Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 5
July 15, 2024
Announcing the Special Edition of Brooklynaire by Sarina Bowen
With the help of designer Christine Coffey and artist Shana Yasmin, I am producing a kickass hardcover, jacketed, special edition of Brooklynaire, with two brand new bonus scenes inside.
Why yes, this is a tease. On the finished edition, the painting is hiding beneath the dust jacket. So I’ve hidden it here, too. :)
It’s just beautiful. I can’t wait to hold it in my hands in late August or early September!
The jacket is dark blue with light blue and foiled silver detailing.
Under that jacket is an illustration of Nate and Becca on the hardcover itself. It’s a digital painting (drawn by a human, not robots!) rendered in a matte finish.
The jacket flaps have quotes from the book on them!
Dark blue endpapers. It’s so pretty!
Facts about the edition:Q: Can I buy it at events?
A: Yes! we are scrambling to get our Philly and Seattle preorders online.
Q: Will you sell it in your online store? What about other stores?
A: The edition will appear in my online store this fall. We aren’t sure about international shipping yet. I can’t sell it on Amazon or other vendors in this format, though, because they don’t do the silver foil. So this is a truly special edition that will only come from me.
Q: What is the bonus material?
A: There are two brand new scenes, mostly comedic. There is some other bonus material as well that has appeared as ebook bonuses previously, including a love letter and also Becca’s handy list of favorite palindromes.
Q: Is the art NSFW?
A: No. The text has many spicy scenes, but the art is not NSFW.
Q: Where are these made?
A: Printed in Michigan USA
June 14, 2024
First Chapter: Golden Touch
LiviaEvery morning when I wake up, the first thing I do is listen for trouble. It’s a lifelong habit, and today is no different. But all I hear this morning is birdsong. Lots of it. It sounds like a nearby blue jay and a chickadee have an ongoing disagreement.
Sitting up, I have to squint against the sunlight streaming through the windows. When I’d moved into this weird little apartment—carved out of the old pumphouse behind the Giltmaker Brewery—there’d been a set of faded curtains hanging from the windows. They were so tattered that I’d taken them down and hidden them in an upstairs closet.
Often, because I spend so much time alone, I mentally redecorate this place. New curtains. A cute paint job. A shower upgrade. A couch that isn’t lumpy.
But this place isn’t mine to redecorate. I’m only borrowing it. Lyle Giltmaker—the brewery owner—lets me live here for free. He’s not a generous man in my experience, but he likes the idea that I’m always early for work.
The downside: I don’t have a lease or any kind of job security. He could fire me and evict me in the same breath if he decided to. Still, it’s the best deal in town, and I’m determined to practice gratitude. This has been a stressful year, and it’s not every day that you find a job where the owner doesn’t ask too many questions, and also pays you in cash.
Lyle’s a world-class grump, but nobody’s perfect.
So I’m counting my blessings as I head for the tiny bathroom, pull back the rust-stained shower curtain, and crank the faucet. And I continue to count them, even though I’m not a morning person, and seven thirty feels stupidly early, and the water doesn’t stay hot for long.
Less than twenty minutes later, I’ve got my makeup done, my heels on, and I’m ready to make the short walk to the brewery’s office.
On my way out, I grab my phone from the charger in the kitchen and take a look at my notifications. And what I see there makes me pull up short—seven missed calls and a flurry of texts from my cousin. All of them from late last night.
Oh no. Even before I read her first text, I know it’s going to be bad.
Jennie:
Where are you?
Hell of a time for your stupid phone to die!!! There’s some asshole pounding on my front door and yelling for you.
Call me when you get this. Any hour. He’s gone now because my crone of a neighbor threatened to call the cops. But we have to talk. I’ve never seen this guy before, but he’s bad news.
There’s more, but I don’t read it, because I’m already calling her back.
“Hey,” Jennie answers sleepily. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. But, God, I’m so sorry—”
“It’s not your fault, babe. But I’m scared.”
“I bet!”
“No, I’m scared for you, bitch. He was asking for you. And then he said…” She takes a breath. “‘Tell that whore that somebody saw you two at the Busy Bean last week. Now I know which county she’s in. Tell her that Razor hired me to find her, and I’m really good at my job.’”
I can’t hold back my gasp. “Oh no.”
“Yeah,” Jennie says hoarsely. “I told him through the door that you refuse to tell me where you’re living. And he was wasting his time bothering me.”
“Did he believe you?”
“Probably. Yeah. But he made himself a nuisance anyway. Just to see what I’d do. So you have got to be really careful, okay? This man was a scary dude. I got a look at him through the peephole.”
“What did he look like?”
“Like he could snap us in half. Big shoulders. Muscular. Lots of ink. Brown hair, dark eyes.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “Honestly, he was exactly your type.”
I bristle with resentment, probably because it’s true. All the men I’ve dated look just like that. And it always ends badly. “New rule—no men, unless they weigh ninety pounds or less.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You like ’em big and rough.”
This is unfortunately true.
“The worst part, babe?” she adds. “This means we can’t hang out for a while.”
“Oh shit.” My heart dives, but she’s right. We’ll have to steer clear of each other, even though our rare meetups at bookstores and coffeeshops are the only thing keeping me sane. “He’ll try to follow you.”
“Maybe you need to get out of Vermont for a while. It’s a small state.”
“Maybe,” I echo. But this is my home, damn it. And disappearing on a tight budget is not as easy as she makes it sound. “I’ll think about it. Help me spot this guy—what was he riding?”
“Couldn’t see the bike. Only heard the growl.”
Damn. “Any other distinguishing characteristics?”
“I’ll try to remember. But babe? I gotta get Henry to school.”
“Go,” I say immediately. “We’ll talk later.”
“Watch your back. Chin up.”
“Love you! Don’t worry! I’m fine.”
We hang up, but I’m not actually fine. I’m freaked. My pulse is ragged. My hands are sweaty.
Razor strikes again. I was such a fool to get involved with him. And then I was an even bigger fool to think that leaving town would make him forget about me. I’ve been hiding in Colebury for ten months, and he hasn’t given up. Instead, he’s hired a guy to intimidate Jennie and try to find me.
My hands shake as I stash my phone in my pocket. This is exactly what I’ve been worried about. God. I’ll never be free of him.
I’m extra cautious as I open the door and scan the back lot and the big brick brewery building. It’s quiet, though. No cars except for my own. No sounds except the chattering birds.
I lock the door to my little apartment. It’s just a doorknob lock, though. A child could break it with one sharp twist. And I feel so exposed as I cross the gravel parking lot to the back door of the brewhouse.
I use a different key to let myself inside. There’s a cavernous hallway that runs front to back. Today it feels creepy as my footsteps echo off the tile floor.
But it’s just my nerves talking. I pace to the front door and try the handle. Locked. I’m the first one to arrive.
In ordinary times at the Giltmaker Brewery, Lyle Giltmaker himself would be the first on scene. But the man had a massive coronary last month that almost killed him. He’s temporarily recovering at a nursing facility, where he gets daily antibiotic infusions.
Ever since my boss was hospitalized, the brewhouse staff has been showing up for work later and later. And I happen to know that last night was poker night, so they’ll be tardy and hungover when they bother to stumble in.
I pause at the threshold of Lyle’s office and scan the big room. The place feels oddly empty without Lyle behind his desk, barking orders at me before he even says good morning.
Can’t believe I actually miss the old grump.
After opening a window to let in the morning air, I take his seat at the big old desk, because it has the best view out the window. And I pick up the stack of receipts that Leila—Lyle Giltmaker’s daughter—left here for me yesterday. As the bookkeeper, it’s my job to enter them into Lyle’s old-fashioned ledger system.
If I had Quickbooks, this job would be done in five minutes. But Lyle is eccentric and insists on a strictly paper accounting system. Today I don’t mind it. I need something soothing to occupy my thoughts, and numbers have always been my love language.
All is well in the land of bookkeeping for half an hour, and then I hear the low growl of an approaching engine. Even before I register that it’s a motorcycle, I’m on my feet and peering out the window. I have a perfect view of a biker swinging into the lot and parking by the brewhouse’s front door.
Oh my God. Oh God.
I can’t see much of his face, because of the helmet and mirrored sunglasses, but there’s something eerily familiar about the angle of his chin. He’s just like Jennie described. Tall. Broad shoulders. He’s got the cuffs unzipped on his black motorcycle jacket and I catch a glimpse of heavy ink.
I’m a dead girl.
* * * * *
Wasting no time, the biker swings a leg over his ride and struts toward the door.
Holy shit. How did he find me?
Tell her I’m really good at my job, he’d said.
But I’m too young to die! I’ve never been to Hawaii. I’ve never had sex on the beach. (The cocktail totally doesn’t count.)
My breathing shallow, I back away from the window and scurry into the corridor where nobody can see me. If he breaks a window in front, I can run out the back.
And go where?
Shit.
I’m light-headed from fear. The truth is that I only look like a badass. Don’t let my tats fool you—I’m a lover, not a fighter.
I ease into the shadows at the rear of the long corridor. This is where I feel the safest—with one door behind me and another ahead. I try to listen for him, but all I can hear is my pulse thudding in my ears.
When the big front door swings open, I wonder if I’m hallucinating. That door was locked when I checked it this morning. But it isn’t anymore. A piercing rectangle of light shines down the corridor as the man steps inside and removes his helmet.
I flatten myself against the wall out of his sightline and stop breathing.
“Hello?” he calls, easing down the corridor while I try not to pee myself with fear.
As I clench every muscle in my body, he pokes his head into the office, sees that it’s empty, then turns around slowly.
This is it. He’s going to drag me back to Razor, and I’ll die before ever seeing Taylor Swift in concert.
But he doesn’t notice me back here. Remarkably, he crosses the corridor and enters the brewhouse like he owns the place. I hear his footsteps echo in the wide-open space. “Hello?” he calls again. “Anybody home?”
Move, I coach myself. Now.
With terror in my veins, I ease toward the back door, fumbling for the knob. I open it as quietly as possible.
Inside my head, everything is loud. How much time do I have before he comes outside to look around? He’ll recognize my car. Razor would have told him the make, model, and plate number. And if I start the engine and take off, he’ll just hop on his bike and follow me.
After easing the door closed behind me, I realize I don’t have many options. This feeling is entirely too familiar—I’m in trouble, and nobody is coming to save me.
Story of my life.
After another ragged breath, I hurry toward the pumphouse. But if I go inside, I’ll be trapped again. So I double back and conceal myself against the brewery’s back wall and pull out my phone.
“What is your emergency?” the 911 operator asks.
“I’m…I’m at the Giltmaker Brewery. An intruder has just entered the building.”
* * *
The next ten minutes last forever. I listen to the thud of my heart and wait, shaking, for the police to arrive. There’s a river at the very back of the property. Worst case scenario, I could jump in if he’s chasing me. Not that I’m a great swimmer. But if he catches me, I’m probably dead anyway.
Finally, I hear the sound of tires on the gravel lot. I hold my breath and listen. There’s a loud pounding of fists against wood. “This is the police! We’re coming in!”
More than one voice starts shouting. I brace myself for violence, but the police must subdue this guy pretty quickly, because I hear a man say, “Handcuffs?” in an incredulous voice. “You’re shitting me.”
Only then do I emerge on weak knees, reentering the back door of the brewery just as the cops escort the guy out the front. I wave at the police, and one of them nods to me. “One second, ma’am.”
As soon as the door closes on them, I hurry down the corridor to the front windows to see what’s happening.
The scary dude is irate. Face red, and his cuffed hands curling into fists. He’s arguing while they frisk him.
I notice that he’s unarmed. All they find in his pocket is a wallet. No guns and no duct tape. Huh. Maybe he keeps his weapons in his bike’s saddlebags.
Or maybe he’s so highly trained he doesn’t need weapons. There’s plenty of muscle on him. And Jennie was right—he’s just my type. My former type, that is. I’m done with men, for obvious reasons.
The guy looks up suddenly, as if he can sense me watching from behind the glass.
Those eyes, though. I know those eyes. Who is this guy?
Quickly, I step away from the window. I can’t let Razor’s evil minion get a good look at me. Even if this dude is carted off to jail, my ex will just send another one in his place.
I’m so screwed.
Two minutes go by before there’s a soft knock on the door. “Ma’am?”
I open it to find a thirtyish policeman standing there. He’s handsome in a cleancut way that many women would find attractive. If I were one of them, my life would frankly be easier.
“Thank you for getting here so quickly.”
“We, uh, got a disagreement on our hands,” the officer says. “Your trespasser claims that he’s expected today. And I’m inclined to agree with him.”
“Why?” I demand, an edge of hysteria in my voice. “I’m not expecting anyone new today.”
“Well, I checked his ID, and his name is on the door.” He grins. “And he gave me this business card for you.”
The officer hands me a creamy ivory business card with embossed lettering. It says NASH M. GILTMAKER. Chief Operating Officer, BrewCo Industries.
“What?” I gasp. My heart starts pounding again. “That’s impossible.”
But maybe it’s not. I think I’ve made a horrible mistake.
Did I just call the cops on Lyle Giltmaker’s son? Holy…
“Omigod, I’m going to be fired.”
The cop actually chuckles. “He’s wondering who you are.”
“I work here,” I sputter. “For his father. Since last spring! And I’ve never seen him before in my life. There’s a photo of Lyle’s son on the desk in the office, and it looks nothing like that guy!”
The cop’s eyes crinkle. “Lyle Giltmaker has two sons. Is it Mitch in the picture?”
I shrug in an exaggerated way. “How the hell should I know? Some guy in a hockey jersey. Lyle’s daughter said Nash was arriving tomorrow.”
“Huh. Well, I think you guys got your signals crossed. And Mitch Giltmaker is the professional hockey player,” the cop says evenly. “Everybody knows that.”
“Not everybody,” I say through clenched teeth. My mind is spinning. “Apparently, the Giltmaker boys look nothing alike?”
The cop shrugs. “Look, I googled Nash Giltmaker on my phone as a failsafe and found this.” He holds up his phone for me to see the results of a Google search.
When I see the photo, I practically grab the phone out of the cop’s hands. “This is Nash Giltmaker?” I have seen him before. But only once, and it didn’t end well.
Oh. My. God. This is getting more embarrassing by the minute.
The cop takes his phone back with a shrug. “Maybe take a closer look next time before you panic?”
“He wasn’t supposed to arrive today,” I gasp. This can’t be happening. “And he had a helmet and glasses on, and he let himself in at eight in the morning. I was here all alone!”
“Simple misunderstanding,” the officer says. “But it’s not me you need to apologize to, yeah?” He pushes the door open wider, and I look outside.
There’s Nash Giltmaker, leaning against a patrol car. He’s talking to another cop and rubbing his wrists, probably where the handcuffs bit into his skin. He’s facing away from me, but I can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s angry.
Honestly, I didn’t know people could actually glower with their whole body. But here we are. And all that tension in that muscular body is weirdly appealing.
Stop it! I chide myself.
Maybe he can feel my eyes on him, too, because he turns suddenly in my direction. I react without thinking, ducking back into the darkness of the brewery, keeping out of his sight line.
I’m stalling. Not that it will help. We’re about to have a very awkward conversation about what happened here today. And probably about that other time we almost met.
Maybe he’s forgotten? We’d first encountered each other last November, almost five months ago. But if he remembers that night, it means I’ve seriously messed up with the Giltmaker heir twice.
Oh my God. I’m going to be fired by lunchtime.
~ end scene ~
Want to know what happens next? Order your copy!Ebook: Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Google Play
May 22, 2024
Things that got us through springtime!
It’s been a busy time over at Casa Bowen, and maybe just a wee bit stressful. So these are all the small delights that saw me through a book launch and a graduation season.
Things to watch, read and enjoy! (Click any picture above for links.)
This “nail veil” by Kur is the most forgiving nail product I’ve ever used. It’s sheer, but not too sheer. You can slap on a coat and then come back a day later and slap on another. Plus it’s so mild in color that chips just don’t show. I’m in love.
My husband and I went to see The Fall Guy in the theater and had so much fun! Watching Hollywood make fun of itself was a total joy, and Mr. Gosling settled right into this cheesy role with enviable gusto. I came home and told my teenage son that he should watch it when he could, because he’d enjoy it just as much as I did.
True Detective 4 (on Max) was creepy enough that I had to watch it one episode at a time, with 24 hours in between. It was at the edge of my Creepiness Toleration Zone™. But it’s so inventive. I kept wondering if they could land this (metaphorical) plane in a satisfactory way, and then they did! I’m so glad I stuck with it.
We Could Be So Good by Cat Sebastian. Wow! Amazing writing, fabulous characters. Who knew I wanted to read an MM novel set in the late 50's in Manhattan? Not me. But I lost a weekend to this book and her newest one, You Should Be So Lucky.
Listen for the Lie by Amy Tintera! This thriller has a snarky romance voice, and I am 100% here for it! What a fun ride.
The Dixon Rule by Elle Kennedy. You know it’s a good month when there’s a new Elle book to be had! 🩷
May 7, 2024
The Five Year Lie is LIVE #Truth!
Bestselling romance author Sarina Bowen’s debut thriller, about one woman’s search for the truth after receiving a text from her deceased ex.
Dead men don’t send texts . . .
On an ordinary Monday morning, Ariel Cafferty's phone buzzes with a disturbing text message. Something’s happened. I need to see you. Meet me under the candelabra tree ASAP. The words would be jarring from anyone, but the sender is the only man she ever loved. And it's been several years since she learned he died.
Seeing Drew’s name pop up is heart-stopping. Ariel’s gut says it can’t be real. But she goes to the tree anyway. She has to.
Nobody shows. But the text upends everything she thought she knew about the day he left her. The more questions she asks, the more sinister the answers get. Only two things are clear: everything she was told five years ago is wrong, and someone is still lying to her.
The truth has to be out there somewhere. To safeguard herself—and her son—she’ll have to find it before it finds her. And with it, the answer to what became of Drew.
For fans of Laura Dave and Julie Clark, but with a heart-stopping romance that only Sarina Bowen can execute, The Five Year Lie is a page-turning, spine-tingling thriller that will have you guessing until the very end.
Now available everywhere books are sold!
Digital: Amazon | Apple Books | Nook | Kobo | Google Play | Audio
Paperback: Amazon | Bookshop.org | Angus Robertson | Barnes & Noble | Blackwell’s | Books-a-Million | Booktopia | Indigo | Target | Walmart | Waterstones
April 29, 2024
Tickets available now for two events...
Tickets on sale nowI have two ticketed events upcoming! And now tickets are on sale for both. Join me in Manchester Center Vermont for lunch on May 22, or at the Ripped Bodice store in Brooklyn on July 10!
Vermont Event May 22 Brooklyn Event July 10April 26, 2024
First Chapter: The Five Year Lie
“The questions mount in this techno-thriller lite that doesn’t require any heavy lifting but will have readers wondering who’s watching their doorbell cams.” — Library Journal
"Tension that grabs you from the first page. You won't be able to look away." — Kylie Scott, New York Times bestselling author
“She adds just enough love and longing into the mix to please her romance-minded fans without scaring off the hardcore thriller addicts.” — Kirkus Reviews
Ariel“Oh, Ariel! Have you signed up for the picnic yet?” This question is lobbed at me even before I can extract my son from his bike seat.
Even so, I take my sweet time removing Buzz’s helmet and hoisting him down to the ground. When I finally turn around and acknowledge Maddy—one of the preschool’s pushiest PTO mothers—she offers me a clipboard with a dangling pen disguised as a daisy.
Reluctantly, I take it from her. GRADUATION DAY PICNIC SIGN-UP SHEET! it reads. PLEASE TAKE ONE SLOT FOR YOU, AND ONE SLOT FOR YOUR PARTNER!
That’s a lot of exclamation points for a Monday morning. The list of jobs is numbered from one to thirty-six. That’s two for each of the eighteen kids in Buzz’s class. The choices range from baking two dozen cookies to running the sack race.
The whole thing makes me feel salty. First of all—since when do preschoolers graduate? And then there’s the careful use of the word partner. Some of Buzz’s classmates have two mommies or two daddies. So that was thoughtful—but only up to a point.
“What if I don’t have a partner?” I ask Maddy. “Am I still supposed to take two slots?”
“Oh.” Her smile fades by one or two notches, and her eyes reflect genuine puzzlement, as if the existence of single mothers has never occurred to her. “Just do the best you can.”
So I scan the list. The easiest options—napkins, compostable paper plates, and drinking water—have already been nabbed. I scribble my name beside the request for ten watermelons and a chef’s knife to cut them up. Then I note the date—three weeks from now. Somebody’s an overachiever. I hand back the
clipboard.
She glances at it, and I brace myself to hear her say something about my half-hearted volunteerism. “Pro tip,” she says instead. “You can use folded cardboard to make a guard for the knife. That’s how I avoid slicing the lining of my bag.” She pats the Tory Burch tote under her arm and smiles.
“Good idea,” I say with the closest thing I can muster to a smile. Then I take Buzz’s hand and walk him into the old brick
building.
In Buzz’s classroom, several children are already ransacking the dress-up box, pulling out velvet cloaks and outlandish hats. Buzz pastes himself to my thigh, though, and doesn’t move to join them. He always takes a couple of minutes to warm up to the chaos of preschool.
“He’s a quiet child,” my mother, Imogen, always says. “Watchful.”
Just like his father, I’m always tempted to add. But I never talk about Buzz’s dad.
Buzz likes school, though, so I just ruffle his hair and wait him out. And sure enough, after he watches the action for a minute, his grip on my hand loosens.
His teacher—the wise and kind Miss Betty—approaches us. “Good morning, Buzz. I have some new hats to try on today. And I got the sand table out this morning. See?” She points toward a quiet corner of the room.
My son’s eyes shift to the sand table, and he drops my hand.
I lean over and plant a kiss onto his sweet-smelling head. “See you after lunch.”
He flashes me a quick smile before heading over to the sand table.
“There we go,” Betty says. “Good weekend?”
“Absolutely. We helped my mother with some gardening. There was lots of whistling. Sorry.” Buzz is the only kid in his preschool class who can whistle, and he does it constantly. Sometimes it’s tuneful. Sometimes it’s not.
Betty’s eyes crinkle in the corners when she smiles. “I don’t think he even knows when he’s doing it,” she says. “And there are worse habits. Enjoy the day.”
I take one more glance at my child. He’s already holding a tiny rake and smoothing the sand, his lips pursed in a whistle.
Sometimes when I look at him, I just ache.
After drop-off, I pedal slowly toward the office. It’s a warm spring day, and let’s be honest—no one is going to fire me from my lowly job in the family empire for being a couple minutes late.
Seagulls screech overhead as I navigate the twisty brick streets. I never imagined I’d live in New England forever. I always assumed I’d be off making art in Dublin or Prague. Or at least Brooklyn.
Then life happened. Namely Buzz. But there are worse places than Portland, Maine, especially with ample babysitting and a free place to live.
My setup is just about as cushy as a single mother could ever expect. I work part-time for my family’s tech company. That paycheck, combined with my trust fund, keeps me flush with enough cash to afford all the things that privileged four-year-olds enjoy—private preschool, day camps in the summer, and trips to
the children’s museum.
It also allows me to spend three afternoons a week pursuing my real passion in the studio—creating blown glass.
Even as I walk my bike into the office building, my mind shifts to a series of flasks I’ve been making. Their sides are flattened and blocky. Like the facets of jewels. I’m experimenting with an ombre effect, where the bottom of the vessel is made from colored glass that slowly gives way to clear at the neck . . .
“Careful, Ariel.”
I lift my head and find Hester, my uncle’s assistant, right in my path. She’s an attractive middle-aged woman with a sleek gray pixie cut and a noticeable addiction to wrap dresses.
She’s also grumpy as hell. My uncle and I are both a little afraid of her. “Sorry,” I say quickly.
Scowling, she trots up the open stairway to the second floor, which is the nerve center of Chime Co.
It takes me a moment to lock my bike to the rack under the stairs before I follow her up to the second floor, where I step into a vast office space that’s already mostly full of computer programmers,
managers and support staff.
This is Chime Co., the largest tech company in Maine and the number two manufacturer of doorbell cameras in the country. Years ago, my father and his brother founded the company in my uncle’s basement. But now there are hundreds of employees—so many that Uncle Ray just bought the office building so that we could expand to two more floors.
I’m the office manager. My hours are flexible, and the work isn’t very taxing. I don’t mind it, but I’ll never be Chime Co.’s employee of the month, either.
Case in point—the conference room is already filling up with programmers for the Monday meeting, but there’s no way I’m going in there without coffee. So I head for the coffee counter on the far wall.
Skilled programmers are always in short supply, and must be wooed by perks like good coffee and snacks. The job of stocking these goodies falls to me, which means the coffee is excellent, and there’s a bevy of complements in the mini fridge, including hipster choices like oat milk and flavored creams.
I make myself a latte before heading into the meeting. The only open seat in the conference room is next to Hester, who gives me a fresh scowl as I sit down.
In return, I beam at her. She hates that.
At the head of the table, my uncle is already opening the meeting. Without breaking his cadence, he nods hello to me, his expression friendly, in spite of my tardiness.
It’s a cushy job. I’ll own my privilege.
I dig into my shoulder bag for my planner and a pen. Usually the content of these meetings has little to do with me, but we’re in the middle of an office move, so I have to at least feign attention.
Then, as one of the programmers launches into a lengthy update, my phone chimes loudly with a text.
Oops.
I could ignore it and pretend that intrusion came from someone else’s phone. As one does. But I never ignore texts when Buzz is at school. Emergencies are rare, but there was a stomach bug last year and—even worse—a head lice incident this fall.
Lord in heaven, let it not be lice again.
Under Hester’s judgmental gaze, I pull out my phone and check the message.
But it’s not the school. In fact, the name on the screen stops me in my tracks.
Drew Miller.
I blink. But when my vision clears, his picture is still there—a photo I took of the two of us at sunset in Fort Allen Park. And when I read the text message, I stop breathing.
There’s trouble. I need to see you. Meet me in one hour under the candelabra tree. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.
That message would rattle me coming from anyone. But coming from Drew, it’s heart-stopping.
Because Drew Miller, the only man I ever loved, and the father of my child, is dead.
Want more? Order your copy of The Five Year Lie!Paperbacks: Bookshop.org | Amazon | More links here UK and Australia: Amazon | Waterstones | Blackwell’s | BooktopiaEbook and Audio: Amazon | Apple Books | Kobo | Nook | Google Play | Audible
March 23, 2024
Meet Sarina at the bookstore!
If you RSVP for one of her three non-ticketed events, Sarina will bring you a sticker pack and bookmark.
Or add yourself to the notification list for the ticketed events, and we’ll let you know when those tickets become available!
Name * First Name Last Name Email * RSVP to one of these three bookstore events, and Sarina will prepare a sticker pack & bookmark for you. May 11: W. Lebanon NH Barnes & Noble May 14: Concord NH Gibson's Bookstore May 16: Barrington RI Barrington Books Ticketed events: want to be notified when tickets go on sale? I'm interested in attending: May 22: Manchester Center VT luncheon event (ticketed) July 10: Brooklyn NY ticketed event with Sarina & Vi Keeland at the Ripped Bodice Thank you! What to expect:At the bookstore events, the bookseller will have a stack of the new novel available for purchase.
Sarina will be happy to sign backlist titles as well.
Each event will include a book talk, time for questions, and a signing!
Questions? Email us at admin@sarinabowen.com
March 13, 2024
Updated: Q and A about The Five Year Lie
After my cover launch last week, I got a lot of questions about The Five Year Lie. And I’m happy to answer them! Have another question? Leave it in the comments!
Q: Okay where is this picture on the front?
A: Welcome to Portland, Maine! I love this city desperately, and I’m setting two different books here so I have an impeccable excuse to visit.
Q: The cover says “a domestic thriller.” WTH does that mean?
A: It refers to a novel of suspense that’s not about law enforcement, and not, say, an international spy thriller. It’s more of a girl-with-a-problem book. (And, yup, hers is quite the problem!)
Q: Will it keep me up at night?
A: Yes and no. Don’t start this book at bedtime because I’m told you won’t be able to put it down until you know the truth. But it’s not Pet Cemetery by Stephen King, either.
Q: Who narrates the audio book?
A: I could not be more delighted to announce that the book is narrated by Kathleen Early, Gary Tiedemann and Jason Clarke.
Q: Is this a romance? Can I be assured of an HEA?
A: 🤷♀️ You’re either on this journey with me or you’re not.
Q: Is this book a standalone? Or the start of a series?
A: This book is a standalone. My next thriller (in 2025) will be another standalone. Both books are set in Portland, Maine, but they do not have overlapping plots or characters.
Q: Why is this ebook more expensive than your other ones?
A: This price is set by my publisher, according to the market for similar books. But because HarperCollins is so huge, there are a million legal ways to get it. Big stores. Libraries. Plus Audible & LibroFM (where the audio is still just one credit!) And the paperback may be discounted by big retailers.
Q: Will you have signed copies? Are you doing events?
A: I will probably have an independent bookstore handle the signed copies for me. And there will probably be a few events. Stay tuned!
January 3, 2024
Goodreads Giveaway for The Five Year Lie
You can enter in the widget below, or find the giveaway on the Goodreads site right here .
Goodreads Book Giveaway
The Five Year Lie by Sarina Bowen Giveaway ends October 09, 2023.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter Giveaway
Dead men don’t send texts…
On an ordinary Monday morning, Ariel Cafferty's phone buzzes with a disturbing text message. Something’s happened. I need to see you. Meet me under the candelabra tree ASAP. The words would be jarring from anyone, but the sender is the only man she ever loved. And it's been several years since she learned he died.
Seeing Drew’s name pop up is heart-stopping. Ariel’s gut says it can’t be real. But she goes to the tree anyway. She has to.
Nobody shows. But the text upends everything she thought she knew about the day he left her. The more questions she asks, the more sinister the answers get. Only two things are clear: everything she was told five years ago is wrong, and someone is still lying to her.
The truth has to be out there somewhere. To safeguard herself—and her son—she’ll have to find it before it finds her. And with it, the answer to what became of Drew.
For fans of Laura Dave and Julie Clark, but with a heart-stopping romance that only Sarina Bowen can execute, The Five Year Lie is a page-turning, spine-tingling thriller that will have you guessing until the very end.
Note: The publisher limited this to U.S. residents only.
Be guaranteed to read it on release day - preorder your copy now!
Paperback: Bookshop.org | Amazon | Target | Indigo Ebook and Audio: Amazon | Apple Books | Kobo | Nook | Google Play | AudibleDecember 27, 2023
Donate to charity, receive signed foreign editions
Hi friends! Sarina here. I have too many foreign editions on hand! So I’m looking to give some away. Here’s how it would work:
You make a donation to our favorite Vermont food bank. Minimum donation is $35.
Then I mail you a box of at least three signed books written in a mix of the following: German, French, Dutch, Danish…etc. You would not be guaranteed the language or titles. But I will try to keep it interesting.
US addresses only, sorry.
We will have a limited number of boxes, and shipping stuff will take us a minute.
If we have a box for you, we will email you with precise instructions for what to do next!
Thanks, friends!
Love,
Sarina
