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More Than Maybe by Erin Hahn Cover Reveal

Today is a very special post because I get to show you all a first glimpse at More Than Maybe, Erin Hahn's sophomore novel. I've been excited about this book since I finished You'd Be Mine, and I'm so happy to finally be able to see the cover and learn a little more about Luke and Vada. Before I get to telling you about MTM and showing off the cover, I just wanted to talk a little bit about how I first found and fell for Erin's work. I randomly stumbled upon You'd Be Mine on Netgalley and decided to give it a try, and from the second I read the first page and heard Clay's voice so clearly in my head, I was hooked. After I finished reading, I wanted to know more about the book, the characters, and how the story came to be, so I reached out to Erin, and she was sweet enough to agree to do an interview. I know I'm not supposed to pick favorites, but her thoughtful answers and complete sincerity makes my interview with her one of my favorites of them all. If you're curious about it, you can read it here. Her voice and her empathy is her undeniable strength, and, having read the More Than Maybe excerpt, I'm confident that it'll be found throughout all of her future stories. 

I've spent most of this year talking about You'd Be Mine on social media, turning it face out at every bookstore I've visited, and recommending it to everyone who will listen. Erin's stories always combine two of my favorite things, amazing storytelling and amazing music. Though More Than Maybe moves away from the country genre, music is still at its heart. Erin told me that there's around one hundred songs referenced over the course of the book. 
We thought it would be fun to share some key pieces of Vada and Luke with you along with what song they'd be jamming to right now. 

Vada Carsewell is an eighteen year old music blogger, a high school senior, and a bartender with an ear for talent and big plans for her future. She'd be listening to "Mess Her Up" by Amy Shark. 
Luke Greenly is an eighteen year old closet songwriter, introvert, cupcake, skater, and locally famous (soon to be internet famous) podcaster. He'd be listening to "I'm ok" by Judah and the Lion. 

When I read these introductions for the first time, I did a happy dance in my seat because, as a blogger, podcaster, and music lover, I can already see glimpses of the things I'm going to fall in love with about these characters. Also, Vada has impeccable taste in music!

Now for the more official stuff you've all been waiting for. To find all the preorder links and some awesome blurbs, please follow this link: https://read.macmillan.com/lp/more-than-maybe/. Down below, you'll find an excerpt to get you hooked on the book and the long awaited cover! Let me know in the comments if you're already in love with Luke Greenly by the time you're done reading this snippet:

Spring rains, my arse. I shrug in my leather jacket, trying to simultaneously make my coat longer and myself smaller.
Growing up in London, you’d think I’d be immune to rain. You’d be wrong. Michigan in March is shite. I shift my longboard to my other hand and bury my fist in my pocket, working to get the feeling back in my fingers.
I should have called my brother for a ride, but I was downtown with Zack working on our English project at the library, and I’ve been itching to skate since the weather started to thaw. It was barely a trickle when I left, swerving my way down the massive hill toward the club. But within minutes, I was huddled under a bus shelter, pouring rain beating down around me.
My phone buzzes, and I tug it out, willing my digits to work. I balance my board between my hip and the corner of the shelter, using the damp toe of my Converse high-tops to hold it in place. Someone next to me squeaks when I bump them with my backpack. “Bugger,” I mutter. “So sorry.”
I tap my screen.
CULLEN: Have you left yet?
I roll my eyes at my brother, composing something snarky in my head before tapping out:
LUKE: Yeah, but I’m stuck in the rain.
CULLEN: Where?
I wipe at my fogged-up glasses and squint, trying to read the sign. Useless. I turn to the college-aged girl I’d accidentally knocked into.
“Excuse me, what’s the cross street here? Bloody can’t see a thing.”
Her face does this comical annoyed-to-charmed thing that happens when most people hear my accent. I know it, and I use it. I’m not ashamed.
“Oh em gee. You’re British, right? We’re at University and Huron. I love—”
“I am. Thanks very much.” I cut her off. Which is rude, I know. But desperate times and all that.
LUKE: University and Huron.
CULLEN: Want me to come get you?
I think about it. I have no idea when the next bus comes or where it’s headed. The rain has me disoriented.
“Hold on, you look super familiar. Do I know you?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, the bus shelter feeling suddenly smaller. Two people sitting on the bench glance up from their phone screens.
“I don’t know,” I hedge. “Probably not.”
“Maybe something about your voice?”
“Maybe,” I start before she gasps theatrically, her hand going to her chest, where the symbols of some sorority dangle off a gold chain nestled between the layers of her Ravenclaw scarf.
“You’re Luke Greenly. ‘The Grass Is Greenly’! I thought I recognized your accent, but it’s the hair, too. I follow you on Insta!”
“Ah.” I scramble for more words, but all I can come up with is, “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Lindsay,” she says.
“That’s . . .” Jesus. This. This is why I’d told Cullen I didn’t want to do Instagram. “Thanks.” I repeat, dumbly.
A car honks out of nowhere, startling us. My board clatters to the ground. Through the murky shelter, I see my best mate’s familiar red Jeep Wrangler and give a sigh of relief.
Perfect timing.
“Sorry, I have to go!” I shout, grabbing up my board, and dashing out into the rain before she can say more. I tug open the door of Zack’s car and swiftly shut it behind me.
“Thank Christ,” I say. I take off my glasses and unzip my coat, so I can wipe down the lenses on something dry. “Did Cull call you?”
“Nah,” Zack says, flipping his blinker and pulling out into traffic. “After you left, I heard the rain beating against the roof and figured you were dumb enough to skate. And sure enough . . .”
His phone vibrates, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “There’s Cullen, I bet.”
“You’re a pair.”
“And you are welcome,” he says in a singsongy voice.
“Thank you,” I say, more sincerely. “You saved me from a sorority girl.”
He tsks, turning down Liberty and coming to a stop at a light. Even in the monsoon, hordes of bicyclers in full-bodied neon rain suits swoosh by in front of us at top speed. Typical Ann Arbor.
“She said she was sorry about Lindsay.”
His dark brows join in the middle as he looks at me. “Huh. Did you know her?”
I adjust my board between my legs. “Nope.”
His lips twitch.
“Laugh it up. Har har.”
“I told you Lindsay was bad news.”
“Barely. If I remember, you said, ‘You need a girlfriend, Luke.’”
“But I also said, ‘Not that one; she’s thirsty.’”
I grunt. “I thought that would work in her favor. At least in your eyes. You seem under the impression I’m a medieval monk.”
“You are.”
“Just because I’m not in a sickeningly healthy, committed relationship at the moment doesn’t mean I’m celibate.”
He snorts. “Aren’t you?”
“Not totally,” I complain.
“Yeah,” he says dryly, turning down a side street. “I saw.”
I rub my face in my hands, knocking my glasses off course, and readjusting them. A week ago, my ex-girlfriend secretly recorded us making out and posted the highlights in her Instagram story.
Which, I didn’t even know was a thing until there it was. I woke to a hundred comments and a pit in my stomach. We ended on far-too-amicable terms. She tearfully posted about it the following day.
Cullen thought it was hilarious and good press for the podcast, of course.
“In my defense, I assumed you would go after—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off.
His fingers tap on the steering wheel.
“You haven’t told my brother, have you?”
He glances at me. “No. I swear. I told you I wouldn’t, and I won’t.”
I sink back into my seat, grimacing at the cold drips still easing down the back of my neck.
“But you’ve been doing this pining thing for-the-fuck-ever. Have you even introduced yourself yet?”
“Like, formally?” I ask. “We’ve talked. Sort of. She knows who I am.”
“Does she? You sure about that? Or does she know who Cullen is and therefore knows you’re the Other Twin?”
“Wow,” I say. “Wow. Just because you fell madly in love with Cull the second you met him and forgot for a solid ten minutes his twin was your best mate doesn’t mean everyone else does.”
Zack shrugs, flashing an easy grin. “You could have them falling at your feet just as easily, you know. If you could drop the sullen artist act for a night.”
“What sullen artist act?”
He doesn’t respond, turning into the cramped parking lot of the Starbucks next to the Loud Lizard, where we record our show.
He points to his phone. “Cull asked us to pick something up.”
“Green tea latte?” I ask, amused. “I’m not ordering this time. He’s your boyfriend.”
“He’s your brother. You share DNA.”
“Yeah, but you share—”
He holds up a hand and unclicks his seat belt. “Enough. I’ll do it. But he’s getting full fat, and I don’t want to hear it when he’s a whiny bitch about calories.”
“I’ll take a cake pop,” I try.
“Fuck off.”
I watch as Zack runs through the rain. “Love is catching the flu to order an overpriced, high-calorie beverage for your boyfriend,” I say under my breath, digging out my phone.
I scroll through my Instagram, immediately deleting and blocking Lindsay. I can’t undo the damage, but I can stop it from perpetuating. I’m not a monk, but Zack and Cullen are right. I barely date. And this mess is exactly why.
Well, okay. It’s part of the reason. The rest is far more complicated.
I skim through the row of pictures, barely taking them in. They aren’t who I’m looking for, until—there’s the one.
It’s an anonymous shot. In the foreground, a plastic cup of cherries in some sort of mixed drink. In the background, a jukebox. Underneath, it reads, Cherry, cherry, chick-a-cherry Cola-*chef kiss*-BTM #sundayafternoon #damntheman #behindthemusicblog
My fingers hover in reply for a full minute. I almost respond at least twice a day. But responding on Insta would require me to open a whole new anonymous account, and that would be akin to admitting I’m lurking.
Which is why I don’t follow her private account, only her blog one. It’s a privilege I haven’t earned.
Instead, I scroll Twitter and answer a few podcast questions until Zack returns, shaking out his sandy hair like a wet puppy. A six-foot-three point guard of a puppy.
“What act?” I ask, our conversation from before echoing through my head.
He sighs, long suffering, and plops the steaming cardboard cup in the center console. I see Cullen’s name scratched in black Sharpie, followed by nonfat / no whip marked under preferences, and a knowing smile crosses my lips. We’re barely three months apart, but when it comes to relationship stuff, Zack acts a decade older. Like his relationship with my brother ages him in golden retriever years.
“Look,” he says, “you’re going to be late. It’s not a big deal. I happen to be very impressed by your artsy side. It’s gonna make you millions one day. But you do realize not everyone knows who Adam Duritz is? And that’s not a bad thing.”
“I never said it was,” I protest.
He glares.
You know who he is,” I hedge, petulant.
“Because you’ve beat me over the head with his lyrics since the first day we sat together at lunch. At the time, I thought it was super weird. Still do. Endearing,” he clarifies, “but weird. My point is, maybe tone that down around girls.”
I wouldn’t need to for her, I think but don’t say. He smirks.
“Or,” he adds. “Stop playing around with girls who don’t know who Adam Duritz is and”— he turns his gaze meaningfully toward the club—“ask out the one who does.”
“I don’t mention Adam Duritz that much,” I grumble. “I mean, yeah, he’s talented as fuck, but—”
“Don’t care. Get out.” Zack shoos at the door. “Don’t forget the latte.”
I grab the drink, and my free hand finds the door handle, pushing it open. I grapple for my board, dropping it to the ground. “Thanks for the ride.” I flip up my hood and hook my backpack over my shoulders while trying not to drop the drink.
“You’re welcome, sweetums!” he shouts as I slam the door in his face and push off into the rain.
And now the cover! Preorder here.

So I hope you had tons of fun getting to learn more about Luke,Vada, and Erin's new book! Now we all have some new things to discuss until we get to read it all spring of 2020...

More on Erin...
Interview with Erin Hahn: Here
You'd Be Mine Review: Here
Erin's Website: Here
Find her on social media: Twitter & Instagram: @erinhahn_author 

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