. And they love the little things—like what the penalty box is really like, and the fact that extra pucks are kept in an Igloo cooler. Besides… this means we get to go to hockey games!

How I’ve respected this rule: so much research! So many games and articles at The Players’ Tribune. And YouTube. I love my job. ❤️

Rule #10: The Team Wins More Games Than They Lose!

Because who wants to read a losing team? There’s enough of that in real life. This is fiction for a reason. Go team!

A Sarina Bowen x Forever Collab: Signed Copies for Launch Day!

Coming soon to a bookstore near you!

Hey Indie Bookstores!

You can have signed copies for launch week! We designed the cutest page in Thrown for a Loop to accommodate a darling signed bookplate. It fits like a puzzle piece, and we’ll send you some!

Simply: 

Sign up for a (free!) stash of book plates

Order Thrown for a Loop in your usual manner 

Sarina will sign the book plates and we’ll send you them in time for launch. 

Interested? See our signup form!

Hey Readers!

Share this post with your favorite independent bookseller. They can request signed bookplates for free, and you can get one on launch day.

Signup form for booksellers   

Updated August 2025: Definitive List of Romance Bookstores

The Ripped Bodice in Brooklyn is at the top of my list of 60+ romance bookstores in North America. Vi Keeland (left) and I had a fantastic event there in 2024.

Current Count: 100+ romance bookstores stores and growing!

I keep a document on my computer of all the romance bookstores that have sprung up in North America. It’s a kind of bucket list—I’d like to visit them all.

Then I suddenly realized… why keep this great bounty to myself? Surely the rest of you would love to know about all these shops. Many of them opened within the last year.

SIGNED COPIES MAY CURRENTLY BE AVAILABLE AT:

PAGES AND GRAPES IN MICHIGAN (Lots of titles!)

EDEN BOOKS (Special editions)

LOVESTRUCK BOOKS IN MASSACHUSETTS (Call to check!)

Note: Did we miss one? Please write us at admin @ sarinabowen.com and we’ll add it!

Lovestruck Books in Cambridge is also at the tippy top of my list! Attending their opening night party was the highlight of my January. Pictured: Rachel Kanter, owner extraordinaire.

East Coast & Southeast

The Ripped Bodice Brooklyn - Brooklyn, NY - The east coast edition of the O.G. romance bookstore! I love this store with all my heart.

Lovestruck Books - Cambridge, MA - Geographically this one is closest to me. And it’s so beautiful! I love visiting Lovestruck.

Grump and Sunshine - Belfast, ME - I haven’t been able to visit yet, but this lovely store helped with the preorder campaign for Good Boy in 2024. Thank you!

Burn Bright Books - Rochester, NY

Afterglow - Buffalo, NY

Montgomery & Taggert - Chester, CT

Kiss and Tale - Collingswood, NJ

Cupid's Bookshop - Philadelphia, PA

The New Romantics - Orlando, FL

Wanderlust Book Boutique - Fort Pierce, FL

Steamy Lit Bookstore - Deerfield Beach, FL

Trope Bookshop - Charlotte, NC

Sweeter than Fiction - Charleston, SC

Novel Grounds - Chesapeake, VA

Romance Landia - Centreville, MD

Good Girl Books - Knoxville, TN

Shelf Love - Austell, GA

Friends to Lovers - Washington, DC

All the Tropes - Atlanta, GA

Under the Cover - Sumter, SC

Roaming Romance Books - Ronkonkoma, NY

Beach Read Books - Wilmington, NC

Sincerely Yours - Smyrna, GA

The Spice Cabinet / Em and Bee Bookish Boutique - Wallingford, CT

Bookish Boutique - Panama City, FL

The Crimson Kiss Romance Book Boutique - Panama City Beach, FL

Damsel Bookstore - Canton, GA

Blush & Bashful Romance Bookshop - Hopkinsville, KY

Tropes Romance Bookshop - Bardstown, KY

Turn the Page Bookstore - Boonsboro, MD

Fable Books & Café - Holly Springs, NC

Burning Pages - Wilmington, NC

Just One More Chapter - Glens Falls, NY

This Chapter Bookshop - Port Jervis, NY

Fable Tree Bookshop - Titusville, PA

Seventh Shelf - Hanover, PA

The Broken Spine - Philadelphia, PA

Miss Willa's Bookshop - Charles Town, WV

West Coast & Mountain States

The Ripped Bodice CA - Culver City, CA - This is the mothership of romance bookstores. I hope to visit someday!

Meet Cute Bookshop - San Diego, CA

Smitten - Ventura, CA

Knotty Novels - Sacramento, CA

Heartbound Book Shop - Anaheim, CA

In Bloom Bookery - Temecula, CA

The Fleuria (Book truck) - Los Angeles

Hardcovers Romance Bookstore - Mill Creek, WA

The Romance Era Bookshop - Vancouver, WA

It's a Love Story - Hayden, ID

Lovebound Library - Salt Lake City, NV

Beauty and the Book - Anchorage, AK

The Ivy Bookshop - Fairbanks, AK

Lagg - Lehi, UT

Spicy Librarian - Denver, CO

The Bookish Shop - Gilbert, AZ

Grand Gesture Books - Portland, OR

Good Girls Bookshop - Kalispell, MT

FMC Books - Missoula, MT

XOXO Book Boutique - Las Vegas, NV

Yours Truly Bookshop - Roseburg, OR

The Vibrant Bookclub - Bountiful, UT

Under the Umbrella - Salt Lake City, UT

Eternal Endings - Snohomish, WA

Lovestruck in Seattle - Seattle, WA

Midwest & Central States

Flutter - Austin, TX - Owned by romance author and friend Laurelin Paige! I hope to visit soon!

The Plot Twist - Denton, TX

Love's Sweet Arrow - Tinley Park, IL

The Last Chapter Book Shop - Chicago, IL

Under the Cover - Kansas City, MO

Blush Bookstore - Wichita, KS

Pages and Grapes - Wyoming, MI (SIGNED COPIES HERE! MANY TITLES)

Love and Other Books - Ferndale, MI

Alpine Pages & Peonies - Grand Rapids, MI

Mon Couer - Canton, MI

Read My Lips - Marquette, MI

Tropes and Trifles - Minneapolis, MN

The Well Red Damsel - Wauwatosa, WI

Thirst Books - Milwaukee, WI

Slow Burn Books - Garrett, IN

The Rose Romance Bookstore - Mooresville, IN

A Novel Romance - Louisville, KY

HEA book boutique - Marion, IA

Shelf Love DSM - Des Moines, IA

Bedpost Books - Republic, MO

Open Door - St Louis, MO

Love Stories - Warr Acres, OK

Flame and Fable - Lakewood, OH

Good Spot Bookshop - Davenport, IA

That's What She Read Romance Bookstore - Mt Ayr, IA

Pink Couch Books - Wilmette, IL

Til Death Books - Shelby Township, Michigan

Hey Darling Bookstore - Austin, MN

Happy Endings Bookshop - Weston, MO

Read & Rooted - Blue Springs, MO

Ash & Vale - New London, OH

Good Girl Romance Bookstore - El Paso, TX

Love Affair Bookstore - Midland, TX

Paper & Vine Book Bar - Midland, TX

The Book Readers Venue - Humble, TX

The Chapter Co. - New Braunfels, TX

The Cookie Plot Romance Bookstore & Bakery - Corpus Christi, TX

Canada

Hopeless Romantic Books - Toronto, ON

Joie de Livres - Montreal, QC

Forbidden Library - Calgary, AB

The Book Boudoir - Edmonton, AB

Perfect Match Bookshop - Vancouver, BC

Pages of Passion - Saskatoon, SK

Slow Burn Books - Calgary, AB

United Kingdom

Book Lovers Bookshop - Edinburgh UK

Online

Eden Books - Ebooks and Print

The Top Ten Rules of Small Town Romance

Listen, small town romance has rules for a reason. Sure, they can be artfully broken from time to time. I’m not a dictator. But these are the rules, folks. I didn’t write them myself, but these rules are not accidents. 🤭

Ready?

The Top 10 LAWS of Small Town RomanceRule #1: The Big City Professional Must Return Home in Disgrace

Whether they’re a high-powered lawyer who lost a career-defining case, a marketing executive whose startup imploded, or a chef whose restaurant got savaged by critics, you MUST return to your hometown with your tail between your legs. Bonus points if you swore you'd never come back. Double bonus if you're driving a rental car because you had to sell your BMW.

How I’ve respected this rule: Skye in Fireworks has accidentally drawn a penis on live TV (it was a traffic map, okay? She didn’t mean to!)

Rule #2: There's Only One Coffee Shop, and It's Run by Fun People. Preferably a Matchmaking Busybody

This establishment will have a cute name like "The Busy Bean" or "Grounds for Love." The owner knows everyone's coffee order, relationship status, and deepest secrets. They will absolutely meddle in your love life while serving you a surprisingly good flat white for a town of 2,000 people.

How I’ve respected this rule: The Busy Bean is central to Zara’s secret baby romance in Bountiful, and also to Roderick and Kieran’s romance in Roommate.

Rule #3: Your High School Classmate Still Lives Here (And Got Mysteriously Hot)

Remember that gangly kid who took you to prom? They now own the local hardware store/veterinary clinic/Christmas tree farm and have developed spectacular forearms from all that manual labor. They're single, of course, because they've been waiting for you this whole time (definitely not creepy).

How I’ve respected this rule: Try Good as Gold to catch up on the hotness between Leila and Matteo.

Rule #4: Someone's Dead (or ailing) Parent Left Behind a Failing Family Business

The bookstore/bakery/inn/farm has been in the family for generations, and wouldn't you know it, your college degree could really help turn things around! Never mind that you had other plans.

How I’ve respected this rule: Bittersweet has Griff returning to the family orchard to make cider with his chemistry degree. Zara takes over a family bar in Bountiful, where she meets a strapping hockey player who’s just passing through. And in Golden Touch, Nash is recalled to save the family brewery while his dad is recovering from heart surgery.

Rule #5: Your Cell Phone Doesn't Work, But Love Does

Despite it being the 21st century, your big city phone gets no signal around town. This forces you to have actual conversations with people instead of doom-scrolling, which is apparently all you needed to realize what really matters in life. Note: THIS IS REAL, PEOPLE. My phone is a paperweight in the hills of Vermont and New Hampshire. Just try listening to that podcast in the car without downloading it first.

How I’ve respected this rule: This one is like breathing. There’s probably a dead spot moment in every single book. But in Coming In From the Cold, a lack of cell service is how Willow ends up spending a night in a stranger’s truck.

Rule #6: Weather Must Be a Character

Blizzards will trap people together at exactly the right moment. Spring rain will force intimate conversations under shared umbrellas. The power will go out during thunderstorms, requiring candlelight. Autumn leaves will provide the perfect backdrop for meaningful walks. The weather forecast in small towns is apparently controlled by Cupid himself.

See: Falling From the Sky when Callie and Hank must spend the night together, even though she’s been trying to convince herself not to date him. That snow is dangerous, girl. Sleep with the hottie!

Rule #7: Someone Must Own a Pickup Truck, it’s the Law

Well, duh. They really are everywhere, including my own driveway. And in one of my books, the Shipley kids joke that all Vermont teenagers have pickup truck sex.

For a demonstration: try Speakeasy.

Rule #8: Your Sophisticated City Friends Will Visit Once and Be Horrified

They'll complain about the lack of oat milk, the slow WiFi, and the fact that everyone waves at strangers. This visit serves the crucial purpose of making you realize you don't miss your old life at all, actually. Sharon from marketing can keep her Soul Cycle addiction; you've discovered the simple pleasure of walking a golden retriever named Biscuit.

How I’ve respected this rule: Several of the Brooklyn Bruisers hockey players visit Vermont in Bountiful, but only Dave isn’t ready to hightail it back to Brooklyn. There’s something about this place that grabs you!

Rule #9: There Shall Be No Chain Restaurants

The town's dining scene consists of: one family restaurant run by an elderly couple who bicker adorably, and possibly a food truck operated by a former chef with a tragic past. The nearest Starbucks is at least forty-five minutes away, and this is treated as a point of pride, not inconvenience.

BECAUSE IT’S TRUE. Chains are the devil. I’ve respected this rule in every single book. I’d be lying if I said the quirky hours of our local tavern aren’t a pain in my backside. But life is better when it’s weird. Ask anyone.

Rule #10: There are No Secrets (except the ones that drive the plot)

Everyone's business is your business, and the real treasure was the hometown you tried to escape all along. Nobody discovers this more shockingly than Sophie in Steadfast, who’s forbidden to see her high school sweetheart. But we all know how that goes!

Enjoy the ride!

  Love small town romances? Check out these titles!

The 10 Weirdest Rules in Hockey

🏒 10 Weird Hockey Rules That Sound Totally Made Up (But Aren’t)

I love weird hockey rules! Sometimes they can make for a great storyline. (Like when one of the Brooklyn Bruisers opens the bench door at just the right moment to make an opponent fall into their bench area. Not illegal!) So here’s a list of some of the oddest ones that sound like they were made by a committee of slightly drunk Canadians in a Tim Hortons parking lot.

Let’s get weird.

1. The Goalie Can’t Play the Puck Past Center Ice

Hockey image from Unsplash

Your favorite 6'5" weirdo is free to skate wherever his big blocker pads fit… but if he plays the puck past the center red line? That’s a no-no. It’s considered illegal puck handling. Basically: stay in your crease (or at least your half of the rink), king. Plot potential? Still very much alive.

2. You Can Play the Puck With Your Hand—But You Better Not Pass It

Unlike in soccer, a hockey player can swat the puck out of the air like a volleyball player. Nobody will yell “hand ball!” You can catch it and drop it, no problem. But if you hand-pass it to your teammate like, “Here bro, this one's yours,” the ref shuts it down faster than a Tinder date gone wrong.

3. There’s a Trapezoid Where Goalies Are Allowed to Touch the Puck. Only There.

Behind the net, there’s a weird trapezoid-shaped “goaltender zone.” It’s the only place the goalie can handle the puck. If he dares wander outside it? Two minutes for being too helpful. (This is the “Thou Shalt Not Be Brodeur” rule.)

There’s ongoing discussion to change this rule, though, which is why it comes up in a scene at the end of I’m Your Guy. ;)

4. Break Your Stick? You’re Basically Naked

You must drop a broken stick like it’s radioactive. Holding onto it = penalty. And if a teammate wants to hand you theirs, they can… but they’re not allowed to throw it. Yes, really. Hand delivery only. Hockey etiquette is weirdly formal sometimes.

5. You Can’t Skate Backwards in a Shootout

You can deke, spin, shimmy, and swerve like you're auditioning for “Dancing with the Stars,” but the puck must always be moving forward. No backsies. Once you go forward, you commit.

6. Knock the Puck In With a High Stick? NOPE.

If you bat the puck into the net with your stick above shoulder height, it’s no goal. But if you pass it to someone else that way and they score? That’s totally fine. Hockey says yes to teamwork, no to solo showboating.

7. If the Puck Goes Through the Net, It’s Not a Goal

The puck can rip through the net, and the goal doesn’t count unless someone notices and calls for a review. Meaning somewhere, some guy definitely celebrated a goal that never existed. (Still counts in the hearts of romance readers.)

8. You Can Pull Your Goalie Before a Penalty Starts

If a delayed penalty’s coming and the ref hasn’t blown the whistle yet, your team gets a free play. Pull the goalie. Go 6-on-5. Just chaos and vibes and one very nervous goaltender on the bench chewing his glove.

9. Ice the Puck? You’re Trapped on the Ice

When you ice the puck, not only does play stop—but your line can’t change. Maybe that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but the average skating shift in the NHL is between 45 and 60 seconds. So, after an icing call, you’re stuck out there, exhausted and suffering, while the other team rolls out fresh legs. This is why you don’t take lazy dumps.

10. Shoot the Puck Over the Glass? Go Sit in the Shame Box

If a player in their defensive zone shoots the puck over the glass without it touching anything, it’s a penalty. Doesn’t matter if it was a total accident. You’re still heading to the penalty box like a naughty toddler who launched a toy out of his crib.

  Need a hockey romance fix? Try one of these!

First Chapter: Dying to Meet You

Rowan

My favorite college professor used to say that the best thing about being an architect is that no two days are alike. “On Monday you’re wearing a hard hat to inspect a building site, on Tuesday you’re touring a client’s newly acquired estate, and on Wednesday you’re drafting at your desk.”

He failed to mention that on Thursday you’ll be frantically vacuuming mouse droppings off that desk.

“Enough already,” I mutter, jabbing the vacuum’s brush attachment at my keyboard. “This is disgusting.”

Beatrice—who, in spite (or perhaps because) of her antique name, is my younger, hipper colleague—shuts off the vacuum and takes it from me without a word. I think she can tell how strung out I feel today. How close to the edge.

And our boss is arriving at any moment.

“We need bigger traps,” I mutter. “I saw some at the hardware store.”

Beatrice shakes her perfectly straightened blond hair. “Wouldn’t help. These mice aren’t large—they’re just entitled. Here.”

She hands me a packet of disinfectant wipes, which I tear open immediately. “But I want revenge.”

“Babe, I want a martini and a ninety-minute massage. But we’re getting a meeting with Hank instead.” She grabs a wipe, nudges me out of the way, and disinfects my desk blotter more efficiently than I’d done it myself. “I think I heard the car outside. Go stall him?”

“Sure. Okay.” I grab my clipboard and go, my heels clicking on the newly refinished hardwood floors as I leave our makeshift office and cross through the library.

The moment my contractors finished the mansion’s structural renovation, Beatrice and I adopted this space on the first floor, which we plan to use for the remainder of the construction project. Both the library and the historic Wincott office—now our office—have hand-carved moldings and trompe l’oeil ceilings. Plus, we can seal off the library on days when the contractors are making a lot of noise on the property.

It’s a heck of a lot nicer than the construction trailer we’d been using before.

As I stride past a gilded mirror in the corridor, I check my outfit. Blouse, heels, a pencil skirt. Makeup. At least I remembered to put in some effort this morning.

Hank Wincott—our boss—always looks like a million dollars, probably because his family has billions. The Wincotts are the oldest, most successful Maine family that I can name. They first staked their claim on Portland in 1805, when a shipbuilding ancestor built a modest brick home on this property. Then, in 1860, Amos Wincott—the architect of the family—expanded that home into the mansion that stands here today.

A century and a half later, my role is to burnish the Wincott legacy and preserve this property for a new generation of Mainers. I’m six months into a two-year contract as the architect of the project. It’s a job I fought for, because I’m excellent with the details of restoration.

Client meetings, though? Not so much.

In the atrium, I pass the elaborate curving staircase, where dappled light filters down from a blue-and-gold skylight thirty-odd feet above my head. When I reach the foyer, I grasp the front door’s oversize brass knob and twist it. The door is heavy, and I have to hold on tight to prevent the salty Maine breeze from yanking it out of my hand.

It’s a surprisingly warm day for early June, and the sunlight in my eyes is a shock after the mansion’s shadowy interior. Once my eyes readjust, I see a shiny black Jaguar parked beside the house.

Hank Wincott leans against the passenger side, his phone to his ear. He tilts his strong jaw in greeting but lifts a finger in the universal sign for “just a minute.” He’s obviously finishing up a call with someone more important than me.

Honestly, I’m a little fuzzy on the details of how Hank spends his workdays. His older brother is the CEO of their global shipping corporation, while Hank is some kind of finance guy. He manages his family’s investments and also runs the Wincott Charitable Foundation.

Twenty years ago, Hank and I were in the same class at the expensive private high school where I now send my daughter. He was a popular party boy. If Chatham Prep had been large enough to have a prom king, he would have been a shoo-in.

I was a nerd, so our social circles didn’t overlap much. But everyone knew everyone at Chatham. The connection certainly helped me get this job—Hank said as much when he gave it to me.

I retreat back inside the house, making sure to leave the door unlocked. In the atrium, I lean against a hand-carved pilaster, lifting my gaze slowly upward, as the original architect had intended. Amos definitely had visitors’ awe in mind when he designed this space. He wanted them to be wowed by the elaborate staircase, which snakes, serpentlike, up to the second and third floors. The upper levels of the house form a gallery, with every upstairs room connected to the U-shaped open corridors.

Tilting my head back at a severe angle, I can finally make out the details of the ornate stained-glass window shimmering from the top floor. It’s a hundred and sixty years old, and done up in a wave pattern of blues and golds with the Wincott family symbol in the center—a W styled like a trident.

Ocean imagery is everywhere in the mansion, because the Wincotts made their first fortune in shipbuilding. If I try hard enough, I can picture Portland’s leading nineteenth-century citizens in their dinner jackets, climbing the staircase toward the smoking room upstairs.

It’s all very beautiful. This commission is a big moment in my career. But it’s not an easy job. Parts of the house are so ornate that I’m struggling to merge twenty-first-century design elements into the floor plan, and all those handmade fixtures are blowing up my budget.

Then there’s the ghost. Some of our contractors think a woman haunts the place. They say they’ve heard her crying. I haven’t. Not yet, anyway. But if I had to make a bet on which old mansion in Portland is haunted, I’d put my chips on this one.

A sudden breeze tells me that the front door has been opened again. “Rowan?”

“Right here,” I call and step into the foyer.

He shuts the door and turns to me, all shiny shoes and gabardine wool and perfectly straight teeth. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s no problem,” I say, giving him what I hope is an energetic smile and a firm handshake.

“How are you?” he asks as we cross into the atrium.

It’s not a serious question. He doesn’t want to hear that I’m barely holding it together. It’s not his problem that I’m spiraling from a breakup. So I hold my smile. “I’m doing great.”

“Glad to hear it.” He glances around, as if checking for any new details since the last time he stopped by. The mansion is Hank’s ancestral home, although he never lived here. The family decamped in the forties to a newer, grander compound in a more private location up the coast.

In the decades afterward, the property was used as a home for unwed mothers—with the charming name the Magdalene Home for Wayward Girls—until the home closed down in the early nineties.

Now we’re in the process of converting it into a brand-new cultural institution: the Wincott Center for Maritime Heritage. It will be part museum and part educational center. The ground floor will serve as an event space and contain exhibits of maritime history. Upstairs will feature meeting rooms and offices. And out in back, I’m constructing a new-age lecture hall.

It’s a good gig. A career-making commission. Except I’m horribly behind schedule and over budget.

“Hey there, Hank!” Beatrice sweeps into the atrium wearing a smile that’s far less stilted than mine. She and our boss have worked together for years, and it shows. “Big shame about the game last night.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes a performative glance at his watch. “Seven seconds. That’s how long I was in the building before you decided to rub it in.”

She spreads her graceful arms in mock disbelief. “If you don’t want to talk about the Sox losing, maybe don’t bet on the Sox?”

“Fine, fine.” He pulls a handsome leather wallet out of his trouser pocket, plucks a crisp $10 bill out of it, and passes it to Beatrice. “Can we talk about the floor plan now? Or did I just come here to be humiliated?”

Beatrice pockets the cash. “I’ll leave you to it. Find me afterward for an update on the construction schedule.”

“Will do.” He turns to me. “Now let’s see this wall painting that’s causing all the trouble.”

“Of course. Follow me.” I lead him up the grand staircase to the second floor. Given the lofty ceilings in this place, it’s quite a climb. “I know you’ve earmarked the Blue Room for the director’s office. But I need to show you what the conservators did in there. It’s very impressive.”

“It ought to be, after a two-month delay,” he says.

I cringe. Privately.

Hank already knows how the conservators work—an inch at a time, with cotton balls and Q-tips. He should be grateful they rearranged their work schedule to prioritize the mansion as soon as we’d discovered additional hand-painted walls throughout the second story.

Hank is a charming man, but he’s not a patient one.

On the second floor, we follow the curve of the gallery toward the front of the house. I step aside to let Hank enter the Blue Room first. Then I follow him, temporarily blinded by the glint of the afternoon sunshine off Casco Bay.

The room is empty and echoey, but it was once a guest bedroom with an elegant four-poster bed, hand-knotted rugs from Scotland, and curtains from France. Those furnishings were removed decades ago, but the scale of the room still gives a sense of grandeur. The ceiling height tells you straightaway that Amos Wincott had an ego. And the walls? Astonishing. They were painted by an artisan brought over from Italy.

Behind me, Hank whistles under his breath. “No wonder this took so long.”

I turn around so I can admire the largest interior wall, unbroken by windows or a door. It took the conservators weeks of work to reveal several figures from Greek mythology. The centerpiece shows the sea god Poseidon, who turns up everywhere in the mansion. This particular scene depicts him with his wife, a mermaid-like nymph named Amphitrite. She’s coiled around her husband, her bare breast plumped against his chest. Their ardor is unmistakable.

“All the upstairs murals are horny,” my favorite conservator pointed out last week. “There’s really no other word for it.”

I keep that observation to myself as Hank moves closer to squint at the brushstrokes. “Can’t believe they were able to uncover this. No wonder they’re so expensive.”

“They do impressive work,” I agree.

But it’s a shame they needed to. For seventy years, this lush imagery has been hidden under a layer of cheap house paint. Sometime in the 1950s, one of Hank’s uncles—Marcus Wincott—decided to cover the walls in a dull shade of beige.

Marcus had a different kind of Wincott ego. He was a religious man who probably thought that frolicking Greek gods were too scandalous for the pregnant girls who took refuge here.

So he’d painted over everything. He also broke some of the bedrooms into a rabbit warren of smaller rooms, forcing my demolition crew to painstakingly remove lots of slapdash drywall before the art restorers could even begin their work of rescuing the hidden paintings.

More than once I’ve stood here thinking: The balls on these guys.

“It’s very ornate,” Hank says now. “Organic. Colorful.”

“Agreed,” I say. And then I hold back my gasp as he reaches out and runs his fingertips across an 1860 masterwork.

Seriously, the balls on these guys.

“But it complicates the floor plan,” Hank says. “That’s the issue, right?”

“Right. Our plan had a wall right here.” I indicate a spot that’s in the center of another mural panel—this one depicting Poseidon’s horses. “We can’t unveil a rare work of art and then chop it in half.”

He frowns, possibly wondering why we can’t do exactly that. When you’re as rich as Hank, you can usually do as you please. “The director needs this space. And he’ll need to be separated from his assistant by a wall.”

That’s what I was afraid he’d say. “Can you tell me why it has to be this room? If we put the director’s office in the next room . . .”

He’s already shaking his head. “It’s the ocean view. Donors are going to sit right here”—he indicates a place on the floor—“And look at this view. They’ll contemplate the majesty of the ocean and our history upon it. And then they will open their wallets. The director needs to occupy the grandest space. It’s all about posturing.”

My heart sags. I don’t care to live in a world that’s all about posturing. Yet here we are.

Hank’s phone rings. He checks the screen, and I expect him to silence the phone. Instead—without a word of apology—he takes the call. “Hey, Mack! What do you have for me?”

Great.

Giving Hank privacy, I leave the room and tap on the door of the neighboring one.

“Enter!” comes a female voice from inside the room I’m calling the West Room on my floor plan.

I open the door to reveal Zoya, the younger of our two conservators. She’s artsy, with a septum piercing and an angular haircut that reminds me of an I. M. Pei building. She’s standing on a ladder in overalls, dabbing a brush at the wall. When she sees me, she turns down the NPR broadcast on her Bluetooth speaker and climbs off the ladder.

“He’s impressed with your work next door,” I say in a low voice. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

She gives me a sly smile. “Did he complain about the delay, though? Only a billionaire would be upset that his house has important works of art all over it.”

“It came up,” I whisper. “But I know you can only work so fast. Is Bert gone for the day?” They often start work early and leave by three.

She nods. “I should get out of here, too. But I was listening to an interesting interview.” She grabs her tool tray off the ladder. “Look, I found Poseidon again.” She points at . . . two horses? The larger one is nuzzling the smaller one.

“If you say so?”

Zoya grins. “Poseidon pursued Demeter, but she didn’t want to be his next side piece. So she turned herself into a mare and ran. But Greek gods don’t take no for an answer, and Poseidon changed himself into a stallion to chase her down. Later, she gives birth to the horse Arion.” She shrugs. “Honestly, we’re just lucky the painting isn’t two horses fucking.”

I snort.

She grabs a drop cloth off the floor and folds it with quick competency. “Bet you ten bucks I’ll find Poseidon and Scylla next. Amos Wincott loved Poseidon. I know they were a seafaring family, and blah blah blah. But let’s face it—Amos Wincott was a dude bro. The family symbol is basically a triple penis.”

“Let’s not put that in the promotional pamphlet.” I head for the door.

“You know I would.” She chuckles. “Why keep all the interesting shit a secret? I’d also want visitors to know that there’s a sad female ghost wandering around here.”

I stop and turn around. “Have you seen her?”

“Nah.” Zoya shakes her head. “But I don’t have to. The aura is intense. Especially around the third-floor gallery.”

“Huh,” I say, because I’ve never used “aura” in a sentence, and I don’t know the polite response to that.

She shrugs. “The tile guys saw her, though. They say she was one of the pregnant girls who lived here. I don’t know if that part’s true but trust me—the lady ghost has the blues. There’s some bad juju in these walls.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

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Sexism and the Romance Stigma

This post was originally published in 2018 on the Kobo Writing Life blog . It has been lightly updated for 2025.

It’s a fascinating moment to write romance.

Here we are in a rapidly shifting #MeToo reckoning and backlash. Women are finding the voice to speak out against abuse, discrimination and unfavorable sexual politics like never before. And yet mainstream media venue still feels free to take a swipe at romance readers.

Sometimes the irony hits hard.

Just days before The New York Times published groundbreaking journalism which would out Harvey Weinstein as a sexual predator, they published a completely disdainful “roundup” of romance novels by an eighty-four year old man uninterested in how the genre is evolving.

To add to all the fun, that same year, RealSimple magazine published an article with this this abominable title: 7 Romance Novels You Won’t Feel Embarrassed About Reading.

Thanks, guys. We get it. But do you?

It astonishes me that both publications—which employ a bevy of female journalists—assume their readers don’t also read romance. Internalized misogyny is alive and well in the mainstream media. But I’m here to assure you that the same people who buy romance novels are likely to get their news from the Times and their recipes from glossies like RealSimple.

Let’s look at some demographics. Nielsen, the media tracking agency, reports that romance readers have an average household income that’s just above the national average. And—more to the point—romance readers buy more books than readers in most other genres. They buy books at a faster rate than any other readership.

Romance readers identify as readers first. In the immortal words of Austin Powers, reading is their bag, baby. Is it really such a leap to assume they also read mainstream media? According to the Nielsen/RWA study, at the bookstore “romance buyers also read mystery, general fiction, cooking/food books, young adult, and erotic fiction.”

In other words, they read broadly. Like every other sort of reader.

Facebook is also helpful in deciphering the demographics of my romance-reading fanbase. Seventy-two percent of the people who “like” Sarina Bowen on Facebook went to college or grad school. Eighty-five percent own their homes, and the majority are married.

And still major news organizations assume there’s no readership overlap, so why not take the occasional swipe at romance fans when you need a cheap laugh?

If living well is the best revenge, then romance authors are going to be fine. As the brilliant Jennifer Weiner once put it, we’ll just weep into our royalty statements. Romance is usually the number one or number two genre in fiction sales, depending on who’s doing the sampling.

When numbers are the focus, the media does a better job of assessing the genre. The Economist wrote that “romance novels and the genre’s saucier subdivision, erotic literature, continue to drive sales and innovation.” They are on point to add that the stigma remains. “Such hostility is probably due, at least in part, to old-fashioned sexism.”

You don’t say!

Contemporary romance is threatening to the status quo. Critics will tell you that romance is “formulaic.” But the only certainty in a romance novel is the ending—it will be happy, and the couple will resolve their differences and end up together.

And by the way — since the ending is known, that actually makes the middle of the book harder to write, not easier. But never mind, critics! I’ll just plug a couple of variables into my romance formula machine, set it to the automatic spin cycle and eat bonbons until the book pops out fully formed.

Yet it’s not the structure of a romance that’s threatening to critics. Rather, it’s that a woman is often the most important protagonist. Her needs matter. She has agency and makes her own decisions. She may or may not be straight, genderqueer, LGBTQ, asexual or interested in kink. But by page 300 she will own her own choices, and demand that her partner does the same.

When I wrote my first romance novel, I this stigma, too. I was fearful of telling people about my new venture. I thought my friends from college would assume I’d failed at writing and, as a consequence, was now wading in the shallow end.

I think I believed it, too.

Fast forward several years. I now have twenty publishers on five continents. I’ve won awards. I’ve hit various bestsellers’ lists more than 25 times. Most crucially, I support my family as a novelist. In romance I’m earning a living as an author.

How did that happen? The moment I stopped trying to write as the wisest, cleverest girl in the room, I began writing novels that critics call clever and wise. I stopped drinking the mainstream Kool-Aid and wrote straight from the gut. And readers responded.

I’m here to tell you that you can have a brain and still enjoy books with kissing in them. You can also have an economics degree from Yale and write romance novels. You can build a career on entertaining smart women and men with uplifting storytelling.

You can include a set of washboard abs on the cover or not. It’s your choice. And you’re a novelist either way.