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Farmers make the earth move.

The last person Griffin Shipley expects to find stuck in a ditch on his Vermont country road is his ex-hookup. Five years ago they’d shared a couple of steamy nights together. But that was a lifetime ago.

At twenty-seven, Griff is now the accidental patriarch of his family farm. Even his enormous shoulders feel the strain of supporting his mother, three siblings and a dotty grandfather. He doesn’t have time for the sorority girl who’s shown up expecting to buy his harvest at half price.

Vermont was never in Audrey Kidder’s travel plans. Neither was Griff Shipley. But she needs a second chance with the restaurant conglomerate employing her. Okay—a fifth chance. And no self-righteous lumbersexual farmer will stand in her way.

They’re adversaries. They want entirely different things from life. Too bad their sexual chemistry is as hot as Audrey’s top secret enchilada sauce, and then some.


EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT: Bittersweet

Sarina Bowen

8 March 2016

BOOK SERIES: 

“Farming. Who knew? Apples, bulging biceps and rippling pecs as far as the eye could see…” I bring you a new excerpt from Sarina Bowen’s upcoming novel that is releasing on 4 Jun 2016, Bittersweet, about a sexy farmer and the woman he never thought he’d see again…

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Excerpt

A moment later, the road turned suddenly from pavement to dirt, taking me by surprise. The little rental car bounced on the new surface, and I felt a sudden loss of traction. So I slammed on the brakes.

Big mistake.

I skidded, the back of the car swinging its ass over to the right. I experienced a moment of terror as the earth shifted in an unpredictable way. Two seconds later, the car came to a dramatic stop. My teeth knocked together and my seatbelt bit into my shoulder. But I was still clutching the wheel, still vertical. Mostly. The passenger side had dipped into a gully at the side of the road.

OkayI’m still on one piece. Thank you, baby Jesus.

With shaky hands, I unlatched my seatbelt, opened the door and struggled to climb out of the tilting car. My heart was whirring like a KitchenAid mixer on the highest setting. I had a rush of adrenaline from the loss of control. “Shit!” I swore, standing on wobbly knees on the dirt road.

Trying to get my breathing under control, I eyed the Prius. It wasn’t at that weird of an angle. Maybe I could just drive it out of the ditch.

But when I circled the rear bumper, my heart sank. The back tire was as flat as a fallen soufflé.

Damn it!

And now where was my phone? I opened the car door again to look for my purse. But naturally everything had shifted toward the passenger side and then slid onto the floor. The angle was a bear, so I resorted to lying on the driver’s seat and sort of diving for my bag on the passenger-side floor. I got my hands on it, but of course the bag had been open. So I spent the next couple of minutes grabbing stuff and shoving it back in the bag. Lipsticks. House keys. My phone.

Only when I thought I had everything did I finally heave myself up and out of the car again, ass first. When I spun around, my heart nearly failed. A giant, bearded man was standing in the road behind me, muscular arms crossed over his chest, frowning. “Audrey Kidder?” he growled.

The growly monster knew my name. Wait. I knew that growly monster. “Griffin?” I squeaked. He looked so different. Five years had elapsed since my freshman year at BU. It wasn’t that long. He’d been an upperclassman and a football star. I was used to seeing him clean-shaven in football pads, or holding a red cup at a frat party.

The man standing in front of me was still just as tall and muscular as the football player I’d once known (biblically). But there the resemblance stopped. This Griff Shipley was tanned and ripped in a different way. He wore a tight T-shirt reading FARMWAY and a baseball cap with a tractor on it. His work pants were paint-spattered and worn in a way that did not resemble the faux-aging of an Abercrombie pair, but rather seemed weathered from actual work.

And my God did he fill them out beautifully.

I had a flicker of a memory of the last time I’d seen Griff Shipley. We were in his room at the frat house, and he had me up against his bedroom door. My legs were wrapped around his waist while he fu—

“What are you doing on my farm?” he demanded. “Aside from driving into my ditch.”

“Your…farm?” I squeaked, feeling hot all over. “I’m, uh, here to see your father. I work for Boston Premier Group. They want to talk about buying produce. And cider. The yummy alcoholic kind.” I was babbling now.

He lifted his chin thoughtfully. “Do they now?”

Get it together, Kidder. I stood up straighter. “I’m the representative. Is your father home?”

Griff lifted an eyebrow. “You’re too late.”

“Really? I can come back tomorrow.” That was a great idea, actually. I needed to compose myself.

“You’re too late, because my father passed away a couple years ago.”

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(standalone stories with interconnected characters)

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