Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 43

Announcement! The next Ivy Years arrives on 10/13!

It's almost here!

In less than a month The Fifteenth Minute will be live! And I have a teaser for #teasertuesday!

add the book to your goodreads shelf

Exclusive Teaser Excerpt: THE FIFTEENTH MINUTE (Ivy Years #5)

Good news! This weekend I finished the first draft of the next Ivy Years novel. And my friends in The Locker Room on Facebook helped me choose a new "win song" for the Harkness men's Hockey team. So I promised to post a brand new teaser excerpt! So, without further ado, I give you DJ and Lianne.

Cover art coming soon!

FROM CHAPTER ONE

Trevi refills my beer and then pours one for his evil girlfriend. He’s missed the whole exchange because he’s busy arguing with another hockey player about the Winnipeg Jets. 

I’m just about to ask, aren’t the Jets in New York? But then I remember that those Jets are a football team, and save myself the embarrassment. My sports ignorance knows no bounds. I’m bored by their conversation, but I wish I weren’t. It’s nobody’s fault that I grew up among people who bet on the outcome of the Tony Awards instead of the Stanley Cup.

I want to fit in, it’s just that I don’t speak the language.

Even as I’m rounding out this depressing thought, another male body appears in the doorway.

I don’t even have to turn my head to be sure that it’s DJ. I’ve been waiting so long to see him again that I just know. He’s there in the periphery, hands stuck in his jacket pockets, leaning against the door frame talking to one of the players. The muscular set of his shoulders is just how I remember him.

All at once, my pulse quickens and I feel a little dizzy. As if I’d walked out onto the edge of a diving board, and felt it wobble beneath my feet. What on earth will I find to say to him?

The sad truth is that I only sound clever when I’m reading from a script.

For several minutes I sit still, as if enthralled by the complexities of the Jets-who-don’t-play-football. DJ stays where he is, and so do I. There aren’t any seats open near me, though. So if I want to talk to him, I’m going to have to make my own luck.

Rising, I dig a couple of quarters out of my pocket. I don’t head over to DJ, because I’m not that brave. Instead I make a beeline for the jukebox in the corner. I put in my quarters and then I check out the selection. The last time someone updated this puppy looks to be during the 1990s. I hadn’t noticed that the first night I met DJ. Probably because I was drunk. But now it’s a problem, because I need to play something that reflects the girl I wish I was—easygoing, casual, a little bit hip.

Hard to do that when I’m staring down at choices like Madonna’s Vogue (a perfectly good song, but not exactly cutting edge,) or Achy Breaky Heart.

Then my heart kicks into a higher gear, because I feel him approaching. I’m desperate to turn and look, but I make myself pick a song instead. I’m proud to say that I don’t spare him a glance until I’ve tapped in the code for the track of my choice.

Only then do I stand tall and turn to him. And, whoa—my memory hasn’t even done him justice. I’d remembered the thick brown hair and the dimple that’s darkened by his five o’clock shadow. But his eyelashes are darker and more devastating than I remember, and was his mouth always so full and sinful-looking?

And now I’m staring, damn it!

“Hey there,” he says, one elbow on the scarred wooden paneling. “Remember me?”

“DJ, right?” It comes out as a croak. Because I’m cool like that.

God help me—his smile is slow and sexy. “That’s right. I’m surprised you remember, though.”

I clear my throat and try again. “Are you saying that because we only met once? Or because I got senior-prom drunk that night?” I never went to a prom, but I heard another actress say that once and it sounded cute.

He rewards me with an even bigger smile. “You said it, not me.” His eyes drop to the jukebox. “Pick out something good?”

“It wasn’t easy.”

“Right? I love this old thing, though.” He rubs the gleaming surface of the jukebox, and I am suddenly fixated on his wide, masculine hand. I wish I could pick it up and compare the size of it with mine. I want to know if his skin is rough or smooth…

That’s when I notice the abomination coming from the jukebox. An electro-beat that I’d never choose, and some ridiculously high male voices…

“Interesting pick,” DJ says, and the corners of his mouth are twitching.

“Hell!” I bend over the box, peering at the song codes again. “How is this possible? I was trying to play M.C. Hammer’s ‘Can’t Touch This.’”

DJ chuckles. “And instead you got…”

The chorus from the long-forgotten Color Me Badd kicks in, singing “I Wanna Sex You Up!”

Nooooo! Either my subconscious has betrayed me, or the machine is miscoded. It’s probably fruitless, but I have to at least try to distance myself from this error. “You should know that I would never willingly play a song by somebody who can’t spell “‘bad.’”

“Really?” He grins. “Yet you went for some Hammertime. And that dude spells ‘mother’ with a ‘u’ and an ‘a.’”

Shoot me already. “DJ, Your grasp of nineties hits is…”

“Impressive?” His smile is cocky, and I have to restrain myself from reaching up to measure it with my fingertips.

THE FIFTEENTH MINUTE will be published this fall. Cover coming soon! Sign up for the mailing list and hear all the details first.

An Excerpt from Falling From the Sky and The Unconditional Anthology!

10 Full-Length Novels for $0.99

 

I am so excited to be able to be apart of the Unconditional Anthology along side 9 other terrific authors. My contribution to this project is the second novel in my Gravity Series titled Falling From The Sky. All of my proceeds will be donated to the Dana and Christopher Reeve Foundation for the study of spinal cord injuries. Read an excerpt below, fall in love with Hank and Callie, and one click for a great cause.FROM CHAPTER ONEAs Hank’s medical coordinator, Callie was in and out, checking to be sure that the prescriptions his various specialists had ordered were appropriately dosed and would not conflict. She kept tabs on his vitals and watched for signs of infection. She was just one in a sea of faces caring for him.

It wasn’t until the fifth day after his accident that they had a real conversation.

Outside the door to his room, his parents were engaged in a heated conversation with a spinal specialist they’d whisked in from Cleveland. Callie slid past them to find Hank staring out the window. When he turned his head to meet her eyes, she could see that the post-surgical drug haze had lifted. In his gaze, she saw a man awake to the world, but in terrible pain. It was her job to try to figure out if that pain was something physical that she could relieve, or rather the distress of waking up to find he could not move his legs.

“Hi,” Callie said softly. “I’m Doctor Anders. Or Callie, if you wish.”

“Callie,” he cleared his throat. “You look really familiar.”

That wasn’t what she had expected him to say. It would have been as good a time as any to mention that they’d met about ten minutes before his accident, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Who would want to be reminded of that afternoon? “I’ve been here all week,” she said instead. “But we don’t expect you to keep track of the dozens of people who prod you all day.”

“And all night,” he added.

She sat down on a stool next to his bed. “That’s my fault. I need to know that they’re looking at your vitals every three hours. It helps me sleep.” She winked, and was rewarded with half a smile. “Now, quick—before the room is invaded again by nurses’ assistants—how’s your pain? Is there anything you need?”

Hank lifted one hand to his face, and Callie was glad to see it. If his injury had happened farther up his spine, he wouldn’t have been able to do that. With his palm, Hank rubbed several days’ worth of whiskers, which only served to make him look more rugged, while he considered her question. “Let’s see…I need a full rack of Curtis’s ribs, with spicy sauce and a baked potato. And I need to get the hell out of this hospital.”

She nodded obligingly, even though she couldn’t fulfill any of those requests. But if he was talking about food and getting out of here, those were both good signs. “You’ll be transferring to a rehab facility soon.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. His gaze wandered again, his eyes aiming at the window.

“The rehab place will let you sleep through the night,” she said, keeping her voice light. “And you’ll have your own clothes. I hear the food is better, too.”

“Couldn’t really be worse,” he said, turning to face Callie again. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and Callie felt the moment stretch and take hold. He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t have to. Silently, an understanding passed between them. It didn’t matter if the food got better. Hank Lazarus was in for a shitty time, truly the shittiest time of his life. The distance he’d come these past five days was a descent from the highest high to the lowest low. And there wasn’t a damned thing either of them could do about it.

“Hang in there,” Callie whispered. “This right here is the very worst part.”

He didn’t break their staring contest. “You promise?” he rumbled, his voice pure whiskey and smoke.

But Callie didn’t get a chance to answer, because his parents burst into the room then, both talking at the same time. “Forty percent chance that he’ll walk from this guy, fifteen percent from the other?” Hank’s mother bleated. “These people call themselves scientists?”

“Flew him all the way out here, and it’s just more of the same,” his father muttered.

Callie watched Hank’s face close down as his parents approached.

“It’s ridiculous,” his father sputtered, pulling in a deep breath in order to fuel the next phase of his rant. Meanwhile, Hank’s jaw began to tick.

Callie stood up. “I know why you’re frustrated,” she announced, folding her arms. Hank’s parents eyed her, and Callie knew what they saw—a young doctor at a good but rural hospital. And she wasn’t even a specialist. But she had something important to say, and she wasn’t going to let them stop her. “You need answers, and you need them now. I don’t blame you at all.”

Hank’s mother opened her mouth to speak, but Callie cut her off. “Unfortunately, that’s not how the spinal cord works. It doesn’t care that you’re desperate to know whether he’ll walk again. There’s swelling and bruising, and his body is still in shock. It’s not the specialists’ fault that they can’t tell you what you need to know. The sooner you push for answers, the less accurate those answers will be, okay? Hank needs time, and we all need your patience. You won’t have the answers for maybe a year. And no specialist, and no amount of money can change that.”

Callie ceased her tirade to take a deep breath. God, she really shouldn’t have added that last part. Never mention money to rich people. She expected Hank’s parents to start yelling at her. But they didn’t. His mother only began to blink rapidly with saddened eyes. And Hank’s father wrapped his arms around her protectively.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the silence. “If you’ll excuse me.” Callie took a couple of steps toward the door. On her way out, she turned to look once more at Hank. To her surprise, he winked at her.

Callie walked out, and spent the next few hours wondering if she’d receive a reprimand for raising her voice to the Lazarus family. But the call never came.

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The Joy of Writing Happy Endings

This is my first time participating in Read a Romance Month. What a great concept.

Before I wrote romance, I wrote non-fiction for magazines, etc. And while that was excellent training for writing snappy prose on deadline, joy is not the point. In fact, one recent job had me writing only articles about safety. In other words, every article had me preparing the reader for disaster.

It was soul-grinding.

When I finally made the risky decision to stop chasing journalism gigs and write romance full time, it was such a huge relief. Very Bad Things are real in life. And they absolutely happen to many of my fictional characters. But I'm allowed to help them find joy on the final page. Not only is that good for the reader, it's good for me. The exercise of creating joy on the page helps me through the rough spots. It reminds me that joy is always possible.

So, thank you, readers! Each time you pick up one of my books, I get to share that experience with you. And that's amazing to me.

Love,

Sarina

1 - Tell us about a moment in your life when you experienced sheer joy. 

This past week I hit a big bestseller list (USA Today's) for the very first time. Now, this serves no purpose except as a feather in my cap. But it was joyful!

2 - Tell us about a place that brings you joy, or is attached to a memory of joy.

We eat dinner as a family together every night around our somewhat battered dining table in front of a row of windows. I love that spot. 

3 - Tell us about a sound that brings you joy.

At night we hear bard owls hooting outside our window. The sound reminds me of the wild place we live. I love that.

4 - What recent book have you read that brought you joy. (Or a book you read in your life that brought you so much joy you’ve never forgotten it.) Why?

84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff is not a true romance. It's a collection of letters between two friends during wartime-a bookseller and his customer. It is adorable, and everyone should read it. And who knew books were once so difficult to attain? :)

5 - Finally, a random joy.

A well made latte. Naturally.

Thank you readers! And thank you Mary Jo Putney and Huntley Fitzpatrick for recommending me to Read A Romance Month!

OMG! HIM is a USA Today Bestseller!

Thank you, readers! I am so pumped up to announce that HIM, co-written with Elle Kennedy, has just made the USA Today Bestsellers list! We are thrilled. It's quite rare for a standalone M/M novel to make the list. We couldn't be more excited. 

Thank you!

A teaser excerpt from THE FIFTEENTH MINUTE

Hi readers! I'm hard at work on Lianne's book, (Ivy Years #5). And Lianne is a hoot! Can't stop laughing. Lianne has a way of ending up in embarrassing situations. She just can't help herself.

Anywho, I thought you'd enjoy this moment with Lianne and Bella... 

Sarina

EXCERPT: THE FIFTEENTH MINUTE by Sarina Bowen

I lean out of bed just far enough to grab the FedEx envelope that arrived yesterday afternoon. When I tear it open, a fat script tumbles onto the quilt.

Nightfall. Screenplay by Roland Sebring. Based on the novel by Helen Botts.

I wondered what Helen Botts will think about Princess Vindi showing some skin. If the scene they've written is truly awful, I could appeal to her. I’ve met Helen Botts, and she’s a lovely silver-haired librarian type, who now drives a Bentley. I suppose if Helen Botts doesn’t like the movie, she can weep into her royalty statement.

Let the skimming commence. They’ve opened the film at the castle gates. Lucifer has found a way to appear like a storm cloud over the city, terrifying the children.

Yada yada yada.

Princess Vindi’s first line is on page eleven. “I am not interested in your excuses, Lord Shelter. The time for excuses has passed.”

Sigh. It could be worse. In fact, I’m sure it gets worse. I keep flipping.

The sex scene is on page 132.

They grope, caress, moan and fondle. Vindi’s robe slides off her velvet breast. Valdor ducks his head to catch the pink teat carefully in his fangs. The camera pans downward to reveal clothing falling to the floor. With a heated rush of sexual urgency, Vindi mounts Valdor. The soundtrack rises with the keening writhings of intercourse. Valdor’s shouts are increasingly loud. The camera pans Vindi’s milky white, heaving bosom as she screams in consummation. Cut to Vindi’s shuddering face. Valdor moans deliciously, pulling Vindi softly into his embrace.

I let out a shriek.

A few seconds later Bella comes tearing through the door, mouth gaping. Her eyes skate around the room until she finds me in my bed. “What is it? A spider?” She’s wearing a Harkness Soccer T-shirt and her bathrobe.

I fall back onto my pillow. “There’s no spider, Bella. I wish that was the problem.”

“What is it then?

Words can’t do the problem justice, so I just hand the script over. Her eyes scan the page, and I know exactly when she’s found the object of my horror. Because she bursts out laughing.

“Stop,” I whine. “It wouldn’t be funny if it was you.”

“Oh, honey,” she giggles. “I’m sorry. Do you really have a velvet breast?”

I throw my stuffed bear at her. “You mock my pain. I can’t shoot a sex scene. And I really can’t shoot a sex scene with Kevin Mung.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Why doesn’t that boy take a screen name? He’s pretty to look at. But I always think of mung beans.”

“Stay on topic.” I grab the script from Bella. “This is ten times worse than I thought it could be.” I feel sick just imagining a roomful of leering cameramen, and me with no clothes.

And Kevin. Shoot me.

“Let’s break down the problem.” Bella sits on the bed. “Is it the boob shot? Is it the scream upon consummation? Is it the mounting? Is it the awful, awful writing?”

“It’s… all of the above!"

The Fifteenth Minute will be published this fall.

Have you heard about HIM?

Pre-Order Him

Co-written by Elle Kennedy and Sarina Bowen, HIM is a sporty M/M romance.

COMING THIS SUMMERFROM SARINA BOWEN & ELLE KENNEDY

They don’t play for the same team. Or do they?

Jamie Canning has never been able to figure out how he lost his closest friend. Four years ago, his tattooed, wise-cracking, rule-breaking roommate cut him off without an explanation. So what if things got a little weird on the last night of hockey camp the summer they were eighteen? It was just a little drunken foolishness. Nobody died.

Ryan Wesley’s biggest regret is coaxing his very straight friend into a bet that pushed the boundaries of their relationship. Now, with their college teams set to face off at the national championship, he’ll finally get a chance to apologize. But all it takes is one look at his longtime crush, and the ache is stronger than ever.

Jamie has waited a long time for answers, but walks away with only more questions—can one night of sex ruin a friendship? If not, how about six more weeks of it? When Wesley turns up to coach alongside Jamie for one more hot summer at camp, Jamie has a few things to discover about his old friend...and a big one to learn about himself.

Warning: contains sexual situations, skinnydipping, shenanigans in an SUV and proof that coming out to your family on social media is a dicey proposition.

“HIM is everything I didn’t realize I was missing on my bookshelf. I’m not much of an m/m reader but I couldn’t help but fall in love. Must read this summer!”

— Jane Litte, Dear Author

“Smoking hot and super sweet, I started reading at 10pm and read until dawn. I love these guys!”

— Amy Jo Cousins, author of Off Campus

Writing a Novel is Like Frosting a Cake

If you get stuck on a hard part, just work on something easy for a little while until you feel confident again.

I've written before that I'm not much of a baker. But I always make my kids' birthday cakes from scratch. They taste fabulous, but no one will ever confuse them with a bakery masterpiece. When we lived in NYC, I once took my kid to a 5yo's birthday party where the cake was a perfect replica of Darth Vader's head. The bakery must have used about seven pounds of fondant to make sure that this thing would never be mistaken for a cake.

But I digress.

Last week my first born turned twelve, and I made him a homemade chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. And I realized that frosting a cake is a lot like writing a novel. It's not easy. You have a vision in your mind of absolute perfection. But pretty soon you're elbows deep in icing. And that icing has whipped up a little stiffer than you meant it to, so spreading it around isn't easy.

That's when panic may set in.

The only solution is to take your time. Stressed out? Just work on an easy bit for a few minutes--the top. And when that's going well, you take a whack at those tricky corners. The trick is to just keep plodding. Sure, you're adjusting your expectations. Perfection was never on the table anyway. Even the Darth-Vader's-Head bakery must have a few disasters.

Because every cake is better with frogs.

But this will not be your disaster. Not today. Even if it doesn't look like a $200 masterpiece, you're about to produce something that's utterly recognizable as a cake. Because you've done this before. It's difficult every time, but once you accept that, you'll be fine.

And when you're done? A pack of hungry 12-year-olds is going to scarf it down. That unevenness on one edge? History. You win. And the glow of victory will last at least until it's time to whip up another one.

Ivy Years #5 Has a Title!

The Fifteenth Minute will come out this fall! You can read the book's description at http://sarinabowen.com/lianne

Have You Been to The Locker Room?

These days I can be found hanging out with the authors of other sports romance in: The Locker Room! Join us for sporty fun, giveaways and news. There's also a newsletter! Come check us out!