Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 11
March 11, 2022
First Chapter: Shenanigans
Charli
It’s a beeping alarm that pierces through my hangover to wake me up.
At first, I fight it. I’m lying on my back in a plush bed that’s way too comfortable to be my own. This isn’t necessarily a problem. I’m a professional hockey player, and we spend a lot of nights in hotels.
Not nice hotels, though. It’s the silky, high-thread-count sheets that provide the first clue that something is very wrong.
Also, I’m topless. And I have a hangover headache. But those two things happen occasionally, and neither one is too worrisome.
The alarm, though. It isn’t mine, and it isn’t my road-trip roommate Samantha’s. Whose room is this?
I’d open my eyes to check, but it’s awfully bright, and I’m so sleepy. I drift off for another moment.
Eventually, though, another mechanical beep pulls me back to the surface. This noise is familiar. It’s the sound that Neil—Cornelius Harmon Drake III—makes when he’s testing his blood sugar.
Wait. I’m in a bed with Neil Drake?
And I’m topless, too?
Shit.
My eyes spring open. The first thing I see is… the ceiling. It’s really far away and very decorative. There’s a line of goddamn gold leaf running around the border of the room. It’s further confirmation that Drake is in this bed with me. He’s the richest person I’ll ever meet.
My head throbs in protest, and my mouth is dry. Hello, hangover.
“What the fuck happened here last night?” Drake mumbles from a few feet away. “Why am I not wearing my pants?”
“I am!” This comes out all raspy, as if I smoked a pack of cigarettes. I’m not a smoker, though. Then again, all bets are off this morning.
“You’re wearing my pants?” Drake asks.
“No,” I clarify, relieved to discover that my bottom half isn’t as naked as the top half. “If we’re taking inventory, I’d like to report that I’m wearing underwear and pantyhose. And also…” What is that thing near my foot? With my toe, I drag it upward until I can reach it. I pull one high-heeled shoe out from under the bedclothes.
We both snort at the same time. Apparently, I got in bed wearing my hose and at least one shoe. No shirt, though, which is going to be awkward in a moment when I get up.
Still, it’s a relief. We got wasted in Vegas, but at least we didn’t get wasted and screw each other. So whatever damage control we’re doing right now, it can’t be that bad.
I finally get up the courage to look over at Neil Drake, just about the same time he gets the courage to look at me. His hazel eyes widen. Mine do too.
He looks like he’s been to war. He’s still wearing his bowtie, but the tuxedo shirt underneath is open and missing half its buttons. His thick hair is all askew, like sex hair, even though I’ve established that no sex happened.
Well, no banging happened. But those missing buttons are ringing some bells with me. I think maybe I—
“Oh shit,” I whisper. I’m pretty sure I ripped those buttons off myself. Although I hadn’t been able to get that bowtie off him.
“What the hell happened here last night?” he asks in a harsh whisper. His expression is so confused.
“Um…” Think, Charli. “We did some drinking after the awards ceremony. And after your fight with Iris.”
“My fight with Iris,” he echoes. His eyes squeeze closed with remorse.
The fight had been pretty ugly. Lots of shouting. I’d been eavesdropping from the living room, silently cheering Neil on whenever he landed a verbal blow.
Not that it’s any of my business, but I can’t stand his on-again-off-again girlfriend. They’ve been off for a while, but I think she came to Vegas to try to change that.
It hadn’t worked. When she’d finally screeched her goodbyes and had stormed out of this hotel suite, I’d smiled at the sight of her skinny ass as it departed.
“You got pretty drunk after that,” I say to my tousle-haired companion. “Is your, um, blood sugar okay?”
Neil is diabetic. Before him, I’d never met anyone who has to monitor his own body chemistry to remain alive.
It almost makes him seem less like a carefree rich dude and more like a real person.
Almost. But not quite.
“I need to eat,” he says. “Although we’re supposed to be downstairs in, like, seventeen minutes.”
“Seventeen?” I screech.
“Yeah, I like to sleep as late as I can.”
Ugh. I sit up so fast that I feel nauseated.
Also, I’m still topless. Neil is now staring at my breasts.
“Oops.” I grab them in two hands.
“Wow,” he says, his eyes glazing over lustfully.
“Come on, now. You’ve seen tits before.” I can play this off as a joke, right? We’ll be laughing about this in a week. Remember that time you flashed me your tits before we almost missed the team jet?
But it’s too soon.
“Charli,” he croaks, his eyes still glued to my hands cupping my breasts.
“What?”
“I’ve seen those tits before. They look super familiar. Because we fooled around last night.” He scrubs a hand over his face, somehow without breaking the stare-off he’s having with my tits. “Hot damn.”
“Whoa whoa whoa. First of all, tits are tits.” This is a lie. As someone who’s also fond of tits, I’m oversimplifying things. But now is not the moment for brutal honesty. “Besides, I don’t remember it like that,” I say carefully. “Maybe your memory could also fuck off right about now.”
“That might be tricky. It might be hard to forget playing with those. They’re pretty spectacular.”
I grab the sheet and yank it up to cover me. “Hey! Is mind bleach a thing? Because I think you need some.”
He grins suddenly. “My head is killing me right now. Like someone put an ax through it. But this is going to be so funny later, isn’t it? I think I drooled all over your chest last night like a Saint Bernard.”
“Stop! This isn’t funny! What about Iris?” Honestly, Iris can die slowly in a pit of Las Vegas quicksand. (Is that a thing? It should be.) But if Neil feels guilty, then maybe he’ll put our drunken encounter out of his stupidly handsome head.
Instead, he shrugs. “I told her we’re never getting back together, right? That’s why you and I got drunk. God, never sleep in a bowtie, though.” He reaches up and unclips it.
I blink. “You wear a clip-on tie? You? With your Tom Ford tux?”
“The tux is Armani.” He drops the tie onto the crisp white comforter. “The clip-on is something I bought just to irritate my uncle. But it’s awfully handy. Saves time.”
I just stare at the thing for a moment, because I’m having a bit of a flashback to last night. I’d been tugging on that bowtie to try to get it off him. Then I’d gotten frustrated and yanked the two halves of his shirt apart.
Then? I’d leaned down and licked his sixpack…
Holy, holy crap. I licked Neil Drake. And I liked it.
“You look like you just saw the devil.” He snickers. “We were obviously in a weird, self-destructive mood. I never get drunk. And you never—” He stops talking suddenly. His mouth falls open in shock.
“I never what?” There’s a lot of ways that sentence could end, and none of them are good. I’ve always been careful to never let on that Neil is the most attractive man I’ve ever met. I’ve never torn his shirt off, either. Or shown him my breasts.
His face is seriously confused. “Charli… you told me before that you don’t fool around with men.”
Oh. That’s mostly true, especially lately. But really? That’s what he finds so shocking here?
“But last night you… and I…” He swallows hard. “We were going to…” Then he lifts up the covers and looks down at his body.
His naked body. I can’t see it right this second, but I saw it last night.
“I’m not wearing pants,” he says again. “We were going to—” He’s like a stuck record now.
“Okay, look.” I clap my hands. “Time is wasting. Can we just get out of here, and worry about this later? Can I have the shower?”
“S-sure,” he stammers. He’s still looking at his dick, as if checking to see if it’s still there.
“Close your eyes, please,” I say primly.
Shockingly, he obeys me. He flops back onto the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut.
I dart out of bed and make a run for the bathroom.
Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Google | Audio
March 10, 2022
Throwback: Us!
Some things you may not know about Us, which was published this week in 2016! (Note: mild spoilers ahead. Only read these if you’ve already read Us!
As others have pointed out, this is the only true novel-length sequel I’ve written. Yesterday, the novella length follow-up to Understatement of the Year was the same sort of mental exercise, though. I enjoyed writing both!
As a reader, I skip sequels. 🤷♀️ That’s why I don’t write many.
This may be my only book where a piece of furniture has such a large plot angle. The Death Chair went into the end of Him on a whim. (Ooh, that rhymes!) But then we had a lot of fun with it.
“Chiweiler” was all Elle. But Blake’s gross Tim Horton’s donut sandwich was my idea, and I’m not even Canadian.
I wrote the first draft of the first chapter, where Blake is introduced. But I felt like I didn’t know him yet. And then Elle wrote his next appearance. Much later—when the whole book was done—I told her that I couldn’t “see” Blake until I read her first use of him. And she said “that’s funny because I saw him right away when you introduced him. #magicisreal
I had fun doing the research on giving [spoiler] a novel flu virus and putting him in that isolation unit at the hospital. (Thanks internet.) And then in spring 2020 I read articles about the way that Covid hospital patients were handled, and the familiarity gave me chills!
Ripped from my real life: in the kitchen, I have to put flags on pans so that I don’t burn my own fool self. It’s a super handy trick that often saves me.
Some people in publishing told me that Him and Us could probably never be published in Catholic-leaning countries like Italy and Spain. They were wrong.
February 28, 2022
#SarinaRecommends: February 2022
This is a baseball romance with fabulous story development and writing! I was all in for this struggling player and the PR assistant who’s forced to deal with difficult people. The really fun thing about this book (and its follow-up, Bench Player) is the world building around The Thrashers’ clubhouse. I loved the team and its grumpy manager so much that I hope she writes a third one!
Get it at:
I’d never heard of this author before when I impulsively bought this book in December. But several things about it are my catnip. It’s a British book, which is always fun. But the central premise is something that always gets me. Check this out: For years Jess believed that Joe—the father of her child and the only man she ever loved—had abandoned her during her greatest time of need. That belief nearly destroyed her. Seventeen years later, when cleaning out her mother’s house, Jess unpacks a box of cards and letters hidden in the attic and makes a discovery that changes everything about life as she knows it. SOLD TO THE LADY IN THE PINK SHIRT. Seriously, I was all in. The first couple of chapters were actually a little slow, but then I was on this journey and could not even consider getting off the train until I knew what happened to Joe.
Get it at:
I first read this book in 2016, and I was only a few pages in when I thought: this author was in a band. The texture of her writing was so well-steeped in 90s rock culture that I just knew her research was experiential. (I was right! Her bio confirmed it.)
The writing is top notch and every single one of EmmyLou’s observations feels fresh and vivid. Travis is a super sexy hero even from chapter one, when he’s only eating a feta omelet in a diner.
Some reviewers didn’t like the heroine’s reluctance to go all in for him, but I bought every line of it. Her passion for the band and the music are hard fought, and I was there for it!
Get it at:
February 25, 2022
Throwback: Brooklynaire!
Some things you may not know about Brooklynaire:
- The timeline of this book is wrapped around the timelines for Hard Hitter and Pipe Dreams. That is super fun to read, but it was a bitch to write. Remind me never to do that again. And I apologize to the trees I killed in order to use seven different colors of post-its.
- Some smart people (names withheld to protect the silly) told me not to write it. “Readers want the hockey players, not the team owner.” But then...
- Brooklynaire was the first Brooklyn book to hit a bestseller list...and since then, every single Brooklyn book has hit!
- Writing this book during “me too” was such a challenge! I fought for a relationship that did not have an egregious power imbalance. And I’m proud of where I ended up.
- I had three pages of palindromes scrawled in my notebook, each one just looking for the perfect spot in the story.
- I do not own a smart speaker, but if Bingley were real, I’d be first in line.
- In order to brainstorm Bingley’s jokes, I googled: “jokes for kindergarteners.”
- Nate is narrated by Zachary Webber. But the producer was Teddy Hamilton! And he had to call me in the middle and ask what kind of accent Bingley was supposed to have. (Sorry Teddy! I’ll leave better notes next time.)
Grab your copy:
Amazon | Apple Books | Kobo | Nook | Google | AudioOr Read the first chapter!February 22, 2022
It's here! Must Love Hockey is available at all your favorite vendors!
Now live in paperback, audio & ebook formats! The audio is narrated by Stephen Dexter and Lena Lee, and wait until you hear their Brooklyn accents!
See: Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Google | AudioQ: What’s the opposite of a “meet cute?”
A: Meeting a handsome guy at the very moment you’re breaking out in hives all over your body.
The mysterious allergic reaction I have at the hockey game is terrifying. But it’s just a little less terrifying when a big, strong equipment manager for the Brooklyn Bruisers saves the day.
That’s how I meet James “Jimbo” Carozza. When I’m alone and frightened, he gets me the help I need, and delivers me safely to the emergency room.
Too bad I don’t even get his number…
Grab your copy at: Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Google | Audio
January 31, 2022
#SarinaRecommends: January 2022
I love sharing books I’ve enjoyed with others! Make sure you check out:
This book! I already knew I loved Katherine Center, but somehow I waited to read this one. It’s probably because road trip stories are not my favorite. Usually. But, wow, this was so well done. Amazing characters. Epic romance. And so much humor! I was sucked in from the first page, and couldn’t stand to put it down until it was done. Jake is such an unusual hero. You’ll be rooting for them the whole time.
Get yours:Amazon | Apple | Kobo | GoogleI can’t not have this one on my recommendation list, because Aly Martinez's new one is just so great. A word of warning: this book has a cliffhanger. But don't let that deter you. I honestly want to sit with it for a bit before I beg her for an early copy of #2, because it is that rare book that requires some contemplation afterward. There will be so many things you revisit in your mind that look differently once you learn Bowen's secret.
It's just super fun and I think you should read it immediately!
Available in Kindle Unlimited via Amazon [image error]
You should know that Serena Bell always delivers on fine writing and sexy characters. Fans of True North should know that her new series is right up your alley! I read Make Me Wilder last week and it’s full of hunky mountain men who don’t like to compromise. And I can already tell the rest of the series will rock!
Get yours:Amazon | Apple | KoboWant more Recs? Make sure you check out my running list here!
January 14, 2022
First Chapter: The Best Men
Yes, He Definitely Got My Drunk TextMark
The first time I met Asher St. James, he was twenty-seven minutes late. The second time, he spilled his drink on me. I’d like to think the third time will be a charm, but I highly doubt it.
Only this time, it’ll be all my fault.
I’ve behaved badly. And now I must pay the price.
Asher isn’t even my biggest problem. As I make my way up Lexington Avenue on a warm May evening, I prepare to give my mea culpa. The one I have to deliver any second now to, count ’em, three people.
My baby sister, her groom, and his superhot wingman.
Groan.
Did I actually call Asher that?
Maybe it was just a bad dream.
Grabbing my phone from my back pocket, I click on the group text once more, wishing for the five hundred and seventy-ninth time that last night’s string of single-malt-fueled messages would go the way of a fax machine and just disappear.
But they’re all still here. For digital posterity.
As I cross Fifty-Seventh Street, I pass a garbage can and seriously consider chucking my phone in it. Too bad throwing away the instrument of my own mortification won’t do the trick. Nothing except a time machine will erase the drunk texts I fired off last night somewhere between midnight and regret o’clock.
Also known as the hour the scotch took over all my decision-making.
Thanks a fucking lot, liquor. You’re a pal.
Have I mentioned I’m still hungover? I have the remnants of last night’s Very Bad Decisions and a dull headache that aspirin won’t cure.
I deserve it.
My head pounds, but the clock is ticking on my sister’s engagement dinner so I keep trudging uptown. Three more blocks till I have to eat crow.
The crosswalk sign on Fifty-Ninth Street tells me not to go.
No shit, sign.
Stopping at the curb, I picture the three of them waiting for me at the nearby sushi joint. And I rehearse my apologies, one at a time.
First, Hannah. All big blue eyes, freckled nose, and small but growing belly bump.
Hey, my second-favorite person in the world. I wish I could say someone hacked my phone last night, but that was me with the all caps text: ‘ I SWEAR YOUR HASTY MARRIAGE WILL TOP A BUZZFEED LIST OF BAD IDEAS THAT ALSO INCLUDES CRYSTAL PEPSI AND MULLETS. AND I SHOULD KNOW. I’VE TRIED ALL THREE. ’
I’m so sorry. Your nuptials are nothing like mine, or that bad haircut I had in high school, and getting married to Flip is a great idea.
At least, I hope it is.
It damn well better be.
As for the guy my little sis is marrying, I’ll have to apologize to him next. They’re madly in love. And even though I’m still privately horrified that he got her pregnant three months after they met, I’ll man up and apologize.
Hey, Flip, I deeply regret saying that your marriage will fail harder than Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers. And also for saying that grown men don’t call themselves “Flip.”
My analogy game was on point last night, scotch be damned. But my behavior wasn’t.
Which means I’ll inevitably turn to Asher, the groom’s best bud, the guy who was twenty-seven minutes late the first time I met him. He’d delayed the start of game night six months ago—the one my sister had arranged so we could all meet, back when she and Flip had just become an item.
Then Asher had sauntered in. Yes, he saunters, with his too-toned-to-be-real frame, and too-floppy-to-be-anything-but-a-shampoo-model hair, with his so sorry I was late, but I found a puppy shivering outside the building so I had to take him to the local rescue apology.
Of fucking course.
He couldn’t be that good-looking and just be late. He had to be late with style and substance.
The second time our paths crossed, they literally crossed. He lifted his glass of champagne right when I entered the dining room for my sister’s dinner party, and my chest ran into his arm, dousing me in bubbly.
With a lopsided grin, and the kind of cocky confidence that only a former pro athlete can pull off, he proceeded to unbutton his shirt, take it off, and offer it to me in front of everyone.
I declined, while trying not to stare at his eight-pack. Obviously, I wore my champagne-soaked button-down all through dinner.
I’m not taking another man’s shirt.
And, so, Asher, I didn’t mean it when I called you Flip’s superhot wingman, or referred to your body as annoyingly perfect.
His abs are truly perfect. Nothing annoying whatsoever about that washboard.
But still, as I reach the door of the restaurant, I remind myself to apologize thoroughly and sincerely. To proceed like I didn’t mean all the things the liquor unleashed from my thumbs last night.
Like I’m not completely panicking over my little sister’s sudden engagement. And her just-announced pregnancy to the guy she started dating in December.
Like I’m not at all terrified her shotgun marriage will go belly up, beached-whale style, just like mine did.
And like I'm not attracted to the wingman who irritates the hell out of me, the guy I also maybe, kinda, sorta would like to see naked.
Nope.
That shit will stay locked up tight. Where it belongs.
I straighten up, open the door, and walk inside.
“May I help you?” the hostess asks with a gracious smile.
It’s tempting to ask her to put me out of my misery. But I give Flip’s name instead. Well, his real name.
“I’m here for the Phillipe Dubois party,” I say.
“Fantastic. They just arrived,” she says. “You’re all so punctual.”
Great. I’m always on the dot, and this time they beat me to it by showing up earlier. Could this night suck more?
I follow her to the back of the restaurant where the superhot wingman is hosting a small but chic engagement dinner. He’ll have invited all their old prep school friends, with their boat shoes and suntans, and names like Carlisle Bancroft.
And, yup, the first guy I spot inside the room has whales on his tie. Called it.
The second guy is Flip. The welcoming smile slides right off his face when he sees me. My gaze swings from him to Hannah, who’s standing arm in arm with her groom-to-be. My sister’s expression doesn’t chill, though. If anything, she’s eyeing me with concern.
And then there’s Asher St. James. He’s leaning casually against a chair, his hair flopping theatrically across his forehead, a cocktail glass in his hand.
For a quick second, I wonder if it’s possible that he didn’t even see the texts. The thread was full of engagement party planning stuff. He’s probably too busy chatting up famous athletes and models to bother with my drunken rants.
A man can hope.
But the exact moment he registers my arrival, that hope dies. Asher doesn’t frown at me, though. It’s worse than that. So much worse.
A corner of his handsome mouth tilts up. And he smirks.
That’s when a chill enters my body. Because it’s go-time. No more rehearsals, just three awkward apologies.
Slowly, I cross the room toward Hannah, Flip, and Asher. One of them is frowning. One looks worried. One looks smug.
The answer is, yes, this night can suck more.
Amazon | Apple | Nook | Kobo | Google | AudibleDecember 21, 2021
#SarinaRecommends: December 2021
Looking for some new reads? Here’s what I recommended in December!
Check out my favorite title by Corinne Michaels: Come Back for Me.
This one hit all my favorite high-drama buttons! A secretive night from years ago! A hot but damaged guy! A child!
I lost a whole day to this book, and I wasn't even a little sorry. Also, for my writer friends, this book is a little treatise on how to set up a new series. Good stuff!
Get it at:
Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Google
This one I picked randomly for a day of travel last month. And, wow, where had this been all my life? Kristen Ashley really nails the pain of the couple's prior separation when they were younger. This novel is so well constructed and unputdownable.
Every romance author wants to write a book that people might describe as an "epic romance." Everyone wants to write a big story instead of a small story. But it's hard to do. And this book pulls that off and then some. Bring tissues!
Get it at:
Great writing! Hunky hero. Fun holiday times in England! This is a friends-to-lovers novella, and it's so lovely! It's also only $1.99 at the time of this posting.
Get it at:
December 20, 2021
2021 by the numbers!
the year in reviewIt was a good one!Books published in English: 4 - Roommate, Bombshells, Waylaid, Boyfriend
Books hitting the USA Today bestsellers list: 4
Books published in other languages: Erm…? At least 10 titles? I should know this.
Deals made to publish books in other languages: 31 titles
New covers for old books: 4! Him, Us, Goodbye Paradise, Hello Forever
Publishable words written: something like 300,000. But I don’t track it precisely.
World of True North books published: 47 in 4 series.
Ideas for books that I will never have time to write: 273 (or at least it feels like that many)
Wow! That’s crazy when you stack it all up together. I suppose it’s the coronavirus effect—all that planning I did in 2020 resulted in a nutty 2021. But I’m not sorry!
Thank you readers!None of this is possible without you!
Love,SarinaDecember 6, 2021
Could you please write a book for...?
A: Yes. Well, maybe.But only if I find just the right story.
Maybe I already have the right setup, but main conflict eludes me.
Or maybe I know the conflict, but the other character eludes me.
Or maybe I feel that character deserves a story about [insert theme] but I just finished writing about that theme in another book.
Or maybe that character's story is dark, and I'm not able to put myself in that dark place right now. Every book takes at least three months, and I have to live with those characters and their thoughts.
Or maybe I've lost touch with that character, and I can't see her as clearly as I once did. (As a reader, you might be yelling at the screen. SHE'S RIGHT HEEEEEEERE. I see her!)
Bottom line: if I'm not fired up to spend 90 days trapped in a mental elevator with [insert characters and all their baggage], then trust me when I tell you that you don't want that book from me.
I don't mean to be elusive. I don't try to hold back. But four books a year is my flat-out top speed. I might not be able to write even that many in 2022.
I hope I pick the one you're waiting for. But I might not. That may be disappointing. But I promise I have my reasons.
Love,
Sarina
P.S.: I am not even struggling particularly at this moment. This is just my thought process on any given day.
P.P.S.: And if the book you’re hoping for involves a co-author, just quadruple every challenge, because it’s hard to get those stars to align.
P.P.P.S: I still love you! ❤️
