One of Oprah Magazine’s 21 Romance Novels That Are Set to Be the Best of 2020, EW’s 20 New Books to Read in February, and PopSugar’s 25 Brilliant New Books Hitting Shelves. A LibraryReads Pick for February and Amazon Best Romance of the Month!
What genre(s) do you write?
I write contemporary romances.
Coffee or tea lover?
Both! I drink coffee during the day, and tea in the evening. But if I had to choose, I’d kick tea to the curb and stick with coffee. Always.
Name one thing on your bucket list.
I’d like to run a marathon someday. But honestly, this will never happen.
Do you have pets?
I have a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel named Zoe. She’s my writing partner, and I adore her.
When I wake up every morning I…
Check Twitter. (Yes, it’s a problem.)
Weirdest or unique thing you own.
The most unique thing I own is an art piece that simulates the iconic cover of the Hamilton original cast recording; the artist created it by handwriting the lyrics of various songs in the musical. It’s a conversation piece, for sure.
Do you have any hobbies or particular skills?
I love to sing. In fact, I met my husband in college when we both auditioned for an acapella group. Fun fact: When I was a kid, I appeared on a low-budget show called Stairway to Stardom. One of the funniest comments online is that “the stairway did not, in fact, lead to stardom.”
What do you hope readers will experience or gain when reading your stories?
I want people to smile when they read my books. My hope is that the time they spend in my worlds brings them joy. Okay, maybe I’d like them to get teary for a few minutes as well, but only for a few minutes. When people say they laughed out loud reading my books, I get this warm feeling in my chest. That’s the best compliment!
What inspired you to write The Worst Best Man?
I love weddings, and I’ve always wanted to write a heroine who plans them for a living. Several years ago, I wrote a blurb for a story titled The Wedding Disorganizer, in which the hero of the book did everything in his power to stop his sister from getting married, putting him squarely at odds with the woman helping the bride to plan her wedding. When I sat down to add meat to the story, however, I realized that although the concept was catchy, my idea didn’t have enough purpose behind the conflict to support a full-length novel. So I took my germ of an idea and tweaked it, this time around making the brother the person responsible for the demise of the wedding planner’s own nuptials. Cue the hate-to-love trope, the shenanigans, and ALL THE FEELS.
Two or three words that best describe your writing style.
Funny. Flirty. A Little Dirty. That’s a pretty accurate description of what to expect from my books. And yes, they’re steamy.
USA TODAY BESTSELLER!
"A romantic comedy that's fun and flirty, young and fresh." – PopSugar
One of Oprah Magazine's 21 Romance Novels That Are Set to Be the Best of 2020, EW's 20 New Books to Read in February, and PopSugar's 25 Brilliant New Books Hitting Shelves. A LibraryReads Pick for February and Amazon Best Romance of the Month!
Mia Sosa delivers a sassy, steamy #ownvoices enemies-to-lovers novel, perfect for fans of Jasmine Guillory, Helen Hoang, and Sally Thorne!
A wedding planner left at the altar? Yeah, the irony isn’t lost on Carolina Santos, either. But despite that embarrassing blip from her past, Lina’s offered an opportunity that could change her life. There’s just one hitch… she has to collaborate with the best (make that worst) man from her own failed nuptials.
Marketing expert Max Hartley is determined to make his mark with a coveted hotel client looking to expand its brand. Then he learns he’ll be working with his brother’s whip-smart, stunning—absolutely off-limits—ex-fiancée. And she loathes him.
If they can nail their presentation without killing each other, they’ll both come out ahead. Except Max has been public enemy number one ever since he encouraged his brother to jilt the bride, and Lina’s ready to dish out a little payback of her own.
Soon Lina and Max discover animosity may not be the only emotion creating sparks between them. Still, this star-crossed couple can never be more than temporary playmates because Lina isn’t interested in falling in love and Max refuses to play runner-up to his brother ever again...
"The Worst Best Man is rom-com perfection. . . Sosa has a gift with words that’s infectious and wry, one that keeps the pages turning in delight." — Entertainment Weekly
The Worst Best Man by Mia Sosa
Published by HarperCollins on February 4, 2020
Buy on Amazon
Excerpt of THE WORST BEST MAN by Mia Sosa
Max clears his throat. The staccato sound disrupts my stream of
consciousness, and the significance of the situation truly hits me.
I’m not getting married today.
My throat constricts and my chest tightens. Oh, no, no, no.
Hold it together, Lina. You’re a pro at this. I wrestle with my tears
and body slam them back into their ducts.
Max inches forward. “What can I do? Do you need a hug? A
shoulder to cry on?”
“I don’t know what I need,” I say hoarsely, unable to pull off
the unruffled demeanor I’d hoped to convey.
His sad eyes meet mine and he opens his arms. I step into his
embrace, desperate to connect with someone so I’ll feel less . . .
adrift. He holds me with a light touch, and somehow I know
he’s restraining himself, as though he wants to keep me afloat rather than pull me under. Through the fog, I notice Max is damp, fresh from a shower possibly, and
I’m struck by the absence of any detectible fragrance on his skin. I wonder briefly if my scent will cling to him when he leaves, then wonder just as briefly whether my brain’s short-circuiting.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a whisper-soft tone.
I don’t move as I consider his question. Maybe remaining still will help me assess the
damage. By all rights, I should be hurt, angry, ready to rail
against the injustice of what Andrew’s done to me. But I’m none
of those things. Not yet. The truth is, I’m numb—and
more than a little confused.
Andrew’s supposed to be “the one.” For two years, we’ve
shared interesting conversations, satisfying sex, and stability.
Most important, he’s never pushed my buttons—not
even once—and I can’t imagine a better choice for a lifelong partner
than someone who doesn’t trigger my worst impulses. Until this
morning, Andrew and I seemed to be on the same page about
the mutual benefits of this union. Today he’s apparently in a different
book altogether—and I have no idea why.
Max fills the silence, babbling for us both: “I don’t know
what’s going on with him. One minute he was fine. And then we
talked last night. We went barhopping, you know? Somewhere
between the shots of Patrón, I said some foolish things. It went
sideways from there. I’m sorry. So damn sorry.”
The anguish in his voice snags my attention, gives me a hook to
sink my psyche into. He’s apologizing for something rather than
consoling me, which doesn’t make sense. I slip out of his arms and
back away. “What do you mean you said some foolish things?”
He drops his chin and stares at the floor. “Honestly, I don’t
remember all that much. I was drunk.”
I skirt around him so I’m not blinded by the sunlight
streaming in from the arched bay window—the better to see
this fuckery. Oh, the cloudless sky chafes, too; wasting perfect
wedding-day weather should be a petty crime punishable by at
least a few days’ jail time. “How’d he tell you? Did you speak to
“He sent a text,” Max says softly, the floor still the object of
his undivided attention.
“Let me see it,” I demand.
His head shoots up at the command. For a few seconds, we do
nothing but stare at each other. He flares his nostrils. I . . . don’t.
His gaze darts to my lips, which part of their own volition—until
I realize what I’m doing and snap my mouth shut.
My body temperature rises, and I’m tempted to tug at the lace
on my arms and chest. I feel itchy all over, as if millions of fire ants
are marching across my skin to the tune of Beyoncé’s “Formation.”
I mentally push away the discomfort and hold out my hand. “I
need to see what he wrote.” When he doesn’t budge, I add, “Please.”
Max blows out a long breath, then reaches into the back pocket
of his jeans, pulls out his phone, and taps on the screen. “Here.”
With my lips pursed in concentration, I read the jumble of
sentences confirming that I, Lina Santos, up-and-
coming wedding planner to DC professionals, am officially a jilted bride.
Wow. Okay. Just. Yeah. I couldn’t be more off-brand
if I tried.
Still studying Andrew’s text, I narrow my eyes on the sentence
that annoys me the most: Thanks to you, I can see the truth now.
Oh, really? And what truth did you help my fiancé see, Max?
Hmm? God, I can just imagine those two
talking crap about me in some grimy pub. Makes me want to scream.
I shove the phone back into his hand. “So to sum up: You and
Andrew got shit-faced last night, chatted about something you
claim not to remember, based on that conversation he’s decided
not to marry me, and he doesn’t have the decency to tell me any
of this himself.”
Max is slow to agree, but eventually he nods. “That’s the sense
I get, yes.”
“He’s a dick,” I say flatly.
“I won’t argue with that,” Max replies, the beginnings of a
smile daring to appear at the corners of his trash-talking
“And you’re an asshole.”
His face sours, but I refuse to give a rat’s ass about his feelings.
Whatever nonsense he spouted off last night convinced my
fiancé to tank our wedding. I’d been so close to marrying the
right man for me, and a single drunken conversation derailed
I straighten and grab my own phone off the dressing table,
sending out an SOS to my mother, aunts, and cousins:
Me: Eu preciso de vocês agora.
Telling them I need them now will get their attention; doing
so in Portuguese will get them here within seconds. In the
meantime, I scowl at the worst best man I could have ever asked
for. “Max, do me a favor, will you?”
He takes a step in my direction, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. “Anything.”
“Get. The fuck. Out.”
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