From Cleo Coyle, the New York Times bestselling author of Shot in the Dark and Dead Cold Brew , comes a delicious new entry in the "fun and gripping" (The Huffington Post) Coffeehouse Mysteries. When coffeehouse manager Clare Cosi awakens on a bench in Washington Square Park, she has no idea she's been missing for days, or that her friends and family have been frantic with worry. Now that she's back, everyone is overjoyed, including a handsome NYPD detective who claims to be her fiancé. But to Mike Quinn's crushing distress, Clare doesn't remember him, or much of anything about the last fifteen years of her life. Clare's missing memory is tied to a crime she witnessed. An acquaintance of Clare's elegant employer--and fellow member of an exclusive Gotham circle known as "The Ladies Who Brunch"--invited Clare to her posh hotel to sample gourmet wedding cakes. After their indulgent tasting, they headed to the parking garage, where a camera captured a masked figure with a gun confronting the hotel heiress with Clare looking on. Did the kidnapper take Clare, too? The camera went dark, just like Clare's memory. Soon authorities grow suspicious. Is Clare really a victim? Or merely acting like one? Evidence is mounting that she set the woman up. To clear her name, Clare must find a way to reclaim her memories and rescue the heiress before this high-stakes crime ends in tragedy. Otherwise, instead of walking down the aisle, Clare may find herself perp-walking to prison as an accomplice to kidnapping and murder. Praise for Brewed Awakening "Told from multiple points of view, this sometimes poignant page-turner satisfies with plot twists, humor, and nicely rounded characters."-- Booklist "Engrossing...Amid the delightfully twisty mystery, Coyle (the husband-and-wife team of Alice Alfonsi and Marc Cerasini) poses an intriguing question: if you lost all memory of your beloved, would you fall for him all over again?"-- Publishers Weekly "How memory loss affects a strong woman's life."-- Kirkus Praise for the Coffeehouse Mysteries "A gripping and entertaining mystery"-- Library Journal (Starred, Pick of the Month) "Sure to delight"-- Publishers Weekly "Clare and company are some of the most vibrant characters I've ever read."-- Mystery Scene "Fun and gripping."-- The Huffington Post "A delicious mystery!"-- Woman's World "Cleo Coyle is by far one of the best..."-- Fresh Fiction "Mix[es] clever and intricate plots with a regular cast of characters who become more enjoyable with every episode."-- Booklist Cleo Coyle is a pseudonym for Alice Alfonsi, writing in collaboration with her husband, Marc Cerasini. With more than one million books sold, Alice and Marc are New York Times bestselling authors of the Coffeehouse Mysteries--now celebrating twenty years in print, three starred reviews, a Mystery Pick of the Month by Library Journal, and multiple Best of Year list honors by reviewers. They also write the nationally bestselling Haunted Bookshop Mysteries, originally released under the pen name Alice Kimberly. Alice and Marc write independently and together and are also bestselling media tie-in writers who have penned properties for Lucasfilm, NBC, Fox, Disney, Imagine, Toho, and MGM. They live and work in New York City. Connect with Cleo at CoffeehouseMystery.com One I like coffee because it gives me the illusion that I might be awake. -Lewis Black Two months later I awoke in darkness, curled in a shivering ball. I'd been a restless sleeper since my divorce, and I assumed I'd kicked off the blankets. So why was something still covering my face? Heavy and stiff, it was definitely not my well-worn J.C. Penney comfort quilt. A blaring horn and a string of angry expletives sat me up fast. A coat fell away from my face, and I blinked against a misty-morning sun peeking through naked branches. Feeling dizzy, I rubbed my eyes before deciding- This is no dream. This is real. I tried to rise but my joints were stiff. My right arm was so numb that I had to shake it out. More troubling was the fact that somehow-and I could not for the life of me remember how-I wasn't in my nice warm bed in my cozy little bedroom in New Jersey. I was sprawled across a hard, cold bench in a public park, close enough to the street for me to hear a cabby cursing out the driver in front of him, which sounded an awful lot like Manhattan. My suspicion was confirmed when I spied the towering arch of white marble that marked the start of Fifth Avenue. I'm in Washington Square Park. The triumphal arch gave me a triumphant rush of relief. I knew where I was-Greenwich Village, but . . . "How in heaven's name did I get here?" My baffled whisper emerged as a cloud of vapor. Still shivering, I donned the coat that covered me. It fit perfectly, though it wasn't mine. I went through its pockets for a clue to its owner but found no ID or personal items, beyond a single right-hand glove. Its mate was missing. The