Hannah Brown knows a thing or two about romance. After all, she was on one of the hottest dating shows and then led one of the most iconic seasons herself. So it only makes sense that she wrote her first romance novel, and trust us when we say that you will absolutely fall in love with it, just like we basically have with everything else she’s done.
“Writing Mistakes We Never Made was a very different experience than my first book, God Bless This Mess. The main difference was the level of creativity writing a work of fiction requires. It was really fun but also took a lot of hard work and planning, to create this world for Emma, Finn, and the ‘Core Four,’” Hannah told Cosmopolitan. “I, of course, drew inspiration and truth from my own experiences and feelings, but these characters are their own, where my first book, God Bless This Mess was more of a cathartic and emotional struggle because of the vulnerability it takes to share your truth from real life hurt and healing.”
Cosmopolitan has an exclusive new look at Hannah’s newest novel, Mistakes We Never Made, which is set to be released in May 7, 2024. After the bride and her BFF go missing, Emma must go on a special hunt to get her back alongside her sort-of-situationship guy Finn. You know just what an almost-relationship needs? A hot road trip where absolutely anything can happen.
“This book has a lot of my favorite tropes: forced proximity, second chance, road-trip romance, and of course an enemies to lovers,” she continued. “But in a believable way! I’m sorry, if I really hate someone, there is no way I am putting myself in a confined space with them—no matter how much I love my friend!”
Ready to find out more about Emma and Finn’s journey? Here’s some more info from our friends at Forever:
Bachelorette fan favorite and New York Times bestselling author Hannah Brown delivers the perfect beach read with her fiction debut—“a fun, fast, epic rom-com" (Abby Jimenez, #1 New York Times bestselling author).
Emma Townsend can sum up her situationship with hot-as-hell romantic red flag Finn Hughes in one word: almost. They almost dated in high school. They almost hooked up after college. They almost took things too far one magical night. Their whole story is one series of “almosts” and “nearlys,” and now they just kind of can’t stand each other. Like, at all.
But this weekend, one of their mutuals is getting married...and Emma and Finn will have to pretend they don’t remember how disastrous it was the last time they were in a room together.
Emma’s doing a stellar job of playing it cool—until the bride goes missing. Now, with two days before the wedding, Emma and Finn are hitting the road in a sweet vintage sports car in hopes of salvaging someone else’s happily-ever-after.
Yet somewhere between Emma’s breakfast burrito throw-down, a high-stakes kayak chase (it can happen), and an outrageous Vegas detour, these sworn enemies are crossing more than just state lines. As old feelings spark once more, Emma begins to question whether risking your heart is ever really a mistake.
Romance, drama, and tons of what ifs. Sounds like the book of our dreams and yes, there’s a lot we can take from it too.
“Writing it just really solidified to me that relationships are complicated and hard, usually because of the individual unresolved hurts of our past,” Hannah revealed. “To really experience love, we have to be able to love ourselves and accept and heal those parts of us that we’ve spent so much time running from.”
Which makes sense considering that just like all of us, Hannah is also looking for all that and more in her books.
“I’m always reading two books. One that is actively teaching me and challenging me to grow, and then one that allows me to escape. My favorite books are when the books that I thought I was reading to escape teach me a thing or two about my own life through these fictious characters. That was really important for me to capture in this book,” Hannah continued. “I want people to see themselves in Emma and go on the journey with her as she learns more about herself. In the romance genre, I love the books Rebecca Serle writes because I think she does an excellent job of telling a really human story (with a twist of magic!).”
Luckily, you don’t have to wait too long to see what happens next in this will-they-won’t-they road trip. In fact, you can check out an exclusive excerpt below. Just make sure to preorder Mistakes We Never Made and Hannah’s previous book while ’re at it! Oh, and here’s one final message from Hannah herself:
“Do not let the fear of a mistake stop you from experiencing love. Love is always worth the risk.”
An Excerpt From Mistakes We Never Made
By Hannah Brown
15
THURSDAY NIGHT
(Two days before the wedding)
The Vegas Eiffel Tower straddles the Paris casino, and even in its cheesiness, it still manages to be romantic. It’s helped by a glow that sparks off the windows of the hotels and settles into every crevice of the city. We’re well past sunset now, but with all the manmade light around us, everything is infused with a luminosity. The Strip seems to wink back at the sky, providing its own glitter in a million twinkling lights and flashing neon signs. New York might be the official “city that never sleeps,” but I think they got that one wrong—clearly, that moniker should belong to Las Vegas, Nevada.
Finn is already there when I arrive. It looks like he was able to find somewhere to steam his jacket, and I’m grateful for the host’s forcing him into it. For a moment, guilt spikes through me when I realize how happy and relieved I feel to take a break from chasing Sybil, but I try to push it down. Of course I still want to find her and help her repair whatever went wrong, get her back on track, and make this wedding happen. It’s my duty as a friend. But there’s this quiet voice in my head, one that doesn’t get a lot of airtime, that’s saying, What about me? When does it get to be my turn to be top priority? Maybe it’s the wish in the fountain, or just Finn’s presence, but I feel myself wanting to pause time and stop running to fix things for other people. Just for this one evening. Not even the whole evening—just this one dinner. The world won’t come falling down around me if I take this one little break to actually enjoy myself.
With Finn.
And besides, we may have missed the welcome party but we still have all day tomorrow to find Sybil and bring her back in time for the rehearsal dinner Friday night—and, of course, the wedding on Saturday.
We will just have to figure out a way to keep Jamie feeling positive and distracted. And what better place to do that than Vegas?
“You look really beautiful,” Finn says, when I’m close enough to hear. We start walking, and his fingers barely graze my elbow, like he doesn’t trust himself or he’s worried I’ll bolt.
“Wait!” I say, and Finn’s hand pulls back like he’s been stung. “Shouldn’t we snap a picture for Sybil?”
Finn blinks as if he’d completely forgotten, which prompts a crooked smile from me. He’s basically just admitted that the whole thing was a ruse, and that he’s gotten swept up in the moment as much as I have. “Yes. Right. A picture for Sybil,” he says, nodding. I stand beside him and try to angle our two bodies so that the Eiffel Tower sparkles behind us, but I can’t get enough of the background in the photo. “Here, my arms are longer, I’ll take the selfie.” Finn slips the phone from my hand and pulls me to his side. I’m looking up at him as I hear the camera app click. Startled, I turn toward the camera and put on my happiest and most carefree smile. After a few more shots, Finn hands me back my phone, but leaves his arm around me. As we walk under the Eiffel Tower and into the Paris casino, Finn says, “I managed to get us a reservation at place called Chez Nous. Is that okay?” He smiles down at me. “I know you love pommes frites.”
“I’ll eat anything.” And I mean it. The boxed turkey sandwich from the Del hasn’t been enough to make up for the fumes I’ve been running on for the last few days.
“Anything except pure unadulterated kale,” he says.
“Anything but that,” I agree.
The restaurant Finn chose is unequivocally French. The ceilings are high, and the mostly white floors are peppered with small black tiles. The mirrors that ring the restaurant double, triple, and quadruple the twinkling of the chandeliers, but the lights are dim enough that it still feels intimate as the host leads us to our table. Finn’s hand settles on the small of my back, and I feel the warmth of it through the thin silk of my dress. We slide into either side of a small booth upholstered in a soft peach velvet.
“I have to say, I would have been okay with food court Panda Express, but this is nice too.” Nice? More like the most frickin’ romantic evening I’ve had in far too long. “Besides, I need to refuel so I can be at full strength to cheer on my guy, Ibarra, later. Or maybe I’ll root for Kuzmin. Who’s the underdog? I’ll root for whoever that is.”
“I really do hate boxing,” Finn says.
“Aww, your kind, otter-and-fox-loving heart just can’t take a little pugilism, huh?”
“No, it’s actually because I got into a pretty awful fight on Sixth Street the fall before my dad died. It was me and this white kid, and of course, I was the one that got dragged to the police station.” Whatever quippy zinger I planned on tossing his way next dies on the tip of my tongue, anger rolls through me at the injustice, and I grip the napkin in my lap. “That was a really rough time for me,” Finn continues. “I didn’t know how to deal with everything I was feeling…” He trails off but I remember his black eye, from back at Katie Dalton’s pool party all those years ago.
“That makes sense.” I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
“After he passed, I was in a pretty bad place for a while. Got into a few more fights. None as bad as the one in Austin, but it’s like…” He shakes his head and looks around, as if hoping the right words will appear on the tray of a passing waiter. “Strange as it sounds, it felt like the only way to make the pain stop.” Finally, he looks straight at me, like he’s desperate for me to understand. “I’m not like that anymore, Emma. Therapy helped a lot. And anyway, that’s why I can’t stand to watch violence now—even stupid boxing matches make my stomach churn.”
I remember Finn’s words from years ago: I haven’t been making the best life choices. I think back to all the nights senior year when he and Sybil had holed up with plastic bottles of Azteca tequila and cheap weed. I thought they were just slacking off—feeding off each other’s worst impulses. But maybe there was something more going on. At the time, I was too close to it and too in my own head to really see what Finn was going through. But when you’re a teenager and your dad is dying, maybe reaching for another cold drink or another warm body—to punch or to kiss—makes the most sense. I look at him in his freshly pressed suit jacket, and for the first time, when he says he’s changed a lot since those days, it sinks in. I actually believe him.
“I’m sorry. I was just teasing about the match.” I release my death grip on the napkin, and reach across the table to grab his hand. “We’ll be on our way back to L.A. with Sybil by the time the fight starts.” At least I hope we will.
Finn squeezes my hand, and I expect him to let go after a beat. Instead, heat sparks up my arm and through my whole body as Finn’s middle finger begins making small circles on the inside of my wrist. My mind races back to the roulette table. My body arched against Finn’s, and his lips against my ear: Not here…but soon. I inhale sharply at the memory, and Finn’s finger pauses. His eyes meet mine, and the small smile on his lips makes it clear he knows exactly how he’s affecting me. His finger starts circling again. My lips part, and I press my thighs into the soft velvet of the booth. I wish he would grab my wrist and pull me across the table. It’s taking every ounce of my self-control to stay on my side of the booth, and my mind flashes to the hotel room just a block away.
Just when I feel myself starting to break, the waiter comes by, and I pull back my hand and swallow, thankful for the opportunity to get control of myself. Finn looks down at his menu with a devilish grin.
We order drinks and mussels to start, and the tension between us fades to a physically survivable level. It’s still crackling, but it’s banked enough that my brain is once again able to access its use of the English language. “So, what are you going to do with yourself now that you’ve sold your company? Doesn’t that basically make you unemployed?”
“I’m thinking of going home for a bit. I need to help Mom get her house ready to sell. She’s been making noises about moving to Vail for most of the year and just getting a condo off Turtle Creek.”
I straighten immediately. “She’s selling the Dilbeck?”
The first time I ever saw a Charles Dilbeck–designed house was when I’d gone over to Finn’s for a middle school science project, and it was an epiphany. I realized that houses didn’t have to be boring square boxes with one central hallway. They could have a sense of humor. They could list to the side or pull you up a turret. They could be anything you wanted. Every Dilbeck looks different, but my favorites are straight out of a storybook with hand-carved mantels surrounding oversized fireplaces, detailed brickwork, leaded glass windows that glint like melted sugar, a maximalist’s dream. It’s not at all the normal Dallas look of bright, shiny, and new. Though, if you take a step back and realize that the city’s vibe has always been “more is more,” then Charles Dilbeck is a quintessential Dallas designer. His houses are whimsy piled on top of whimsy. Sometimes more whimsy than people know what to do with. They’re getting torn down at an astonishing rate.
From what I remember, Finn’s parents never really leaned into the fancifulness of their Dilbeck farmhouse. Their home was always beautiful, but they were minimalists. The interior was white and gray before white and gray was all the rage. No knickknacks or unnecessary pillows. It was so different from the house I grew up in, which had dozens and dozens of wine corks stashed in glass vases that my mother was going to “do something with someday.” Liz’s and my childhood art, framed as if it were as precious as a Picasso, hung all over the house. So many pillows on the couch that you needed to shove half of them onto the ground to have room to sit. My mother could never walk past a handmade quilt without taking it home. She couldn’t stomach that something someone had put so much time and care into might end up homeless and unloved. She’d always meant to buy a chest for them, but never found one she really loved, so one corner of our living room became a landing zone. For most of Liz’s elementary school career, she would come home, burrow into the nest of quilts, and do her homework on her lap while I pulled together dinner in the kitchen.
Finn’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “A builder reached out to her about it, so she may just sell to him instead of going through the hassle of listing it.”
A lead weight drops through my stomach. “You can’t let her sell to a builder. That house is a treasure. A builder would just tear it down to build some lot-line-to-lot-line McMansion.”
“I can’t just tell her to hold on to it in this market. Not when she wants to be in Colorado most of the year.”
The waiter comes by with our mussels, and Finn and I both order steak frites.
“Please, Finn,” I say, once the waiter has gone. “Promise me you won’t let her sell to someone who’ll tear it down.”
I imagine a world in which I have the funds to buy it myself and totally redo the interior as a proof of concept for my own design firm. But I’m barely able to save with my current gig—and with keeping Liz afloat. Mom certainly doesn’t have the means to contribute to a down payment.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Finn says, which is really as much as I can expect from him. “How’s your work going?” he asks, changing the subject. The lead weight in my stomach turns molten.
“It’s fine,” I say, hoping that Finn will just leave it at that. He opens his mouth, but takes a look at my face, and closes it. He’s not going to push me, which I appreciate. But I find that I actually want to tell him.
“Honestly…” I take a long pull from my wine and decide to lay everything out on the table. “I think it may be time to jump ship. Though my boss may beat me to the punch on Monday.”
“What makes you say that?” Finn asks.
I explain the situation with the Hanson property. When I finish, Finn’s question isn’t what I’m expecting.
“What’s your end goal?”
“My end goal?”
“If you could be doing anything, what would it be?”
I don’t have to think about the answer. “Running my own design firm.”
“Okay. So does this job serve you toward that long-term plan?”
“I mean, I guess not so much at this point.” I pluck a mussel from the pot and scoop the meat from its shell. “I’ve worked there for five years. I’ve made a good network of connections. And it doesn’t seem like I’m going to be getting the chance to really grow my own creative aesthetic there.”
“Exactly,” Finn says as if it’s just that simple.
“However, I do need this job to afford to eat and sleep with a roof over my head.” I pop another mussel into my mouth. “Two things I’ve come to enjoy.”
Tearing off a piece of bread and dragging it through the white wine broth, Finn counters with “I’m sure you could find someone to back you.”
“Spoken like a true Silicon Valley–er.”
“You could move back to Dallas. It’d lower your overhead costs. I’ve actually been thinking of doing the same.”
“It just feels like failing,” I say as the rest of our meal arrives.
“The firm you work for is the one failing if they fire you.” Finn cuts into his steak matter-of-factly. “It’s bad business to drive away good talent.”
“I should have just done my job and kept my mouth shut.”
I’m startled by Finn’s knife and fork clattering onto his plate. He leans across the table and grabs my hand. “You absolutely should not have done that. I know you don’t need my advice, but it sounds like you’ve just outgrown this job.”
I can’t help smiling. It’s been a long time since someone—who’s not my mom—has really believed in me. Or maybe it just feels that way because my other number one cheerleader now lives across the country.
I remember standing with Sybil on the street waiting for the Uber that would take her to JFK and then on to Los Angeles. When the app said her ride was one minute away, I could feel the tears begin to prick at the corners of my eyes.
“Don’t work too hard, Em.” She threw her arms around me. I let out a soft grunt as the momentum of her overstuffed backpack and tote bag landed her against me with a heavy thud. “I know Maywell is the dream, but you don’t need them. Come to L.A. with me and Nikki. Start your own shop. I’ll do your website. Nikki can do your social media.”
“Oh sure, I’ll just go throw some stuff in a bag before the driver gets here.” I gave her a watery smile and squeezed her tight. “But really, I’ll be fine. I’ve got a couple new projects lined up that I really think I can nail, and then I’ll be up for promotion.” I grabbed one of her roller bags as Sybil’s car pulled up to the curb.
“I just worry about you, Em.” It was strange hearing that Sybil was worried about me, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. I was usually the one keeping everyone else on track, fretting about their missed doctor’s appointments or questionable dating choices. What did Sybil have to be worried about me over? Maybe the same thing that had secretly kept me awake for the last several nights as Sybil’s departure date drew near: Am I going to be all alone forever? I jammed her bag into the back of the Honda Accord that was going to take her out of Manhattan, and out of my life for the foreseeable future. I knew I’d see her in a few months, but I also knew that it would never be the same—that I wouldn’t ever get to spend every day with my best friend again.
Blinking back tears, I pulled myself together before pasting a smile on my face and turning back to Sybil. “I’ll be okay, Sybs. I promise.” I gave her one last hug before she stepped into the car. As the sedan slipped into the flow of traffic on Second Avenue, I was struck by an unpleasantly familiar feeling. That gut-punching grief of watching a car drive away with someone I love inside of it, knowing they weren’t coming back. It was just like when Dad left. It took everything in me not to run after the Honda, wave Sybil down, and tell her I was coming to California with her. Instead, I turned back toward our apartment door, and went back upstairs. Alone.
Finn’s voice breaks me out of my memory. “Hey, are you all right? Where’d you go?”
“I’m just worried about Sybil,” I say.
“So am I.” His eyes are dark and serious, and I know he means it. Then he gives my hand another squeeze, his eyes growing warmer, so deep I want to fall into them, and says with a smile, “But don’t forget to look out for yourself every once in a while too.” I nod yes, the lump in my throat preventing me from forming words. “Good. And I guess if you do forget, I’ll just have to do it for you.”
Forty-five minutes later, Finn and I finish our meal, and I set my napkin on the table and scoot out of the booth, pulling the boutique shopping bag containing Finn’s sweatshirt and my old clothes, behind me.
My body is still buzzing from Finn’s touch, which has been lingering all throughout dinner—squeezing my hand while he promised to look out for me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear when it fell into my face, playfully nudging his knee against mine under the table, feeding me chocolate mousse so decadent it made me close my eyes with an indecent groan. I know we should start looking for Sybil again. But I don’t want the feeling to stop, so as we leave the restaurant, I spit out the first half-formed idea that pops into my head. “There’s an observation deck at the top of this casino. It might help us get the lay of the land, and we can get back on the hunt.”
“Right. The hunt.” The look on Finn’s face makes it seem like I’m the one he wants to hunt down. He takes my hand as we move toward the elevator bank in the lobby, his thumb rubbing back and forth across the inside of my palm. A small shiver runs through me. But it’s not enough. I want more. I don’t know if it’s the magic of Vegas, the wine from dinner, or just the haze of lust I’ve been fighting through since Finn bent me against the roulette table, but in that moment, I make a decision.
The elevator arrives with a ding, and the doors roll closed behind us. As it lurches upward, I step close enough to Finn that I have to tilt my head back to keep my eyes on his face. I barely recognize myself when I whisper, “Finn, kiss m—”
His lips are on mine before I can finish. It’s nothing like the first time we kissed or even the last. This is explosive. There’s no hesitation from Finn. He’s kissing me like he may never have the chance again. My thoughts fracture as Finn takes a step toward me, pressing me against the doors of the elevator, and I’m surrounded by the scent of Finn, familiar and foreign. It's intoxicating. Both of his hands tangle in my hair, tipping my head further back to deepen the kiss. I reach out a hand to steady myself, and there are a dozen soft clicks as my hand swipes blindly, accidentally trailing down the button panel behind me. I give up trying to find purchase anywhere that isn’t Finn, drop my bag to the floor, and wrap both arms around him. The feeling of Finn’s tongue tangled with mine nearly pulls the air from my lungs, and I gasp against his lips.
He takes the opportunity to move his mouth down to my throat, and his teeth scrape along my neck. “I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you walk out in this dress,” Finn says, and I let out a soft mewling sound in response, suddenly wishing we were in a different elevator—the one back in the hotel that would lead to the room Finn booked. His hands tighten in my hair, and one drops to my lower back, crushing me even more tightly to him.
Through hazy eyes, I realize we’re stopping on almost every floor—the doors opening and closing behind me. Finn must realize, too, because he spins me away from the front of the elevator and presses me against the back wall, shielding me from anyone who might see. The whole time, his mouth never leaves my skin. Our hips move together in a way that pulls another groan from Finn, and he wedges a foot between mine, pushing my legs apart, opening me up to him. My leg wraps around Finn’s waist, deepening the angle. I wobble slightly on a single stiletto, and his hand is immediately behind my knee, holding me upright.
“I’ve got you.” His lips brush against my ear before searing me with another kiss. From somewhere far away, I hear the ding of the elevator announcing it’s reached its destination. I barely glimpse the rooftop observation deck and feel the breeze brushing against my skin before the doors close again, and we start to descend.
I’m about to float off the ground, and the only thing keeping me tethered to this earth is the feeling of Finn’s body against mine, so I arch into him even more, trying to get as close to him as I possibly can. His hand skims up the outside of my thigh, and his fingers are so close to where I want him to be, where I want all of him to be.
There’s another ding, and the doors open again, “I see this one’s taken.” A familiar Georgia accent has me dragging my mouth away from Finn’s. I lean around his bicep to confirm what I already know.
I’m face-to-face with Nikki.
Excerpted from MISTAKES WE NEVER MADE by Hannah Brown. Copyright © 2024 by Glasstown Entertainment and Hannah Brown. Reprinted with permission from Forever, an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.
Mistakes We Never Made, by Hannah Brown, will be released on May 7, 2024. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
AMAZON AUDIBLE BARNES & NOBLE BOOKS-A-MILLION BOOKSHOP APPLE BOOKS KOBO LIBRO.FM TARGET WALMART POWELL'S BOOKS HUDSON BOOKSELLERS GOOGLE PLAY EBOOKS.COM
