Summer, 2020 is packed full of amazing reads…and you’re about to get an exclusive sneak peek.
IT’S TIME FOR THE SUMMER 2020 COVER REVEAL BONANZA.
Today, we are revealing not one, not two, but SIX covers, from debut authors to the beloved return of our favorite witchy characters! We may have even snatched an excerpt for each of these new reads for you to get an early taste of each one. New books will be added here as they are revealed, so keep an eye out here, on our Instagram, and Twitter to be in the know!
First up…we’re back witches. It’s time for These Witches Don’t Burn 2!
This Coven Won’t Break by Isabel Sterling – Coming June 2, 2020
Photo Illustrator: Travis Commeau; Illustrator: Amy Blackwell; Designer: Dana Li
That’s right, THEY’RE BACK! In this gripping, romantic sequel to These Witches Don’t Burn, Hannah must work alongside her new girlfriend to take down the Hunters desperate to steal her magic.
Read the excerpt below!
The first sight of Morgan leaves me breathless and almost giddy. She’s wearing hip-hugging jeans and a floppy gray sweater. Her red hair is still wet from a shower, and she’s twisted it up into a loose bun on the top of her head. Everything about her is cozy in all the ways I want to feel right now.
Her cheeks flush a gentle pink, and she glances up at me from the porch. The single step into the house makes me a few inches taller than her, and she looks through her lashes at me. “Your heart is racing,” she says, her voice soft.
“Yeah?” I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I feel it speed even faster. Embarrassment warms my cheeks until I’m sure they’re matching hers. “What can I say?” I whisper, trying for nonchalance but failing miserably. “Seeing you does silly things to my heart.”
I cringe as soon as the words pass my lips. Dating her has made me cheesier than being with Veronica ever did, but Morgan doesn’t seem to mind. The right corner of her lips quirks up, and she raises a small bag. The contents clink as they shift together. “I thought a spa day was in order.”
“You’re brilliant.” I press a quick kiss to her cheek and lead her to the living room. We start with the face masks Morgan brought and take selfies once they’ve dried, trying to see who can make the goofiest face with our expressions limited by the stiff clay.
I upload the best pictures to Instagram. “It’s too bad I can’t tag you.” Morgan’s parents made her delete all her accounts after everything that happened with Riley, the ex-boyfriend who turned out to be a Witch Hunter. He’s the whole reason they even moved to Salem from Minnesota.
She stands and offers me a hand. “Let’s wash this off before our faces turn to stone.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon watching movies while we paint each other’s nails. I decorate Morgan’s with little flowers and tell her about my meeting with Natalie Flores. Morgan asks if Veronica is going to testify, and I have to admit I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think she has a choice, so the DA must be doing some kind of video conference to prep her since Veronica disappeared off to Ithaca College back in August.
While Morgan paints my nails a shimmering sky blue, I tell her about the raid that was supposed to happen last night. How the Hunters’ drug, the one that could temporarily bury a witch’s magic, should be destroyed by now.
I text Cal to ask about the raid, but by the time the movie ends, he still hasn’t responded. Since Mom has disappeared into her bedroom to grade papers, I turn on the news. Morgan has me sit on the floor in front of her so she can braid my hair.
As she works, her Blood Magic flows through my veins. It eases away the lingering tension from my meeting with DA Flores, but it does more than that. It steadies me. Grounds me. The air plays along my skin, and since we’re alone in my house, I absently raise my hand and call to my magic. The air moves along my fingers, swirling and dancing without pain or force.
The relief of it almost makes me cry.
“Can I ask you something?” I say as Morgan secures a tie around the end of the braid.
“About what?” She shifts back into the cushions now that her work is done.
“About how your magic works.” I perch on the edge of the couch beside her, weighing my words. I want so badly to know everything about her, want to understand why her magic affects mine, but I don’t want to hurt her by asking the wrong way. There’s still so much I don’t know about Blood Witches. And the stuff I do know? It’s hard to tell which parts are based on stereotypes and nothing more.
“What about it?” Morgan prompts when I’ve stayed quiet too long. Her expression is carefully neutral.
“Is it . . . instinctual? Like, do you hear my heartbeat whenever I’m close or do you have to listen for it? And what about right now? Are you making me feel calm on purpose, or is it just . . . happening?”
Morgan drops her gaze. Her forehead creases. After a moment, the steady thrum of her magic disappears from inside me. A dull ache blooms in my ribs, and I hastily release my hold on the air. When I let my magic go, the pain goes with it.
“I guess it’s a bit of both,” Morgan says finally, looking at me again. “Sometimes I do it on purpose, like at school that first day when you were so stressed out after seeing Nolan. But I didn’t realize my magic was affecting you now. I can stop if you don’t like it.”
“No!” I say, probably a bit too fast. “You don’t have to stop. It’s . . . ” The only thing that makes my magic work. “It’s nice.”
“You don’t think it’s creepy?”
I reach for her hand and thread her fingers between mine. “Of course not.”
We settle into the couch to watch the news. The meteorologist forecasts storms early next week, and Morgan leans close to rest her head on my shoulder. “I can’t hear your heartbeat, by the way. I feel it like a second pulse next to mine. Mostly in my wrists, and only when you’re close.” She turns and presses a kiss to my neck, giggling when she returns to using my shoulder like a pillow. “Your heart always skips when I do that.”
“Hey, that’s cheating.”
“What? You have more experience kissing girls than me. I’ll take any advantage I can get.”
I laugh and lean close to kiss her again, but everything in me goes cold when Benton’s picture appears on the screen.
He Must Like You by Danielle Younge-Ullman – Coming July 14, 2020
An authentic, angry, and surprisingly funny and romantic novel about sexual harassment, from the award-winning author of Everything Beautiful Is Not Ruined.
Read the excerpt below!
“I have the item” is the first thing I hear when I walk into work on Sunday night.
The item in question is my duvet, and the person winking at me about it is Kyle.
Kyle, who is standing behind the host stand in the cheery foyer of the Goat wearing a mini cowboy hat with plush horns curling out of it—the latest in his growing collection of goat-themed apparel. He looks hilarious, cute, and deceptively harmless.
“It’s in my truck. I’ll give it to you after?”
“Sure. Thanks,” I say, with what I hope is a neutral-seeming nod.
I’ll have to wash it in hot water. Twice.
“Or we could go for a drive, climb into the back, get cozy,” Kyle suggests, with a waggle of his white-blond eyebrows.
My insides take flight like a flock of startled birds, and then I’m doing this awkward thing where I’m cringing and trying to smile at the same time. But smiling might be too encouraging and so I stop, because even after three weeks of my ignoring his texts and generally avoiding him as much as possible, Kyle continues to look at me with those stupidly hopeful, flirty eyes.
Still, I don’t want to be rude. We work together, and in that capacity Kyle has been fine. In fact, except for the one (admittedly problematic) incident, he’s been great. Not to mention, I’m the one who asked him to bring me the duvet when my mom finally noticed it was missing today. I’m also the one who let him wear it home from my house in the first place.
“I’ll just grab it from you after,” I say. “I have a lot of homework.”
“Your call,” he says with a shrug.
“Nothing,” I say, with another too-bright smile. “Um, what’s my section?”
“The patio,” Kyle says, gesturing at the giant, erasable seating chart that sits on the host podium.
“Yeah. That okay?”
It’s a big section to handle solo but more tables means more tips, so I say, “Totally.”
“By the way, Perry’s coming in, and he asked for you specifically,” Kyle says, looking at me like he expects this to make me ecstatic.
Perry Ackerman is a handful, and high on the list of people I’d rather not have to deal with right now. But he’s a great tipper, and a regular, so I give Kyle a thumbs-up and say, “Awesome.”
“I knew that’d make you happy.”
“So happy,” I say, and walk away taking deep breaths.
On my way through the restaurant I wave at my fellow servers Brianna and Kat, both of whom are working in the front tonight. Kat seems not to see me, but Brianna gives me a thumbs-up and pulls a comically panicked face that tells me she’s already in the weeds.
The patio is at the back of the restaurant, and is, in fact, not a patio at all, but a windowless, rectangular space tricked out with fake plants, paper lanterns, an anemic fountain, and painted “windows” on every wall that do not fool anyone.
I have just enough time to tidy the section, tally my float, and gulp down a half cup of hideously bitter coffee behind the wall of the service station before I hear, “Libbyyyyyyyy!”
“You got the ol’ perv?” Brianna gives me a wry, dimpled grin as she comes through with a stack of dirty plates. Her amazing crown of black braids adds at least three inches to her diminutive stature.
“All right, tits up,” she says, which I’ve come to understand means some combination of “chin up” and “good luck.”
I snort and square my shoulders.
We Are Not From Here by Jenny Torres Sanchez – Coming May 19, 2020
A ripped-from-the-headlines novel of desperation, escape, and survival across the U.S.-Mexico border.
Read the excerpt below!
When you live in a place like this, you’re always planning your escape. Even if you don’t know when you’ll go. Even if you stare out your kitchen window, looking for reasons to stay—you stare at the red Coca-Cola sign on the faded turquoise wall of Don Felicio’s store that serves the coldest Coca-Colas you’ve ever tasted. The gauzy orange of the earth—both on the ground and swirling in the air—that has seeped into every one of your happiest memories. The green palms of the tree you climbed one time to pick and crack the ripest coconut that held the sweetest water you gave your mother. And the deep blue of the sky you tell yourself is only this blue here.
You can look at all this and still be planning your escape.
Because you’ve also seen how blood turns brown as it seeps into concrete. As it mixes with dirt and the excrements and innards of leaking dead bodies. You’ve stared at those dark places with your friends on the way to school, the places people have died. The places they disappeared from. The places they reappeared one morning months later, sometimes alive, sometimes dead, but mostly in fragments. You’ve watched dogs piss in those places. On those bodies that once cried with life.
You plan your escape because no matter how much color there is or how much color you make yourself see, you’ve watched every beautiful thing disappear from here. Made murky by night and darkness and shadow.
You plan your escape because you’ve seen your world turn black.
You plan your escape.
But you’re never really ready to go.
The Jewel Thief by Jeannie Mobley – Coming May 26, 2020
A lush, slow-burn romance set in 17th century France, and based on the history of the Hope Diamond–The Glittering Court meets Alex and Eliza.
Read the excerpt below!
Louvre Palace, April 25, 1673
I kneel, gritting my teeth against the pain of my cracked ribs and blistered hand. The hard, cold edge of the marble step bites into my knees as the king’s glare forces me down against it. Such cruel irony. I am exactly where I’d planned to be on this day, kneeling before the glory of Louis XIV, but so very far from the victory I’d envisioned. I should be here with my father, beauty beyond imagining in hand. Instead, I am chained and beaten, a delicious spectacle for this heartless court, and Papa—well, who knows exactly where Papa is. I pray to the Virgin and every saint in heaven that he is finishing our grand project and not lying in a drunken stupor somewhere, rendering all our hard work and sacrifice in vain.
“Juliette Pitau.” The king’s voice draws me out of my prayer. He rolls my name slowly across his tongue as he might an old wine, deciding if there is any sweetness to it, or if it has soured to vinegar.
I raise my eyes to his gleaming presence. Louis XIV is all that he claims to be—the living sun—ablaze with the fire of his own vanity. Black-clad ministers orbit him, their muted coats and manners only sharpening his brilliance. When they glance my way, they register cold indifference to colder disdain, but I don’t care. The king alone matters. He alone will sanction death, and how much pain I will endure before it comes.
He alone is the one I must defy.
I clench my teeth and dare a glance at his face. A mistake, I realize too late. He snares my eyes with his own and I cannot look away. Knowing I am pinned, he smiles and leans back in his gilded chair, luxuriating in his power to hold me dangling, poised to fall the moment he wills it. He stretches out one silk-hosed leg, allowing the court to admire his strong, curving calf, his shapely ankle, and, of course, his stylish, well-heeled shoe with its preposterously large bow.
“Juliette Pitau,” he says again, his voice languid like a cat lazily stretching, flexing its claws. “I am waiting for an answer.”
I swallow and draw a breath. I have prepared an answer, though I know it is not the one he wants. I force out the trembling words. “I confess to all charges, Your Majesty. I alone am guilty.”
His smirk tightens ever so slightly. “It seems to me, Mademoiselle Pitau, that you are at the center of a large conspiracy.”
My heart clenches with fear and my words tumble out too quickly. “No, Your Majesty. The others are innocent. They had no knowledge—”
“Where is my diamond, Juliette?” My name cracks like a whip on his tongue.
I swallow again as desperation flares through my body. Doubtless, the king can hear it in the quiver of my voice. But this is my only chance. “You will have it, Your Majesty. If you will only give us two days! All we have done is for your glory. You will shine like the sun, I assure you!”
His eyebrows raise in their exquisite arch, his control tucked neatly back into place. “Do I not shine like the sun already?” He shifts, letting the gold embroidery on his velvet robes catch the light. Rubies and diamonds flash from every finger.
“You are le Roi-Soleil,” I reply, obediently. “The Sun King, resplendent in his jewels and power. The day you came into power is the day the sun rose on all of France.”
Amusement ripples across his features, and I realize I have slipped into a trap. Like a cat, he will play with me for a time before the fatal blow.
My Eyes Are Up Here by Laura Zimmerman – Coming June 23, 2020
Illustrator: Ana Hard
Insightful, frank, and funny, My Eyes Are Up Here is a razor-sharp debut about a teenage girl struggling to rediscover her sense of self in the year after her body decided to change all the rules.
Read the excerpt below!
Everything changed in one day during the summer between eighth and ninth grade. I put on a bathing suit and came downstairs to wait for a ride to the pool. Mom took one look at me and said, “Is that the only bathing suit you have?”
Two B-size breasts had appeared overnight. B+ even.
Not really, because breast tissue does not instantly inflate like a life raft on a whale boat. But I hadn’t noticed that they’d gotten so big until my mom pointed out that they were nipping out of the swim top that had fit perfectly when we’d visited my grandparents in Florida the winter before. That is, I didn’t notice them until someone else pointed them out to me.
I suddenly had something new to think about. And I didn’t hate that. Not at first.
A few weeks later, though, they were Cs, and by Halloween they’d hit D. And then they kept on going.
My best guess now is that they might be H cups. H. AAAAYTCH.
32H. I’m not 100 percent sure, because even if you watch a dozen videos on how to measure, it’s much harder to do on yourself, especially if your breasts tend to hang low. Then the measurement is misleading. Have I considered having my mom or a friend or a stranger in Victoria’s Secret measure me, as every perky-boobed, bra-curious woman on the internet does? NO FUCKING WAY, but thank you for the suggestion.
The exact size doesn’t matter that much anyway because once you get past a couple of Ds, bras are expensive, hideous, or hard to find. Or they pretend to be the right size but don’t actually hold anything up, in, or still.
I have two main bras, identical except that one’s white, one’s beige. They didn’t fit right when I ordered them last year and they really don’t fit right now. My breasts squeeze out in every direction, the band feels like I borrowed a belt from an American Girl doll and cinched it around my ribs, and from the waist up I look like a combination of a postnuclear mutation and the spell Harry Potter used to blow up Aunt Marge.
So that’s what I think about when I’m supposed to be thinking about a serve. Or a block. Or world hunger. Or a boy.
All the cute tops Mom bought for me over the last couple of years are packed into a tub, and I spend most of my time tucked under a big gray hoodie. Big, plain, loose, dark, unnoticeable.
Once in a while Mom will look at what I’m wearing and say, “Want to go shopping for some new things?”
“I’m good,” I’ll say. I’m not good, though. I’m not good at all.
Verona Comics by Jennifer Dugan – Coming April 21, 2020
Artist: Jeff Östberg, Designer: Maggie Edkins.
ICYMI, Jennifer Dugan’s adorable new novel VERONA COMICS is coming to shelves!
From the author of Hot Dog Girl comes a fresh and funny YA contemporary romance about two teens who fall in love in an indie comic book shop.
Let it Snow, Netflix Tie-in Edition! Available October 22, 2019
Did you hear? Let It Snow is coming to Netflix November 8th! Whether you re-read it every holiday season, or are just hearing about it now, Let It Snow is going to steal your heart on the page AND the screen.
A Christmas Eve snowstorm transforms one small town into a romantic haven, the kind you see only in movies. Well, kinda. After all, a cold and wet hike from a stranded train through the middle of nowhere would not normally end with a delicious kiss from a charming stranger. And no one would think that a trip to the Waffle House through four feet of snow would lead to love with an old friend. Or that the way back to true love begins with a painfully early morning shift at Starbucks. Thanks to three of today’s bestselling teen authors—John Green, Maureen Johnson, and Lauren Myracle—the magic of the holidays shines on these hilarious and charming interconnected tales of love, romance, and breathtaking kisses.
Thanks for joining us for our cover reveal bonanza!