From New York Times bestselling author Sarah Jio comes an escapist novel following a young woman stuck in a “time loop” of one-day relationships with romantic partners from her past.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Sarah Jio’s Insignificant Others, which is out April 1st 2025.
What if you could have a second chance to say “yes” to the one who got away?
Lena Westbrook, a perfectionist and workaholic, has carefully planned and orchestrated every detail of her life. So when her boyfriend of two years breaks up with her on the night she expects him to propose, she’s heartbroken and confused. Lena flees to her beloved aunt’s home on Seattle’s picturesque Bainbridge Island to lick her wounds but when she awakens the next morning, she is shocked to find herself in Paris—in bed with a handsome French man who seems to think that Lena is his wife.
From the elegant neighborhoods of Paris to the charming landscape of Kinsale, Ireland, to the sparkling skyline of New York City, and many other unexpected destinations in between, each time Lena awakens, she finds herself somewhere else with someone else. In each experience, she’s given a glimpse of what life might have looked like had she chosen the “road not taken.” And as she becomes more clear-sighted about her past decisions, Lena begins to wonder, were any of these former romantic encounters actually…significant?
Enchanting and surprising, Insignificant Others is a lively, heartfelt novel that explores the relatable and resonant “what ifs” of life, but most especially, love.
Chapter 4
Bright light streams through the window—too bright. I groan, burying my face in the pillow. Last night is a blur, and it takes me a long moment to find my bearings, but when I do, it all comes rushing back: Bainbridge Island, wine, the guesthouse. The guesthouse. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. What time is it? How long have I been asleep? Rosie must be making breakfast. I freeze as my surroundings come into focus—the antique pane windows fitted with wispy linen drapes, the crystal chandelier overhead, the . . . black silk negligee I’m wearing, and nothing else. I gasp, reaching for the white duvet to cover my chest. This is not the guesthouse, nor is it Bainbridge Island.
Where the hell am I?
“Hello, mon amour,” a shirtless man says from the doorway holding a silver tray, which is when I let out a shrill scream.
“What was that for?” he continues, walking closer, setting a breakfast tray with croissants and scrambled eggs beside me. “Did you have a bad dream?”
My eyes dart around the room, pausing briefly when I notice an oversize candle in a thick glass jar on the nightstand. It’s gigantic, like weapon-size, and, when I creep a few more inches to the right, fortunately in my grasp. With any luck, I can hit him over the head, stun him long enough to get out of here.
“What was it this time?” he asks, my heart racing as he inches closer. “The plane crash dream, or the other thing—you know, the one when you try to speak and nothing comes out?”
His accent is thick—French, definitely—and also familiar, though I can’t quite place him, nor do I have the slightest recollection of how I ended up here. I’ve been kidnapped, obviously—and probably drugged. Rosie’s undoubtedly looking for me at this very moment, probably even called the police. My hands tremble as I clench the herculean candle under the sheet, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I feel like I’m in a horror movie, but the terror is real. If he gets any closer, I’ll . . . “
I know what’ll cheer you up,” he says with a mischievous grin. He plants his elbow on the bed, the edge of his face resting in his palm. “What always cheers you up.” He brushes a lock of his wavy brown hair from his eyes, then reaches under the covers, caressing my left thigh.
“Get your hands off me!” I scream, adrenaline taking over as I reach for the candle, leap out of bed, and race to the corner of the room, where I stare at him, trembling like a frightened animal.
The man laughs, walking toward me, as if he thinks this is some sort of game, albeit a sick one. “Feeling feisty this morning, I see.”
I hurl the candle toward him, but he ducks, and it shatters against the wall leaving a mess of jagged shards of moss-green glass and chunks of candle wax beside the window.
“Lena? What the hell?” He shakes his head, muttering something in French, which I can’t understand. “I get it. You’re not in the mood. But there are better ways to convey the message than destroying a Monique Pierre candle.” He sighs. “I guess that’s what I get for marrying an American woman.”
Marrying . . . me? He’s obviously delusional, but I have no business arguing with my kidnapper. I’ll have to play nice until I figure out how to get out of here.
“Merde,” he grunts as he glances at his gold Rolex, then slips into a tailored white shirt and pulls on a pair of pants. “I made coffee with those beans you love from Seattle—get it while it’s hot.”
Okay, so he’s a hospitable kidnapper? Still, I’m hardly in the clear. At any moment he might handcuff me to the bed. Instead, he laces up his shoes and heads to the doorway.
I clear my throat. “So, you’re . . . just going to leave me here?” My voice is jittery and high-pitched.
He shakes his head, obviously confused.
“You’re not going to . . . tie me up or anything?” I continue, instantly regretting the words that have just flown out of my mouth. Apparently I am the idiot who feeds her captor ideas.
“No, my naughty, naughty wife,” he says, shaking his head with a laugh. “But we can do that later, if you’d like.”
I stand still, speechless, as he reaches for his cell and wallet, blowing me a kiss from the doorway. “Oh, be sure you arrive before six, okay? Just to make sure everything’s perfect. You know how important this night is for me.”
“Before six,” I mutter despondently, as his shoes clack against the hardwood floors.
When the door clicks shut, I fall to my knees, exhaling deeply. I’m relieved to be alone, though I imagine he’s probably locked the door from the outside. Why wouldn’t he? I tell myself not to panic, though goose bumps erupt down my arms. Maybe I have a head injury? I check my scalp for lumps—nothing— which is when I determine that I must have been drugged. I’ve seen those 48 Hours specials, where the innocent woman’s drink gets spiked, and she ends up in a strange hotel room—or worse.
No. I’ll find my way out of here. But first I need to get dressed.
I glance around the room, but the jeans and sweater I was wearing last night appear to have vanished—he destroyed the evidence, no doubt—so I tiptoe to a nearby closet, where I’m shocked to find a smorgasbord of female wardrobe selections. He probably stocks the shelves for his victims, I think, though I don’t waste any time dwelling on any of the nuances of a criminal’s mind. This is my chance to escape, and I need to move fast.
I pull on a pair of black leggings and a light gray hoodie, both of which fit like a glove, then slide my feet into an expensive-looking pair of nude sandals that I find on the shoe rack—exactly my size—which is when I hear a thud coming from the adjoining room. Fresh adrenaline surges through my veins as I tiptoe out of the closet, grateful to find a steel poker resting against the bedroom fireplace. I grab it.
The parquet floorboards creak beneath my feet as I make my way to the doorway. I cautiously survey the apartment’s grand living room and well-appointed chef’s kitchen, admiring the Lacanche stove and impressive collection of red Le Creuset enamelware. Apparently it’s possible for psychopaths to have impeccable taste.
Confirming that I’m alone, I drop the poker, just as a mass of black fur descends upon me like a whirling dervish. I lose my footing, and moments later I’m lying in the kitchen, flat on my back, pinned by four paws and one overly exuberant wet tongue.
“Down,” I say, struggling to sit up. “I mean, no! Stop! No! Halt?” The enormous canine obeys, retreating to the living room where he lies down on the rug with a defeated sigh that echoes my own befuddled exhale. Well over 150 pounds, he looks like a Saint Bernard, with a white chest and front legs and a brown patch on his midsection—cute, if you’re into beasts that slobber.
Where the hell am I?
Credit: Excerpted from the book INSIGNIFICANT OTHERS, provided courtesy of William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright © 2025 by Sarah Jio and Chris Goldberg. Reprinted by permission.
