Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 7

Big day around here!

I’m not quite sure how this happened, but The New Guy (cover art by Elle Maxwell) is currently plastered on a billboard in New York, on the corner of 34th and 7th Ave.

They are doing a Read with Pride promo. And Hudson is the face of it! 😄

Check us out!

What is Sarina reading this summer? Picks and recs!

  Big Summer Roundup! So romantic: Same Time Next Summer by Annabel Monaghan

I first noticed this author when she published Nora Goes Off Script. That book kept me thinking for days. It’s just the perfect romance. So you can imagine how excited I was to read her latest. And it did not disappoint! This is a super romantic book of second chances. The writing is out of this world, and the characters just sing on the page. I loved every achy breaky minute of it.

Amazon or Apple

PS: Amazon just offered me a $2.54 coupon on this paperback. I wish I knew why, but I like it.

So amazing: Last Seen Alive by Joanna Schaffhausen

This is not the first book in the series, but to the author’s credit, I didn’t even realize it until after I’d finished the book. I’m reading a lot of suspense lately and this one was just spectacular. I love the slightly messed up heroine and her slightly messed up on-again-off-again guy. Ellery and Reed are fabulous characters. There’s a great romance here.

After reading this one (my favorite!) I went back and read the rest of the series. It did not disappoint.

Amazon or Apple So different: Ink Blood Sister Scribe by Emma Törzs

I don’t read a lot of fantasy. My brain usually just doesn’t bend that way. But somehow I plucked this from my Book of the Month subscription, and I’m so glad that I did! It’s magical and deeply romantic.

Amazon or Apple So terrific: On a Quiet Street by Seraphina Nova Glass

I’ve read so much domestic suspense this year, but none of it spoke to me quite like this book. The tricky thing here is how she makes almost all the characters sympathetic. But then you get a little further in, and your loyalties start to shift. It’s masterful! The hook also got me right away—one woman thinks her husband is cheating, and her best friend offers to spy on him. What could go wrong? (Hint, a lot!)

Amazon or Apple

PS: This paperback is part of a 3-for-2 deal at Amazon right now. Who knew?

My catnip: Zero Days by Ruth Ware

I just finished an ARC of this new thriller from Ruth Ware, and it was quite the ride. In the first place, the heroine is a penetration tester. Her job is to break into the companies that hire her, in order to find vulnerabilities. That job really speaks to me (was I a cat burglar in another life?) and I loved reading about it. The premise for the book is pretty dark, but I really liked the ending.

Amazon or Apple My new favorite Ali Hazelwood: Love Theoretically

This was so great! It’s my new favorite by her. There was so much going against this couple, but true love can’t be defeated! Plus, I thought I understood what the twist would be… but no. She still surprised me. This was a great read and I gobbled it right down.

Amazon or Apple

Affiliate Disclaimer: some of the links on this page will pay Sarina a small affiliate commission. We use a short-linker that often adds an affiliate tag to links for Amazon, Apple, Kobo and other retailers.

Book Bonanza 2023

STICKERS AND BOOK PLATES

Coming soon! Book Bonanza 2023 in Grapevine, Texas! Here’s the schedule:

Friday signing from 2-6pm

Come and visit our booth! If you would like your books personalized, please write down your name on a sticky note. Because I live in fear of misspelling your name in your book. :) Also, I want to meet you! And talking while signing is, um, tricky. At least for me. That’s my little secret.

Reminder: the first 50 people to pick up their preorders will receive a page of stickers.

Saturday morning panel at 9:30! “Puck Me: Sports Romance, and why we love it so much.”

Saturday signing from 2-6pm

SWAG, TOO!

Day two! Saturday is always quieter. I always manage to clear my line even though there is no limit on the number of books you can bring to sign.

For sale at my table:

Books! Including Good as Gold, The New Guy, and some backlist, too. Table prices will be something like $15 for most paperbacks and $8 for smaller rack-sized books.

Gorgeous full-sized die-cut bookish stickers. $1.50 each or 4 for $5.

Book plates! Also $1.50 or 4 for $5, for those readers who would rather leave the books at home and get a signed book plate.

Jenn will in charge of pre-orders and sales. She takes: cash, credit cards and PayPal.

Can’t wait to see you in Dallas!

Love, Sarina

It's live and it's Good as Gold!

A swoony, heart-wrenching small-town romance from USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestseller Sarina Bowen!

   

Leila:

What I meant to do: quietly divorce my lout of a husband and then have a child all on my own.

What happens instead: my crush comes back to town when I’m at my most vulnerable. After too many cocktails, I ask him to be my baby’s father.

In my defense, it’s been a rough couple of months. Seeing Matteo Rossi again after fourteen years has done a number on my emotions. And my libido.

In the morning, I’m hoping he’s forgotten the whole thing. But no such luck. In fact, Matteo has a few clarifying questions. And a few naughty ideas, too…

Matteo:

What I meant to do: visit Vermont for my brother’s wedding. Make amends to my family, and mourn the loss of a friend.

What happens instead: a hot affair with the one who got away. But it can’t last. My life is two thousand miles away, and Leila deserves everything. She’s as good as gold.

Now live in: Kindle Unlimited | Audio | Paperback

Want a sneak peek? Check out the First Chapter!

First Chapter: Good as Gold

Twenty Years Ago

“Let’s ride Devil’s Dance next,” Leila Giltmaker decides as they glide up the mountain on the chairlift. “The sun will have softened it up by now.”

“Sure,” Matteo agrees.

“Yup,” Rory says.

“Yup?” Leila prods. “Rory, is that the proper way to address me today?”

“Yes, queen,” he says sheepishly, while Matteo laughs.

On the way to the ski hill, Rory had lost a bet to Leila over which parking lots would be open today. Leila had been right, of course, and Rory had probably known it, but he’d stuck to his guns. He never liked to back down, even if it meant he’d have to do something ridiculous—like promising to call her “queen” all day.

There’s a truthfulness to it anyway. Leila often calls the shots, and neither teenaged boy is too bothered by it. After all, she has good instincts. It was Leila who figured out that the waffle cart would give them a three-for-two deal at the end of the day, when the minimum-wage worker who manned the thing wanted to use up her batter and go home.

And it’s Leila who has use of a car to drive their asses to the mountain in the first place. Her family is more functional than either of theirs, by a factor of a million. The Giltmakers own several successful businesses in Colebury. Whereas Matteo and Rory are lucky to own second-hand snowboards and discounted ski passes.

So if Leila wants to pick the next ski run, that’s cool. They’re lucky to be spending their Saturday with the town’s golden girl, and they both know it.

They’re three in a row on the old triple chair—also Leila’s choice—as opposed to the new high-speed quad. Sure, it’s slower, and it makes a gear-grinding noise and smacks the backs of your knees as you sit down on it. But there’s no line. And they don’t need a fourth chair anyway. Three is the size of their little pack—the best snowboarders in their town. They spend every Saturday like this—gliding over the white terrain, the afternoon sunshine warming their black ski pants.

“Loser alert,” Rory chuckles. “Two o’clock.”

Sure enough, some guy in a full-body camo snowsuit is clenching his way across the slope below them. He’s so nervous on his skis that he’s dragging his poles behind him like brakes.

“Be nice,” Leila chides. “Everybody starts somewhere.”

But when the guy suddenly falls, both boys explode with laughter. Even Leila cracks a smile. She can’t help it. The guy’s spreadeagled on the snow like a bad cartoon and shaking snow out of his face.

“Tourists,” Rory groans. “Can’t run ’em over. Can’t shoot ’em.”

Leila knows that tourist dollars are the whole reason the mountain can afford to sell them fifteen-dollar student tickets. She doesn’t point this out, though, because the old lift stops suddenly.

This happens whenever a kid falls down in the loading zone, and the lifty hits the red stop button. The whole contraption grinds to a sudden halt. But momentum makes their chair rock violently forward and then back again.

Leila feels her heart skip a beat as her snow pants slide an unwelcome inch toward the edge.

But Matteo’s arm is already there, holding her firmly in place on the seat. “Going somewhere, Giltmaker?”

Her heart skips another beat, but it’s different this time. “Nah,” she says lightly. “I don’t need a head start to beat you to the bottom.”

“Ooh, fighting words.”

The lift starts up again, and they glide forward. Matteo removes his arm, and Leila pretends not to miss it.

“We’ll meet up at the half pipe?” she says as the chair arrives at the top.

“Of course,” Matteo agrees. “Where else?”

She hops off the lift without another word. Thirty seconds later, she’s speeding down the run, her long hair flying out from beneath the edge of her helmet.

At the top of the hill, Matteo takes an extra minute with his bindings, just so he can watch Leila ride. She catches a sweet little jump and grabs the board mid-flight like an X-gamer.

He laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Rory asks, eyes following Leila as she disappears at the turn.

“Nothing. Ready?”

Rory doesn’t move. He just frowns at Matteo. “You can’t have her, you know.”

“What?” He heard Rory just fine, and he knows exactly what he means. It’s just that he’s surprised to hear it said out loud.

“The Golden Girl will never go for you.”

“Hey, no kidding.” He understands it on a gut level—the same way he knows that a leaden sky over Vermont means that snow is coming.

But that’s not the only thing he knows. “She’d never go for you either,” he points out.

Rory snorts. “No kidding. But still—it’s a deal, right? Neither one of us tries to get with her, and it doesn’t get weird.”

“Yeah, sure,” Matteo agrees. He can’t even picture either of them with Leila. She and her siblings win all the awards at school. Her family practically runs the town of Colebury. Their name literally means gold maker.

It isn’t just family connections that set Leila apart, though. It’s her fire. There are probably better words to describe it. But he doesn’t know those words and wouldn’t articulate them even if he did.

But it’s Leila who pushed them both to compete in their first freestyle competition last month. Matteo won a bronze medal and an invitation to compete at the state level in March.

Leila won a silver in a slalom race, too. And now she’s crafting a whole practice plan for both of them before the state competition.

Rory didn’t win anything, and he’s still salty about it. “We need a pact or something,” he says. “Nobody dates Leila. It would wreck our whole vibe.”

“True,” he agrees. If his only two friends became a couple, he’d die. He really would.

“So it’s a deal? You don’t touch her. I don’t either.”

“Sure. Of course.” Besides, as Rory already pointed out, she’d never go for the guy in the second-hand snow pants. The guy whose father is such a piece of work that he skips town for weeks at a time, forcing his mom to work two jobs and visit the food pantry.

Leila had been at his house once when the cops had called to say they had his dad in lockup. Matteo had wanted to die of embarrassment.

Making a pact with Rory is an easy decision. He’d never try anything with Leila. And this way, Rory won’t either. He likes this plan.

So that’s settled. “Let’s go,” he says. “Bet you can’t get any air off that jump.” He points at the spot Leila had soared from only a minute before.

“Bet I can.”

And off they go.

Chapter 1: Matteo

Twenty Years Later

April

The speed limit on the narrow highway is fifty miles per hour, but I slow down as my rental car approaches Colebury. The sky is dark and cloudy, making the unlit road hard to see. And since I haven’t been home in fourteen years, I’m not totally certain I’ll recognize the turnoff for my brother’s bar.

I’ve almost reached the outskirts of town when my phone rings to the tune of “I Knew You Were Trouble.” The rental car’s screen says Lissa calling.

For a second, I consider declining the call. I only have two bars of service, and I’m in a hurry.

But I just can’t do that. When a teenage girl who recently lost her dad calls, you answer. Day or night. Even if you’re literally fourteen years late for a party.

I tap the screen. “Lissa? Can you hear me?”

“Omigod, Matteo. Where are you? I was going nuts! You didn’t answer your phone. For hours.”

Oh shit. “I was on a flight, honey. I didn’t see that you called.” The second I’d landed in Burlington, I’d high-tailed it to the rental counter.

“A flight?” she gasps. “God, I was so worried. When you didn’t answer my calls, I went over to your place, and I banged on the door.  I thought…” She hiccups. “After you canceled the last tours of the weekend... I had the worst idea.” She lets out a sob.

Whoa. After a glance in the rear-view mirror, I step on the brake and pull over onto the shoulder. “Lissa, breathe. What is the matter? Did something happen?”

“No.” She sniffles. “You left me a note, Matteo. It was kind of creepy.”

“It was?” I’d written: I’m sorry to miss our movie night. Love you lots.

In what universe is that creepy? But then I’m struck with an awful idea. “Honey, are you saying you thought I might have…” I swallow. “…killed myself? Because that is not in the cards.”

She lets out another sob.

Fucking hell. “Talk to me. Why would you think that?”

“You’ve been so depressed! And they tell us the signs at school. What to watch for.”

I’m in way over my head right now. “Okay, listen up and listen good. I promise you that if I’m ever in a place that dark, I will do something smart about it. But I’m going to need you to promise me the same thing right now.”

“Okay. I promise,” she whimpers.

“Good.” I scrub my forehead. “Look, I’m sorry to worry you. It’s just that I decided last minute to take a trip.”

“Where are you?”

“Vermont. My brother is getting married tomorrow. I wasn’t going to come, but then I realized last night that I am a huge asshole…”

She lets out a watery laugh. “Not always, though.”

“Thank you, I think. Anyway, I haven’t visited my family in fourteen years. They probably hate me. They might not even let me in the door.”

“That’s not true!” she yelps. “Your sister loves you. Her kids are all over your refrigerator. And I met your mother once.”

Those basic facts are true. When my sister had kids, I started talking to her regularly, and twice I’ve flown my mom out to visit. But I never once came home.

“Let’s just say that it’s not okay to be too busy to visit for more than a decade. So last night I got a wild hair and booked a flight. Then I started packing. My note to you was hasty, but I didn’t mean to give you scary ideas.” I’d slipped the note into their mail slot on my way out of town this morning, when Lissa was at school.

She snuffles. “Okay. I’m still mad you didn’t explain. Mom is worried, too.”

“Tell her I’m sorry. She’s been on my case to go home, though. This is probably her fault, now that I think about it.”

“Figures.” Lissa giggles.

“Aw, don’t tell her I said that.” Poor Cara doesn’t need another thing to worry about. It’s been a devastating few months for all of us. In December, Cara’s husband Sean—who was Lissa’s dad, as well as my best friend and business partner—died in a snowboarding accident.

None of us are over it. We’ll never be over it. Four months later, I still see him every night in my dreams.

“I’m sorry I made you cry,” I tell Sean’s only child.

“Eh, crying is nothing anymore. It’s like breathing.”

I snort. Lissa always surprises me. I’ve known her for most of her life, and there has never been a single moment when she did what I expected her to. “Are you going to be okay?” I put my blinker on, look over my shoulder, and carefully pull back onto the highway toward Colebury.

“Yeah. Just don’t do that again.”

“Okay. From now on, with any travel arrangements I make, I’ll text you the itinerary.” Honestly, I’d do anything to make this child happy again.

It’s partly my fault she lost her daddy.

“It’s a wedding, huh? Do you have time to find a tux?”

“Heck no. I brought a jacket and a nice pair of khakis. This is Vermont. The dress code is dialed back a few notches.”

“Which brother is this? Alec? The one who owns the bars?”

Lissa’s memory is, as usual, bang on. “That’s the guy. I’m on my way to one of his bars now. It’s already ten o’clock here, and I didn’t tell them I was coming, so I hope they’re still there.”

“You didn’t tell them at all?” Lissa is incredulous. “You’re going to make a big entrance? Way to bring the drama.”

“Hey, it was last minute. But, yeah, they’re going to give me a whole lot of shit when I finally show my face. Fourteen years is a long-ass time. Fourteen years ago, for example, you were still very attached to your pacifier.”

“Sexy,” she says.

I smile at the memory of a tiny little Lissa and her chubby-cheeked face.

“Why’d you stay away for so long?” she asks. “You weren’t really too busy to go home. I’ve seen you spend entire weekends playing Call of Duty.”

“I don’t really know,” I say with a laugh. If you want to hear the truth about yourself, ask a teenager.

“Was it because of a girl?”

Another bark of laughter.

“It was, wasn’t it?” All of a sudden, her voice is bouncy and full of mischief. Like the old Lissa. “Who is this girl? Did she dump you?”

“Nobody dumped me.” It comes out sounding defensive. “Good effort, Lissa. But you’re not on the right track here.”

And, yeah, I just lied to a child. Oops. There had been a girl, but she’d never been my girl. And that’s just the way it is.

Still, it made coming home feel impossible. I didn’t want to see the happy couple together.

“Sure,” she says in a wizened, disbelieving tone.

“The GPS says I’m almost there, baby girl. Hope I can find this place. Wait—there it is.”

I shouldn’t have worried. The old mill building is brightly lit, and just a short distance from the road. This building had been abandoned when I was a teenager. I’d probably never looked twice at it.

“Well? First impressions?” Lissa demands.

“It’s cool. More impressive than in the pictures I’ve seen on the family chat.” The brick walls of the three-story renovated mill building rise handsomely against the nighttime sky. And the first-floor bar—the Gin Mill—is signed in cheerful neon and fronted by a crowded parking lot.

Nice work, Alec.

“Send me a selfie of your wedding outfit,” she says. “I need to approve it.”

“Sure, kid. Tell your mama hello for me.”

“I will. Have fun, Matteo! Be safe, okay?”

That’s something she always says to me now, and it breaks my heart a little to hear it. “Of course. Night, honey.”

We disconnect as I pull into a parking space. There are actually two businesses sharing this lot—the bar, and a coffee shop called the Busy Bean. The coffee shop is my sister Zara’s project. It’s closed now, though, so I’ll have to sample it tomorrow.

I climb out and lock the car. But then I stand there in the parking lot for another moment, just stretching my legs. And stalling. I don’t know what kind of reception I’m about to receive.

Fourteen years is a long time. I’ve missed so much. I have a niece and a nephew I’ve met only on FaceTime. Three of my four siblings are entrepreneurs of businesses I haven’t visited. And my youngest brother is a cop. I’ve never seen him in uniform.

When my mother asks me why I don’t come home, I’ve never given her a good reason. I always tell her that it’s hard work running a business. That the distance is too far. That I’m not good at taking time off.

Lies. I take plenty of time off. I just don’t take it here.

I gulp down a breath of Vermont nighttime air. It smells like melting snow and pine trees. I wonder what life would have been like if I’d stayed here in Vermont. Would I co-own a bar with Alec? Or run a taxi service with my brother Damien?

The weird thing is that if you’d asked me three months ago who the most successful Rossi sibling was, I would have said me. I wouldn’t even have hesitated. And on paper, it’s probably true.

But Sean’s death was a harsh dose of reality. Financial success feels pretty meaningless now. The truth is, I’ve missed my family.

I guess it’s time to find out if they’ve missed me, too.

Walking toward the door, I hear music and laughter. I raise my eyes to the darkened upstairs windows. Alec shares one of those apartments with his fiancé, May. And my youngest brother, Benito, just moved out of the other apartment and into a house he bought with the love of his life.

My family is killing it in all the ways that count, while I’m a goddamn wreck. But here goes nothing. I yank open the door, the way you pull off a Band-Aid.

After stepping inside, it only takes a couple moments to understand why the Gin Mill is a success. It’s a big, friendly space. A sleek bar stretches along the lefthand wall, with a line three deep to reach the hardworking bartenders. To the right is a sea of high-top tables and a few booths. There’s a jukebox against the far wall and a dartboard, too. Everywhere, people are talking and laughing, heads bent close, drinks in hand.

I left Vermont at eighteen, haven’t been back to visit since I was twenty-two, but I’ve never felt like an outsider until right this second.

This ugly thought is broken when I spot my brother Damien. As soon as he catches me watching him, his eyes widen comically. I read “holy shit” on his lips as he passes through the crowd to greet me. “Matteoooo! I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s with the Jesus hair?” He waves a hand toward my head.

I run a self-conscious hand through my shoulder-length hair. “The women like it, and it saves money on haircuts.”

He snorts. “Doesn’t look like the money is a problem. Designer jeans, huh? You look like a tourist from Connecticut!”

My first thought is: I am a tourist.

My second thought is to slug him in the arm. “So the tourists from Connecticut have gotten better looking since I left?”

He laughs. “Let’s get you a beer. Or is it champagne these days? What do expensive dudes with long hair drink?”

“Anything.” I have never needed a drink more than I do right now.

“Hey, bartender!” Damien calls out, while I take in his buzz cut and the flannel shirt that is basically a uniform in Vermont. Damien is about fifteen months younger than I am. We’re the eldest of the five Rossi kids. And I haven’t been in the same room with him since he was a scrawny twenty-one-year-old.

“This stranger needs a beer,” he says.

The bartender in question looks up. And, wow, it’s my youngest brother, Benito. He was only eighteen last time I saw him. Now he’s a strapping giant. Benito doesn’t work here—he’s the cop. But I guess he’s filling in tonight so that my brother Alec can enjoy his own bachelor party.

Ben looks at me and lets out a hoot of laughter. “Who is this asshole crashing the party? Do we even know this guy?”

“Yeah, yeah. Very funny.” I knew I’d take a beating. Hell, I deserve it.

Benito puts two fingers into his mouth and whistles. “Hey, Alec! I’ve got a new joke for you! Jesus walked into a bar…”

From the center of the crowd, my brother Alec—the guest of honor—whirls around to spot me. His eyes narrow. “I’m too young to meet Jesus!”

Everyone howls, and then I receive a series of back slaps and hugs while they talk over each other.

“Holy shit.”

“I know, right?”

“Can’t believe he made it.”

Enough already. “But I said I’d try.”

“Yeah, but we’ve heard that before,” Alec says darkly. “At this point, we literally expect nothing.”

“Ouch.” I guess Alec is still angry. “Can I come to the wedding, though?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Happy to have you.” But his eyes don’t look that happy.

“How about I buy a round?” I offer. “Can I crash on someone’s couch tonight? Tomorrow I’ll find an Airbnb or something.”

“The first beer is on the house for designer Jesus,” Benito says from behind the bar. “You look like Ralph Lauren in that suede jacket. Is ale okay?”

“Sure. Pour me something interesting.” I ignore the dig about my clothes. I like nice things—it’s not a crime.

He passes me a pint glass of a deep amber ale. “This is the original Goldenpour by our friends at Giltmaker. The foamies drive hundreds of miles for a pint.”

I’ve read about this. After years of making beer as a passion project, Lyle Giltmaker hit the bigtime. “This beer won an award, yeah?”

“All the awards,” Alec says. “It’s like a fucking cult. There are lines down the block on tasting days at their brewery. Two pack maximum at the store—when they’re not sold out.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” I say, taking a sip. And the ale is terrific—really fruity and interesting. It’s easy to see what the fuss is about.

“Hey, did you hear about the divorce?” Alec asks me.

“Saw it on social media,” I say. Not like I could miss it. Lyle Giltmaker’s wife made a big post when she left him.

After forty years of trying to make it big, the brewery is on top of the world. All that time I’ve been hoping that success would make it possible for Lyle to think about something other than beer. But apparently it doesn’t work that way.

Guess the old man just learned that success isn’t everything. 

I feel for the guy.

My brother is still talking about beer tourists and cult brews. But every time he says “Giltmaker,” I think of my old friend—Lyle’s daughter, Leila. She used to be one of the most important people in my life.

I glance around the bar, checking for familiar faces. It’s wild to see so many people from my past in one spot. But Leila’s face is the one I’m really looking for.

I don’t see her, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. Seeing everyone again is taking great reserves of emotional energy that I don’t really have.

And Leila? Yeah. I might have to work up to that one.

“Want to play darts?” Alec asks me. “We’re fixing to have a friendly tournament. Fifty dollar buy-in.”

“Sounds like a shakedown,” I point out. “But sure, dude. I will lose at darts in honor of your wedding.”

“Don’t they have darts in Colorado?” Alec asks, steering me toward the board.

“Yeah, but I haven’t had time to play.” He doesn’t need to know that I spent much of the last three months lying on my bed in the dark, trying to understand how my best friend died, and wondering what I could have done about it.

I’ll always wonder that.

I take another sip of excellent beer and follow my brothers toward the dartboard.

Wide May 29th: Apple Books | Nook | KoboJune 1st: Amazon / Kindle Unlimited | Audio | Paperback

May 2023: Limited Time Freebies

There’s only a few more days until GOOD AS GOLD goes live wide, but don’t worry - I got some ways for you to pass the time. FIFTEEN ways, actually.

That’s right - once again I’ve teamed up with some of my bestselling author friends to offer you FREE BOOKS, like Speakeasy from my True North series. But don’t delay - these books are only free for a limited time!

See the freebies here! See all the freebies here!

Goodreads Giveaway for Good as Gold!

Three copies are up for grabs!

You can enter in the widget below, or find the giveaway on the Goodreads site right here.

Goodreads Book Giveaway Good as Gold by Sarina Bowen

Giveaway ends May 29, 2023.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway

Note: Goodreads limits this to U.S. and Canada.

Cover Reveal: Good as Gold!

I adore these covers by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations, and the portrait by Wander Aguiar!

Cover photo by Wander Aguiar Photography

A swoony, heart-wrenching small-town romance from USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestseller Sarina Bowen!Leila:

What I meant to do: quietly divorce my lout of a husband and then have a child all on my own.

What happens instead: my crush comes back to town when I’m at my most vulnerable. After too many cocktails, I ask him to be my baby’s father.

In my defense, it’s been a rough couple of months. Seeing Matteo Rossi again after fourteen years has done a number on my emotions. And my libido.

In the morning, I’m hoping he’s forgotten the whole thing. But no such luck. In fact, Matteo has a few clarifying questions. And a few naughty ideas, too…

Matteo:

What I meant to do: visit Vermont for my brother’s wedding. Make amends to my family, and mourn the loss of a friend.

What happens instead: a hot affair with the one who got away. But it can’t last. My life is two thousand miles away, and Leila deserves everything. She’s as good as gold.

Amazon | Apple Books | Nook | Kobo

Audio release: June 1st. Links coming soon!

IMPORTANT NOTE: this book will be exclusive to Amazon, and in Kindle Unlimited on June 1. That means if you want to read on Apple, Kobo or Nook, you have to preorder Good as Gold! 

First Chapter: Roommate

Surprise! You can either read or listen to this first chapter on audio!

Listen on this web page. Or scroll down to read Chapter One!

Chapter One: Roderick

Sometimes adulting just sucks. 

These are my thoughts as I drive my rickety Volkswagen Bug up my parents’ gravel driveway. I haven’t been here for most of a decade, and I’m bracing myself in every possible way. Anything could have happened during the intervening years. They could have moved away. (Although that’s unlikely.) They could have gotten divorced. (Also hard to picture.) 

Conceivably, one or both could be dead.

I don’t even know how I’ll feel if that last thing has happened. My parents and I didn’t part on good terms, to put it lightly. But people can change their ways.

Not all of them do, though.

At first glance, my parents’ property looks exactly the same. The little one-story house is still clad in cheap vinyl siding, and its shade of ochre-yellow is just how I remember it. 

The tall pines have been carefully pruned of their dead lower branches, which argues for the continued existence of my father, who always enjoyed firing up his chainsaw to tidy things up. Also, Dad’s old ride-on mower is visible inside the garage.

He’s still around, then. I feel a little hit of relief, which makes no sense. The man will probably shut the door in my face when he sees who’s come to visit. This is going to end badly. I’m already ninety-nine percent sure.

Still, I need to ask for their help. After paying for the gas to drive up from Nashville, I have less than four hundred dollars to my name. And no job. If they turn me away, I’m sleeping in my car again tonight. 

It won’t kill me, but it’s not ideal.

Parking in front of the garage, I get out and almost bleep the locks. I’m so used to parking in Nashville. I haven’t lived under these tall pines for eight years.

Back then, I couldn’t wait to leave this place. I had my reasons, and some of them were solid. And I used to hate the trees and the winding country roads as much as I hated my parents’ attitude. 

I still hate the things my parents said to my teenage self. But Vermont looks better to me than it ever did before. I’m ready to live somewhere without smog and traffic. I miss the smell of woodsmoke in the nighttime air, and the sight of the sun setting over the Green Mountains.

Maybe it’s weird to feel nostalgia for a place that wasn’t good to me. But I’m in the mood to give Vermont a second chance. I’m hoping it gives me a second chance, too. And I’m about to find out if driving eleven hundred miles was a good idea or just plain stupid.

As I approach the house, the front door is already opening. My dad stands on the other side of the screen door, TV remote in his hand, staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.

“Hi,” I say carefully.

“Roddy,” he whispers. He makes no move to open the screen door, but then, neither do I. Maybe we both need a minute to get over our mutual shock.

He looks older. It startles me to catalog all the gray in his hair and the new wrinkles around his eyes.

I’m pretty sure that I don’t look like the skinny eighteen-year-old I used to be, either. So he’s staring back at me trying to get over that, too.

“You’re back?” he asks, still befuddled.

“Well…” I let out a nervous chuckle. “I’ve been living in Nashville. And yesterday I just got in my car and drove up here without a plan. It took me two days.”

I won’t tell him why I left Nashville. He won’t want to hear about the awful way my relationship ended. Hell, he won’t want to hear about my relationship at all.

“So,” I continue. “I’m happy to be back in Vermont. But I’m kind of starting over. And I was wondering if…”

“Ralph?” my mother’s voice calls from deeper inside the small house.

I have very little time to prepare before she appears behind him. She’s drying her hands on a dish towel, her hair in a messy bun.

My heart gives a little squeeze of familiarity before I can steel myself.

“Roderick,” she whispers, her eyes popping wide. “Oh, honey. What’s happened?”

“Well, not much,” I stammer. “I just needed to get out of Nashville and start over. So I was thinking of doing that here.”

“Here?” She squeezes the dish towel, her eyes alight.

“Perhaps,” I say, trying to sound like it isn’t my only option in the whole world. But if I step over the threshold and stay with them, it has to be because I’m invited. I won’t live with their disdain. Sleeping in the car would be better.

“You want to stay here,” my father clarifies. He’s still holding that TV remote. And he still hasn’t opened the screen door.

It’s not a good sign.

“Just for a little while,” I say. “Until I find a job and a place of my own. I’m a baker.”

“You…what?” my mother asks. “Like, cakes?”

“Bread, mostly. I went to culinary school. I specialize in bread-baking.”

My father squints at me, and that’s another clue this isn’t going to work. “Culinary school,” he echoes. There’s dismissal in his voice. Baking is not a real man’s job. I might as well have said that I’m a ballet dancer, or that I star in a drag show. My father’s ideas of what a man should do with his life are straight out of the fifties. 

“No more guitar?” my mother asks. She’s hoping I’ve grown out of being the queer little music nerd my father couldn’t tolerate. She’s trying to sway him.

“No guitar,” I agree, although it kills me a little to imply that I somehow got with Dad’s program and outgrew music. The truth is that I accidentally left my guitar behind in Nashville.

I did outgrow musicians, though. But that’s another long story.

“If you stay…” My father purses his lips. “It’s our house, our rules.”

I swallow hard. “I’m a great house guest. I even cook. And clean up.”

My mother makes a happy sound and reaches for the latch on the screen door. She even elbows my father a little to shift him out of the way.

He doesn’t move, though. He’s still staring at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “But you’re not… You won’t…” He falters.

“I won’t what?” I ask, already knowing where this is going.

Dad can’t even spit out the loathsome words. “You have a girlfriend?” he asks.

Coward. I shake my head. “I don’t have anybody. That’s why I’m standing on your front steps. I had to leave a bad relationship with nothing but my clothes and a box of books. But I still date men, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m still gay.”

My mother lets out a sound of dismay. And the way my father’s face shutters, I know I came here for nothing. 

“You haven’t been to church,” my father says, as if that isn’t a non-sequitur. But to him I suppose it isn’t.

“Not lately,” I admit. “My life blew up, Dad. I have nowhere to go. I’m asking to stay in my old room for a couple of weeks until I can regroup. And I’d help out around here, of course.”

There is a terrible silence while we stare at each other. And then he slowly shakes his head. “Not until you ask God’s forgiveness.”

It’s really astonishing that you can storm out of a house at eighteen in the middle of a shouting match, and then pick right up again in the same place eight years later. We’re still trapped in the same dialogue we’d had my entire last year of high school. 

“I am humble before the Lord,” I say quietly. “But I will not apologize to Him for who I love, or who I am.”

My father gives me a disgusted look, as if I just announced my committed worship of Satan. He folds his arms across his chest. The posture is clear. Go away. You are no longer my son.

Message received. I feel a flash of the old hurt, but it’s followed swiftly by exhaustion. My anger is muted by two days behind the wheel of my car and by already having years of living with his rejection. 

Still, I look him right in the eye. You arrogant fuck. Who says you can judge me?

My mother sniffs, and I know she’s crying. Mom wants me to come inside. But she doesn’t want it enough to stand up to him.

That’s when I finally realize I’m done here. Probably forever. There is nothing left to do but turn around and leave.

I take one last look at him. But there is no softness there. No affection for the kid he used to love, although I’ve always been me. I’m the same boy who caught all those baseballs with him in the various yards around the country where we lived when he was in the Air Force. I’m the same son who mowed the lawn and got up early to go fishing, because I craved his attention.

He doesn’t even blink. His rejection is unmoving.

So I turn around and make myself walk away.

The sound of the heavy wood door shutting behind me comes even more suddenly than I expect it to. And I have the sudden, terrible urge to spin around and hurl myself at that fucking door. Open up, you cowardly fuck! I might scream. Part of me wants to make a big scene, the way I used to when he lectured me during my senior year of high school.

But the other half of me is already numb. I drove all the way to Vermont thinking I might have a chance. When God closes a door, he opens a window. It’s the worst kind of cliché, but I wanted it to be true. All the way here I wondered if my breakup was some kind of sign that I was meant to live my life elsewhere. I thought maybe I was sent home again for a reason.

Apparently not, though. This week, when God closes a door, he also engages the deadbolt.

I go back to my car and start the engine again. Might as well have left her running. I do a three-point turn without looking at the house, yellowed pine needles crackling under my tires. It’s time to form a Plan B. So I point my car toward the center of Colebury.

I’ll bet my father is already watching the playoff game again. Maybe he’s treated himself to a second beer, just to wash away the disturbing intrusion of his queer son during the fifth inning.

And my mother is crying into a hand towel in the bathroom. Quietly. So she doesn’t make a fuss.

I can’t think about them right now. I have more practical problems—like how to get a job immediately. And where to sleep tonight. Best-case scenario—there is magically a job opening at the King Arthur Flour Bakery, where I began my career. But even if they hire me tomorrow, it will be at least two weeks until I could expect to be paid. 

I have to figure out how to stay alive for several weeks on a few hundred dollars. 

As I drive into town, I notice that my gas tank is almost empty. There goes twenty-five bucks. I drive slowly anyway, taking in the sights, wondering what’s changed. Just before the turn into Colebury, I spot a couple of new businesses. There’s a bar called the Gin Mill with lots of cars in the parking lot. That place looks like a good time, but I don’t have money to spend, not even on a single beer.

In the same lot, though, there’s another business that’s even more interesting to me. The Busy Bean. A coffee shop. It’s closed now, but I make a note to pay it a visit soon. If it’s a big coffee shop, they might be able to use a baker, one who doesn’t mind pouring coffee, too. 

Beggars can’t be choosers. And since I’m this close to becoming an actual beggar, I have to keep my options open.

I gun the engine, climbing the hill toward the town square. The houses look a little better maintained than the last time I was here. It’s a warm autumn night, and there are people standing outside the old diner, chatting. That place has shined itself up, too. When did Colebury get cute? I’m stunned at how cheerful it looks, with window boxes on the store fronts and every street lamp lit.

My nostalgia bubbles up inside me again like yeast. This is my hometown, even if I never felt welcome here before. I was born here. And even if I spent most of my first eighteen years living on various military bases around the world, I finished high school here, too. 

And I like the look of the place, damn it. I feel the pull. 

Wouldn’t it be funny if I settled down in Colebury right under the noses of my parents? I want to see the look on my father’s face when I walk into the diner holding hands with my future boyfriend.

Now there’s a happy thought I’ll need to revisit when I’m trying to fall asleep in the passenger seat later.

Behind the old diner, I see something that’s actually useful to me. A gym. TRY A WEEK ON US, reads a sign in the window.

It’s the first lucky break of the day. Or maybe the month, if I’m honest. If the gym has even a half-decent locker room, I can shower there every night. I’ll need to look professional while I’m job hunting.

I park my car and get out. Come on, Colebury. Don’t let me down.

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First Chapter: I'm Your Guy

Dear readers:

Here’s the unedited first draft of Chapter One from this fall’s I’m Your Guy! We can’t wait to bring you the rest of it!

~ Sarina & the team

***

Tom

I’ve got a half hour, and an empty house that needs filling. So I walk into the Upholstery Emporium with my platinum credit card and a sense of purpose.

But I stop three paces in. There must be an acre of furniture in front of me. Who knew there were so many different couches? I just need one large enough for a guy who’s six-two, that looks decent in my new house and can be delivered before Christmas.

Not so much to ask, right?

But this is a damn ocean of sofas. And the chairs—I also need a couple of those—seem to be completely on another side of the room. Why wouldn’t they just put this stuff together so I can see it all in one spot? And does anybody work here?

I glance around, and nobody seems to fit the part. There's a couple holding hands. Shoppers, obviously. The only other person in view is leaning against a wall next to a door marked office.

The first thing I notice about this man is that he's super attractive. Like, Adonis level of hot. With reddish blond hair that looks soft to the touch, and a toned, slim frame. He’s sharply dressed in tight trousers and a deep blue button down shirt.

The second thing I notice is that his jacket is slung over one arm. And his body language is all wrong to be an employee. He looks like he's waiting for somebody.

Not helpful.

A glance at my watch tells me that I’ve already wasted five minutes. And I’m no closer to having a furnished house.

My eyes make an involuntary journey back to Mr. Hottie against the wall. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to notice when a guy is super hot. Sometimes, though, there’s just no getting around it. He's way more interesting than furniture.

But his back straightens suddenly, and I don’t want to be caught staring. So I turn my head and see another man striding purposefully across the room. This one wears a name tag. Bingo. “Excuse me, sir, do you work here?”

“Of course.” His tone is about as friendly as the bark of a rabid coyote.

But I’m the customer, and the customer is always right. So I persevere. “I need some furniture.”

“Do you have an appointment?” he asks in a condescending voice.

Shit, really? I shake my head.

He gives me a look that confirms what I’d already expected—that he’s a dickwad. “Do you at least know what you want?”

“Not a chance. But I have an empty three bedroom townhouse in need of furniture.” And a big fat bank account, you grumpy little prick.

As my mother would say, he’s working my very last nerve. I’ve grown accustomed to getting good service in Denver. The city loves me. But this guy? He sighs like I'm ruining his day. “What style is your townhome, sir?”

“Style. Um…” I tug at the collar of my shirt, because I don’t know a damn thing about houses or furniture, and that’s why I came here in the first place. “It has… Well, there's a fireplace in the living room.”

“Stone? Brick? Contemporary? Early American?”

I close my eyes briefly and try to picture the fireplace. “Stones, I think. The walls are white.”

He snorts. “Where is it and when was it built?”

“It's in Boulder. Not new, but newish? The kitchen has granite countertops.” The kitchen was a selling point for me. My mother likes nice kitchens. When she visits next month, she can cook if she’s feeling up to it.

“You should look around, then.” He waves a hand toward the acre of upholstery. “The floor is laid out by style. You've got your mid-century modern.” He points at some sofas. “Your tuxedo. English roll arm. Lawson style—those are kind of sloppy, but some people are into that. Chesterfield style, which are stuffy, but again—some people are into that.”

I’m so fucking lost already. They all look like couches to me.

“Just as a baseline, what do you think of this?” He stops in front of a neon-green sofa. It’s a horrible color. One time we got a rookie player drunk on vodka and Gatorade, and he barfed that exact shade. “That's not the one for me.”

“Why? Is it the button tufting? Is it the camel back?”

“It's green.”

The salesman actually rolls his eyes. “The color doesn't matter at this point. Every piece of furniture in this store is available in three hundred different fabrics.”

“Three hundred?” That is not a selling point. I’m in a hurry, here.

“How do you feel about the shelter shape?” He points at a grey one.

“It's okay.”

“Or the chesterfield?”

I shrug, because I can't remember which one that was.

“How do you feel about welting?”

Again, I have no idea what that means, but I’m saved from answering. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he says with a growl. And then I realize he’s spotted Mr. Hottie, who’s still waiting by the door marked office. “Excuse me a moment. I have to take the trash out.”

That sounds ominous. And as he starts toward Mr. Hottie, the younger man begins to look nervous.

Not my problem, I remind myself. And it’s actually easier to browse without that man’s help. I walk among the sofas for a moment, trying to picture them in my living room. They’re kind of bright, though. Lots of bold colors and showy fabrics. And I’m in too big of a hurry to special order.

So when I spot a gray one, I cross the room to check it out. There’s a tag attached to the arm, but when I flip it over, the tag contains only a baffling list of serial numbers that mean nothing to me. The only words that make sense are Made in North Carolina.

“You’ve got some nerve!”

The anger in the rude salesman’s voice makes me flinch. But it’s not directed at me. It’s coming from behind the office door, only a few feet away.

“This isn’t a consignment shop,” he snaps. “It’s not my problem that you took a job with assholes. And if you don’t set your delivery date by next week, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

Yikes. I can’t imagine what Mr. Hottie did to deserve all that yelling.

But again—not my problem. And now my phone is ringing in my pocket. I yank it out, because I’m having a rough month, and I need to know if my mother needs me.

Nope. It’s my agent, though. Maybe she knows something about couches. “Hey, Bess? I’m in a furniture store. Do you happen to know what a Chesterfield is?”

“Not a clue,” she says. “Sounds like a British soap opera character.”

“Huh. What about an English Roll Arm?”

“Sounds like a judo move.”

I grin. “How about a tight back? Or welting?”

“Oh—I got this. A tight back is what you say when a guy has a really nice ass. And welting sounds like my husband’s body after a really rough game.”

I burst out laughing, because Bess always makes me feel better. This year I fired my long-time agent and hired her. So far it’s the best decision I ever made. “So I guess you can’t help me pick out a couch?”

“Lord, no,” she says. “I don’t go into stores unless Tank makes me. And even then, I expect a bribe.”

“I knew I liked you.” Giving up on the search, I sit down on the nearest sofa. “So what’s on your mind?”

“There’s a fashion brand that’s interested in you. Could be a really lucrative sponsorship.”

“Yeah?” I sit up a little straighter. I don’t have any big-money sponsorships yet, so I’m definitely interested. “Like workout gear?”

“Not exactly,” she says. “It’s underwear.”

“Underwear,” I repeat. “Compression shorts?”

She chuckles. “No, it’s more fashionable than that. I’ll email you some links, and we’ll talk after you see it.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Now go buy a couch. I’m no help with that, but I could find you a decorator if you need one.”

“Wait.” This had not occurred to me. “Should I hire someone to shop for my couch? Would that work?”

“Tom, if you find the right person, you can hire out anything. Call me after practice if you need a decorator.”

“Will do.” I stand up to go when the office door bursts open and the asshole who works here comes striding out. “Don’t come back until you’ve solved this,” he snaps.

“Got it,” Mr. Hottie says in a defeated voice. His face is red, like he’s upset. Head down, he walks toward the door. Under his breath, he says. “Worst store in Denver, anyway. It’s not like I’m dying to shop here.”

I follow him outside. “Excuse me. Sir?”

Hottie turns around. “Do you mean me?”

It takes me a moment to answer because he’s really spectacular up close. I didn’t know eyes came in that deep, stormy shade of blue. And I can’t decide what color his hair is exactly. It’s reddish, but not bright red.

His eyes narrow, and I suddenly remember that I was saying something. “Yeah, I had a question for you.” I jam my hands in my pockets and try to focus. “If this is the worst store in Denver, what’s a better one? I need to buy a lot of furniture on a tight timeline. And that guy just wanted to spit a lot of jargon at me.” I jerk my thumb toward the store. “Not helpful.”

Mr. Hottie rolls his eyes. “That guy wouldn’t help his own mother out of a ditch. You’re not a designer, right? You’re shopping for yourself?”

“Trying to.”

He flashes me a quick smile. “Go somewhere that actually likes its customers. Crate and Barrel. Macy’s. Room and Board.” He shrugs. “Or if you want to hire somebody to handle it for you, I’m your guy.”

“Wait, you’re a decorator?”

The brows lift over those intense blue eyes. “Interior designer.”

“Oh. What’s the difference?”

He sighs. “The pay scale. Theoretically. And level of training. See…” His gaze abruptly swings toward the street. “Fuck. No!” Then he dashes away from me, mid-sentence.

But now I see why. There’s a traffic officer standing at the bumper of a battered Subaru, writing out a parking ticket. And I hurry to follow, because I’m pretty sure this man can solve all my problems.

“Officer, it just expired,” Mr. Hottie sputters.

“Too late,” the cop says.

“I’ll leave right now,” Mr. Hottie tries.

“Wait,” I argue, because this is unacceptable. “We were having an important conversation.”

The officer doesn’t even spare me a glance. “The meter is expired. And this ain’t your first offense. Car’s got a rap sheet. I gotta call a tow truck to impound.”

“No,” Mr. Hottie whispers. “No no no…”

“Hey, officer?” I try. “You a Cougars fan?”

His chin snaps upward. “Sure. Why?” Then I see his eyes come into focus on my face. “Oh, shiiit,” he says as he recognizes me.

“Yeah, I’m running kind of late. I asked my assistant to park here and wait for me, but I didn’t give him enough change for the meter. The fault is mine.” I pull an envelope out of my pocket. Inside are a pair of comp tickets to an upcoming game. I was going to hand them over to the box office for charity. But I guess they can have the next set instead. “Take this, just as a friendly gesture. And then do whatever you need to make this right.”

For a long second, I don’t think he’ll take the bait. But then the guy slowly reaches for the envelope, nudges it open and exhales. “Row C. Whoa.”

“Enjoy ‘em,” I say. “Now what else do we have to do to get right with the City of Denver?”

He looks down at the beat up car as if he’s never seen it before. “Move the vehicle, gentlemen,” he says briskly. “Be on your way.”

Then he turns and walks off down the street, shoving the envelope in his pocket as he goes.

That settled, I turn toward the designer again. “Do you have a business card?”

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