Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 24

Audio Alert: Gravity Box Set!

Get the entire Gravity Collection on audio for only $9.99!

Right now you can purchase my complete Gravity series for only $9.99 at Author’s Direct. That’s 21 hours and 38 minutes of complete and unabridged audio! Check it out:

COMING IN FROM THE COLD

Performed by Joe Arden & Maxine Mitchell

FALLING FROM THE SKY

Performed by Tanya Eby & Aiden Snow

SHOOTING FOR THE STARS

Performed by Noel Harrison & Emma Wilder

Get it now at Author’s Direct

Other fun Audio news:

Filthy is now available at multiple retailers! Make sure you check out this Audio-only anthology of love letters from some of your favorite leading men to their loves!

Apple | Audible | Author’s Direct

My latest audio release was Man Cuffed, performed by Tor Thom & Robin Eller! Make sure you check fun rom-com out!

 

Audible | Amazon | iTunes  

More Wesmie. This is not a drill.

I have been waiting to share this amazing news!

There is a Him/Us novella, and you can read it for free in the Christmas in the City anthology!

At Amazon | Apple | Nook | Kobo | Google

Questions and Answers

Q: Is this the only place the novella will appear?

A: Nope! It will come out as an ebook in the spring.

Q: Paperback?

A: Yes! Date TBD. But it’s totally happening.

Q: Audio?

A: Yes! (I know!) This is a work in progress and we will not have a publication date for a while. And yes we think it will be the same narrators but you are just going to have to wait along with the rest of us.

New Releases: Week of November 24th!

How is it almost the end of the month?! On a lighternote there’s Thanksgiving this week - so if you’re looking for an excuse to avoid your family - check out these news releases!

Man Cuffed Release: Thank You!

“Sexy and so much fun” – Escapist Book Blog 























Man Cuffed is here!

It’s been an incredible release week so far, and I wanted to say thank you to all the readers, but especially the bloggers and reviewers - you guys help get the word out, and help give people an idea if this is the sort of book they’re like to read. It also gives the book better visibility, meaning more people are likely to discover it and that’s huge. So thank you ❤️

Haven’t read Man Cuffed yet? Discover it here: Audio | Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Paperback or read the first chapter

Mac
A good cop can always spot trouble. That’s why my senses started pinging the moment I met the hottie next door. The neighborhood may never be the same. First she confuses me for a male stripper and tries to remove my uniform. (The guys on the force will never let me live that down.) And then there’s the breaking and entering.
I don’t know what to do with her. My libido has a few ideas of its own, though. Bad, bad ideas.

Meg
Hey, I it’s not my fault that Hot Cop’s nightstick gets excited every time we see each other. And I can’t help that someone broke into his apartment.
Fine—that last thing was totally my fault. And I intend to make amends. So when he needs a date for his sister’s wedding, I’m there. This is right up my alley. I’m an actor. By the time it’s over, his entire family will believe we’re a couple.
Even him.

Warning: may cause unrestrained giggling in public. Contains: a bridezilla with a turkey leg, a flash mob, and a growly hero.

Audio | Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Paperback

And don’t forget - right now you can get BOY TOY for only $0.99!!

Amazon | Apple Books | Nook | Kobo | Google

New Releases: Week of November 17th

There are SO MANY great releases this week, I’m not even sure where to begin! Hope you warmed up your one-click finger - it’s go time!

 

First Chapter: Man Cuffed

Renaissance Strippers

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”

Ernest Hemingway

Meg

My long skirts swish around my legs as I stride toward the king’s throne, a bottle of wine in one hand, a silver chalice in the other.

I’ve wanted to be an actor since I was four years old. I love shiny lights, passion, and costumes. So you’d think that the Renaissance era wench’s costume I’m wearing—with my boobs hiked up to my chin—might possibly be a highlight of my career.

But no. I’m not dressed like this to meet a knight, or wrestle dragons. This isn’t a low-budget Outlander knockoff. This is my day job. I’m a serving wench at Ye Olde Tavern.

Five nights a week, I lace the tight bodice up over my puffy-sleeved blouse and sell tankards of beer. Some days it’s fun. When I’m in the right mood to play the bar wench, I bring out my Enlish accent. Or Scottish when I’m feeling extra feisty.

Tonight, though, it’s just a chore.

My thirtieth birthday has just come and gone, and I’m still waiting for my big break. Acting is a hard profession, and I’ll admit that I’m a little depressed. My agent called today to let me know that I was passed up for another role.

At least this job pays well. Ye Olde Paycheck has bought me some time to figure out what I’m going to do with the next act of my life. I’m in the midst of a wicked midlife crisis. Pre-midlife crisis? Let’s just say, a crisis. And it doesn’t help that my sister suddenly has her entire life figured out. She’s married to a knight in shining armor. Am I jealous?

Hell, yes.

I’m also a little sick of rejection. I’ve been this close to landing role after role for a decade now. I’m starting to take that shit personally. And that’s no way to approach a career that you love.

“Wench!” calls an aggravated voice from the private room.

I’m a little sick of that, too. Ye Olde Tavern is particularly rowdy tonight. And not the good kind of rowdy. It’s the bad kind, where the kitchen is slow, the bartenders are in the weeds, and chaos reigns freely. There’s a bachelorette party going on in the private room, where a dozen young women are getting drunk and crabby in equal measure.

I grab some Ye Olde Pretzel snacks and a couple more pitchers of beer. Then I gird my loins and head back there.

The bride-to-be is your basic definition of a bridezilla. I can easily picture her stomping on all the tiny townspeople around her. She zeroes in on me right away. Here we go. Smile, Meg. You’re an actress. Pretend you give a shit.

“This is a disaster,” she sneers, getting up close and personal. I set the beer and pretzels on a table and prepare to take whatever she’s about to throw at me. I’m hoping it’s not a punch. “We’re starving and we’re supposed to have turkey legs and all we’ve got is pretzels and bar cheese and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have that in the Renaissance. And my strippers are late!”

It’s time to whip out the British accent.

“Oh! Don’t play the daft cow! Pretzels pre-date Christianity,” I say with a giant smile, so she won’t realize I just insulted her. “And I know those skivers will turn up before you know it!”

The truth is that the strippers are usually late. They like to get baked before they turn up with their old-fashioned boom box and cheap costumes.

A half hour from now, Bridezilla won’t care, though. All will be forgiven as soon as they rip those costumes off and gyrate their backsides.

Also? I’m pretty sure they didn’t have male strippers in the Renaissance. Not that I’m going to point that out.

“There’s an event at the arena,” I point out. “Your gents are likely stuck in traffic. And your turkey legs have just arrived.” Thank goodness. My coworker has just entered the room with the platter. He’s quickly swarmed by the bride’s drunk and starving girlfriends. Legs are grabbed, and elbows are thrown. It’s Ye Olde Feeding Frenzy.

As I watch one of the women rip into a turkey leg, I have a brief flashback to working as an extra on a popular zombie TV show. I was a highlighted extra. And I can still taste the intestines.

“Finally,” Bridezilla growls. “You ought to at least comp those legs for me.”

“I’ll give you a free dessert,” I counter, sans accent this time. “And the bar cheese.”

She glares at me. Her green eyes hot and angry. I have the sudden impulse to wrestle her to the ground, pin her arms behind her back, and make her cry for mercy. This costume is starting to affect my personality. And I’ve always been impulsive.

But that has to end. I’m the new thirtyish Meg. The responsible Meg. The younger me would’ve tackled this bitch already.

Thankfully, the beaded curtains part again, and three guys in cop uniforms step into the back room.

Hooray! I’m saved by the strippers.

And I must say they’re looking fine tonight. Holy shit. Rent a Gent has hired some new talent. These cops...they’re fucking hot. Especially the one in the middle. His blue shirt can barely contain his muscles, which I’m pretty sure are rippling. They’re either rippling or the collective lady-sighs are causing a warm breeze to drift over him. He’s got sandy hair, cool gray eyes, a strong jaw and shoulders that I could sit on.

I’m not the only one who notices, either. Moments ago the room was a cacophony of drunken screams and turkey gnoshing, but a startled silence claims the room. The air is suddenly heavy with anticipation.

Except for one big problem. The hottest stripper I’ve ever seen is apparently new at this gig. The newbies forgot their boom box. There’s not a bad 80s rap song in sight.

But it’s all right. I got this. There’s something to be said for improv training.

I make a beeline for the sound system and crank it up, then head over to the hunk of man and his two buddies. Clearly, Mr. Square Jaw is in charge. Alpha just rolls off him in waves.

Leaning in close, I say, “You’re a little buttoned up for tonight, aren’t you?” Then I undo the top button of his shirt. I feel something hard against my leg. Hard enough to turn me on. But then I realize he’s got a walkie talkie radio strapped to his hip.

I wonder what else he’s packing.

“Can you guys dance to this?” I ask, demonstrating with a bump of my hips. Although they don’t really need to dance. They just need to take their clothes off. Right now, preferably. “The woman in the white spandex unitard is the bride-to-be,” I add.

His jaw clenches. Gosh, he is the strong and silent type, isn’t he? But he just isn’t moving. Neither are his buddies.

This is going to get awkward fast if they don’t find their groove. So I decide to show them how it’s done. “All right ladies! Are you ready to get hot?” I scream.

“Yeah!” they scream back.

“Are you ready to get wet?” I call to them.

“Yeah!” they say.

“Who here is a bad girl?”

They all raise their hands. It’s a fucking frenzy of estrogen. Someone in the back actually passes out.

“Then check out these hard bodies!” I reach up to rip off Mr. Square Jaw’s pants. They’re velcroed up the sides, so they should come off really easy.

Only they don’t. So I give another tug.

Huh. That’s weird.

And that belt he’s wearing? It looks awfully heavy. That must be the problem. I start to reach for the belt to undo it, and a realization starts to creep over me.

This uniform is not a costume.

This dude is not a stripper.

This dude is an actual cop.

And I’m about to be arrested.

* * *

Luckily, I avoid arrest. I’m saved by two things. The first is the immediate arrival of the real strippers, striding in with “Baby Got Back” blaring and their sequined cop-pants sparkling under the disco lights of Ye Olde (Not Authentic At All) Tavern.

The second is the debilitating laughter of the other two real cops, doubled over, struggling for breath. “Maguire? A stripper?” one of them gasps as if it’s the funniest thing on the planet.

I realize my hand is still resting on his belt buckle. Oh, if only…

“Knock it off,” Maguire snips. “I’m not a stripper. No.” Then he does something I’m not expecting. He leans close to my ear and whispers, “At least, not for hire. Only when I volunteer.”

And now I’m frozen, in what I’m pretty sure is a spotlight, that declaration reverberating through my body.

That’s when Officer Maguire and his buddies move into cop action. “All right! Everybody out! There’s a main gasline break down the block, and we need to clear the premises!”

Bridezilla, who’s sitting in a chair, one turkey leg in each fist, surrounded by four gyrating sets of, uhm, junk, suddenly looks crazed. “I’m not leaving until this lap dance is done! I’m getting married and I earned a lap dance! And I demand that I get these turkey legs for FREE!”

That’s when my patience for her finally dies. Did she not hear that our lives are in danger? I’m about to pounce on the bitch with: “I’ll give you a free turkey leg and put it right up your…”

When Maguire squats down next to her and lifts her chair right into the air. Then he heads for the exit.

Once again I’m not the only one who notices how incredibly impressive this guy is. There’s a frenzy of iPhone camera activity punctuated by the heavy breathing of drunk women swooning over a very sexy cop. Maguire’s muscles pop and strain as he strides outside carrying Bridezilla as if she weighed nothing more than a turkey leg.

I hate Bridezilla.

I want to be his turkey leg.

These are my thoughts as I find myself standing alone in a room that was crowded only moments earlier. I’m still frozen in place, a little breathless from that show of pure manliness, and possibly experiencing an adrenaline crash from my close call with being thrown into the hoosegow for molesting a police officer.

A deep, burly voice shakes me awake. “Hey, serving wench.”

My head swings toward the doorway, where Maguire is standing. “I don’t like being addressed that way,” I hear myself say. But it comes out breathy and weird.

“Then maybe you should put something different on your name tag.”

“Well, sure. If you want to be technical about it.” My hand covers the nametag in question. Moving home to Michigan was supposed to help me become a grown-up. Only I don’t feel like one right this second.

“Come on,” he says in that gravelly voice. “It’s not safe here. You gotta vacate the premises too.”

This probably means the Tavern will clock me out early, those bastards. But hearing the news from Maguire’s sexy lips, in that deep voice of his, makes me feel like it’s almost worth it.

I follow him outside. No wonder I thought he was an entertainer. Ordinary people don’t have muscular asses and long legs like those. I’d be willing to follow him anywhere at this point.

But this is real life, and not a movie set.

So it’s another six months before I see him again.

There’s an important thing I’ve learned through my years of acting. Comedy or drama, it doesn’t really matter...but the impact of a line depends on the perfect timing of delivery.

My timing with men is already terrible.

My timing with Maguire will prove to be even worse.

Get Man Cuffed at: Amazon | Apple | Nook | Kobo 

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For the first time ever you can find my Hello / Goodbye series, as well as the HIM series & Top Secret (co-written with Elle Kennedy) in Kindle Unlimited for 90 days**! Even better: most of these titles are even available for a $1.99 Whispersync deal! Want to check these books out? Keep scrolling!

HIM & US by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

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And the whispersync audio upgrades are just $1.99!

First Chapter: Boy Toy

Get your copy at: Amazon | iBooks | Nook | KoboChapter OneSadie

“No,” Kate says when I hold up the tiny jeans. “No pants. No.”

Of course she refuses them. She’s two. Two-year-olds are made of No. But I have to be at work in forty minutes, it’s a fifteen-minute drive, and I need some time built into the schedule for me to have a complete and total breakdown.

Today will be the girls’ first time at daycare, even though I swore this day would never come. I didn’t want my girls to be marched out of their own home every morning like tiny nine-to-fivers. I wanted them to enjoy the comforts of home through those formative early years, so I could control their environment. You know, for optimal brain development and health.

Yet here we are. Daycare. If motherhood has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is truly in my control.

And it’s all because this family has had a spot of trouble with nannies. When I say a “spot of trouble” I’m underplaying things just a little bit. The first nanny decided that boinking my ex-husband was a good idea. And yes, I know the nanny and Decker were equally culpable.

But that was only the beginning of the Great Nanny Hell Spiral. Nannies number two, three, and four quit within weeks. They were poached by other playgroup mothers who didn’t have twins. And nanny number five lasted four months, until I realized she’d been stealing from me the entire time.

The fates have decided that employing nannies was not for me. After I discovered three grand in unauthorized credit card charges, daycare suddenly sounded like a reasonable option, and my kiddos’ developing personalities might even benefit from more social interaction.

Kate’s pants are now the only obstacle to this new plan.

I take a deep breath and pray for patience. Then I let it out again. I am a trained therapist. An expert in psychology. Insight into the human mind is my specialty. Yet my years of education are no match for negotiating with my toddlers. “You can’t go to school without pants on,” I point out. “It’s a rule.”

“No pants,” she repeats, just in case I didn’t get it the first time. “No no no.”

“Fine,” I lie. “Leggings instead. Gotcha.” I open up her dresser drawer and grab a pair of purple leggings. They’ll look ridiculous with her green T-shirt, but it’s better than a meltdown.

Anything is better than a meltdown. My meltdown this time, not hers.

She regards the leggings with round-cheeked suspicion.

“Please put these on,” I whisper. “We can’t have waffles until they’re on.” I hate bribing my child with food, but there’s no denying its effectiveness. Faster than you can say organic maple syrup she toddles over and offers a chubby little leg for the cladding.

“Well done!” I say with false cheer. Scooping her into the leggings and then onto my hip, I lift both of us off the floor and look around for her sister. Amy is sitting beside the baby gate, waiting for us, ever-present pacifier in her mouth and Piggypoo clutched in her chubby hand.

She’s my cooperative child. And I tremble at the thought of trying to leave her to the chaos of daycare.

* * *

Twenty minutes later I walk them both through the door at Small Packages daycare. I’m carrying a duffel bag full of extra clothes, nut-free food, and comforting items from home. The most comforting item, in my opinion, is the lengthy instructional letter I’ve included. I’ve written a long list of descriptions of the twins’ varying emotional reactions, complete with solutions. They’ll need the pacifier and Piggypoo to soothe Amy. And there’s a football helmet to ensure Kate doesn’t hurt herself too badly when tackling things. I’ve jotted down the songs they like and a list of foods that will send them into a tailspin.

Next week I’ll drop off some suggested reading on childcare development. I don’t want to come off too strong on day one.

Even though I’ve been preparing for this moment, my heart rate is still about twice the healthy limit. Because I know when I walk out of here Amy will lose her mind. And even Kate will take a break from trying to run the world and hate me for leaving her.

I turn my critical eye onto the ponytailed girl behind the reception desk. She looks about sixteen years old. And she’s in charge of checking kids in and out? Seriously? What do these people know about security?

My stomach dives for the tenth time today. No moment in parenting has ever made me feel guiltier. Not even when I fell down the stairs carrying Kate. (She was fine, but it was close!) And not even when my girls ask, “Where Daddy go?” and I have no answer to give them.

At least that’s his fault, not mine.

But today is all on me. This feels like dropping the girls off at the county jail. What if Amy misplaces Piggypoo or needs a drink of water? Will someone bring her one? I won’t see them for nine hours. Nine. Entire civilizations have fallen in less time than that.

“Good morning! Welcome to Small Packages! You must be Sadie! And Kate and Amy!”

I blink at Miss Ponytail, surprised that she got that right. “We are. Yes. First day. Here we go!” My words are the equivalent of machine gun speech—nervous and rapid-fire.

“Here is your welcome packet, complete with webcam access.” She pushes a shiny folder across the desk at me. “Step right over to the ladybug room! He’s waiting for you.”

Kate takes off running toward the door with the ladybugs crawling all over it. But Amy wraps her arms around my knee. “No school,” she says softly. “Home now.”

Oh boy. I feel my throat beginning to double in size. Here comes the tearful departure. I know a woman whose daughter cried at the daycare door every day for three years. This could be bad. My daughter is going to end up in therapy because I leave her every day to give therapy to others.

Where is the logic in that?

I scoop Amy off the floor and nuzzle her silky cheek. “They have toys in there,” I whisper. “If you don’t try out school, you won’t get to see the toys. Hey, I see a really great rocking horse in the corner.” It’s the plush kind with a silky mane.

Even so, pointing it out makes me the worst kind of traitor. Amy is my sensitive one. My parents call her an Indigo Child, but I don’t like to influence her with their new-agey wisdom. It is true that Amy only wants her mother, which I’m both proud and guilty about. I mean, here I’m trying to sell her down the river for a fake pony ride. When she gets off that horse five minutes from now, her mommy will be gone.

It’s suddenly very hard to swallow.

I try to loosen Amy’s death grip around my neck.

These miserable thoughts are interrupted by a very jolly, very male voice. “Sadie Mathews?”

I look up to see a startlingly gorgeous man seated just inside the ladybug doorway. He’s young—in his twenties, probably—with tanned skin and wavy brown hair. He has smooth, very muscular arms. They bulge. His biceps are straining the sleeves of the polo shirt he’s wearing. They’re fascinating. I didn’t know that muscles could ripple like that.

He clears his throat.

Giving myself a mental slap, I straighten my spine and get back to the program at hand. It’s time to betray my children and make a quick exit.

But then I meet Mr. Biceps’ gaze, and find something in it that’s a bit familiar. I can’t put my finger on why, though.

“Wow, Sadie!” His smile is so wide that the tickle of familiarity intensifies. “It’s been too long! And are these your daughters?”

“Y-yes?” I stammer. Who is this guy? I’ve seen those warm, blue eyes before. I think. But the rest of him isn’t familiar at all. There’s no way I could know a man this attractive and not remember him.

I may be divorced, but I’m not dead.

“Hi,” I try, giving him a big, familiar handshake and a smile. “How are you?”

His eyes narrow. Then he stands up, covering his heart with one broad palm. “I’m trying really hard here not to be crushed that you don’t remember me. But it’s more than a little heartbreaking. I’m Liam McAllister. I know it’s been a while, but…”

“Oh my God, Liam!” My poor, stressed-out little brain tries to make sense of all the contrary information. “But… You’re six feet tall!” The last time I saw Liam McAllister we were the same height. Also, he was a pimply fourteen-year-old.

“I’m actually 6-3!” He beams, and then I recognize those dimples. Liam was always such a sweet little boy. But, Lordy. I’m experiencing a moment of cognitive dissonance trying to reconcile the Liam I used to babysit with this hunk of man.

“Seriously, I need a ladder just to shake your hand. What are they feeding you?”

“Aw!” He leans forward and literally picks me—and therefore Amy, too—off the ground for a quick hug. As if we weigh nothing. “It’s awfully good to see you. You look exactly the same.”

“Nice try,” I mutter under my breath, because I know that’s a lie. Since my divorce, when I look in the mirror, I see a stressed-out, unattractive woman. And just so you don’t think it’s all in my head, my ex made sure to tell me that he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. And that it was my fault he strayed.

“And, wow. Your daughters! Twins! I don’t think the world can really handle two beautiful Sadie clones. I’m surprised there isn’t, like, a disruption in the magnetic field at the poles.” He sits down again. “What is your name, miss?” Liam addresses this question to Kate. He’s taken her hand in his, and it’s the only thing preventing her from tearing into the room to start rooting through the toys.

“Kate,” she chirps.

“I’m Liam. You look like you want to hit that dress-up box, right?”

She nods like a thoroughbred in the starting gates at the Kentucky Derby.

“Have at it then.” He releases her, and I grab ahold of her green shirt before she can pounce.

“Hat!” I say. Kate grabs the little football helmet from the duffel bag, shoves it on her head, and charges, where I know she’s going to literally hit that dress-up box head-on.

“Sensory issues?” he asks, but it’s soft and not judgey.

“We’re navigating it,” I respond, a little startled that he seems to get it.

“No worries. The dress-up box is cardboard. She’ll be just fine. We also have a climbing wall outside on the play structure.”

I try to nod, but it’s hard to do with a two-year-old boa-constrictored around your neck.

Liam drops his voice to a softer timbre. “You must be Amy.”

She stares at him. At the bulging muscles, maybe, or perhaps that’s just me. Slowly I lower her to the floor, and she doesn’t complain. She’s sucking on that pacifier so vigorously that I’m relieved not to be breastfeeding anymore. She tips her head to the side, as if considering whether Liam-Who-Grew-Into-a-Hunk will be her new bestie.

Liam makes a beckoning motion to me, and for a split second I think he’s asking me to sit in his lap. I’m giving the invitation some serious consideration when I realize that he means for me to pass the duffel bag to him.

I hand it over.

“Amy, listen,” he says, never taking his kind eyes off hers. “There is a train set with enough track to go all the way around the snack table.” He gives her a meaningful nod. “I was thinking of setting it up, but I’m gonna need some help. Are you in?”

My daughter pops her pacifier out, says “Piggypoo?” and then plunks the pacifier back in. I’m just about to explain when Liam sets the duffel bag down and rescues Piggypoo from its dark depths. He holds it out to her and she gives him a solemn nod. She takes it from him and nestles it securely under her armpit.

He holds out a hand slowly, palm up, the way you’d gain the trust of a dog.

She puts her little hand in the center of his.

“All right. We’d better get to work, then.”

I’m mesmerized as Amy takes a few steps closer. She’s standing right against his knee, looking up at him admiringly.

Liam glances at me. Go, he mouths.

I turn on my heel and beat it out of there.

Get Boy Toy at: Amazon | iBooks | Nook | Kobo

New Releases: Week of November 10th

There’s a full moon today - better stay in and read… for safety reasons of course

New Releases: Week of November 3rd

I can’t believe it’s November already! Check out some of this month’s new releases!