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The best early Prime Day book deals at a glance:

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It’s nearly Amazon Prime Day, which officially runs from June 23 through 26, but if you don’t feel like waiting, there’s already plenty of live deals to shop.

Besides offering three free months of both Kindle Unlimited and Audible to new subscribers, Amazon also has some pretty great discounts on books themselves. I’m not usually one to recommend purchasing physical books via Amazon (support local book stores!), but it’s pretty hard to pass up a 50% price drop on a book you’ve had on your TBR.

I’m tracking some of the best deals on physical books and e-books at Amazon ahead of the official Prime Day kick off, but remember to check back for more once things start ramping up.

Best early Prime Day hardcover book deal

Why we like it

Named one of the best books of 2026 so far by Amazon Book Editors, Crux is an “exhilarating, tender novel about an unlikely friendship forged through a shared love of rock climbing,” according to Amazon Editor Abby Abell. Thanks to an on-page coupon at Amazon, you can add the hardcover version to your home library for less than half its usual cost.

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Best early Prime Day paperback book deal

Why we like it

A classic trope of two abducted girls, only one returns and one doesn’t, The Girl Who Was Taken is a psychological thriller by Charlie Donlea where nothing is as it seems. Typically around $20, you can pick up the paperback version for only $7.50 at Amazon ahead of Prime Day. That’s just a few cents away from its lowest price ever.

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Best early Prime Day Kindle book deal

Why we like it

I highly recommend grabbing this twisty psychological thriller from internationally best-selling author Steve Cavanagh while the Kindle version is only $2.99. Kill For Me Kill For You follows two women seeking revenge against the men who killed their daughters. Over drinks one night, they decide to swap murders, but things don’t go exactly as planned.

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Amber Mayfield Hewett loves a good party. Not “good” in the sense that there were enough chairs and everyone liked the dip (though a killer dip and a place to sit definitely don’t hurt). To Amber, a good party is one where everyone in the room feels like they belong — no one feels like a plus-one or wonders if they should’ve stayed home. “In my early twenties, I was living in Harlem and working as an assistant at a TV network,” she explains in her new book, Your Turn to Host. “I loved going out, exploring the restaurant scene and private clubs… But something always felt missing. Even though I was surrounded by people all the time, I felt lonely.”

So, Amber started her own supper club, hosting dinners as a way to create community. “The first dinner was 24 people — roommates, co-workers, people I’d met out in the city,” she says. “Everyone walked in as strangers, but as the night went on, they were laughing and swapping stories like old friends.” Her supper club has since grown into a full-time career, and as of this week, a book — a guide to hosting meaningful gatherings of all kinds: Friendsgiving potlucks, Sunday suppers, and of course, cookouts.

“At the core, cookouts are a way for your village to come together,” Amber explains. “I keep an open-door policy for kids and friends of friends. And to me, cookouts are synonymous with freedom because of the holidays typically celebrated with them, including Juneteenth.” In her book, Amber offers a full guide for a Juneteenth cookout — everything from grilling tips to lawn games, as well as her own recipe for traditional Red Drink. “On Juneteenth, it’s customary to serve red foods and beverages,” she says. “Red is a symbol of the profound sacrifice and resilience of African American people.” Amber’s recipe starts with a classic sorrel-syrup base (“You can use the same technique to make other syrups, like lavender or elderflower”) and is spiked with a cup of rum. “You can easily omit the booze if you prefer a non-alcoholic version,” she adds. “The drink is delicious and refreshing on its own.” Here’s how to make it…

Red Drink
Serves 15
From Your Turn to Host by Amber Mayfield Hewett

Sorrel Syrup:
4 cups (1 L) water
1 1/2 cups (300 g) sugar
1 cup (1 1/2 oz/40 g) cut and sifted dried hibiscus flowers
2 cinnamon sticks

Punch:
2 (2 L) bottles club soda
1 cup (240 ml) dark rum
Juice of 2 large lemons
Ice cubes
4 lemons, sliced into wheels and seeded, for garnish

Make the syrup: In a medium pot, combine the water and sugar. Bring to a boil over a medium-high heat, stirring until the sugar has dissolved. Add the hibiscus flowers and cinnamon sticks, and stir until the flowers start to soften. Reduce the heat to medium to maintain a gentle boil. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the syrup is deep red in color and infused with a floral flavor (about 20 minutes). Remove from the heat and let stand for 5 minutes.

Strain the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl, pressing on the solids to extract all the liquid; discard the solids. Let the syrup cool completely before using or storing (about 30 minutes). The sorrel syrup can be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to a week.

Make the punch: In a large punch bowl, stir together the club soda, 1 cup (240 ml) of the sorrel syrup, rum, and lemon juice to combine. (Amber notes: “If you’re skipping the rum, and want a little more flavor, you can add a splash of lemonade or a berry-flavored sparkling water.”) Serve with ice and garnish with lemon wheels.

Big thanks to Amber for sharing this recipe with us! You can find TONS of party recipes and hosting tips in her book and newsletter.

P.S. Five easy party foods, and a monochromatic fruit salad.

(Top photo by Xiana Gutierrez. Excerpted from Your Turn to Host by Amber Mayfield Hewett, published by Artisan Books. Copyright © 2026.)

I was on my fourth radiation session. I was sitting across from my friend Rachel’s husband, Rob. He was holding a paperback, dog-eared copy of The Stories of John Cheever. Rob was my driver that day.

When we’d first arrived at the medical center, Rob found a seat in the waiting room, while I went to the dressing room. I carefully took off my clothes, peeled a rectangle of gauze from my chest, and pulled on a white gown. The Maine Med radiation oncology department is on the basement level, and the cold air felt uncomfortable on my bare arms. But pain had taken on an unanticipated psychological dimension: Feeling it meant I was still here to feel it.

Then I took a photo of myself in the dressing room, smiling. I’d taken one before each session since starting treatment, as a way of marking the weeks. As always, I sent the photo to my husband Dan, and to my friend Rachel. I was here. This happened. Then I left the dressing room to join Rob on the blue chairs.

Two weeks earlier, it was Rachel who had come up with the plan: my radiation buddy system. I’d gone in for my final pre-treatment CT scan, and sitting in my car afterward, I felt my courage abandon me. The aloneness of cancer is existential. You and only you go into the strange room with the beeping machines. You alone wake with a start in the middle of the night, thinking: I have breast cancer. Life will never be the same. I called Rachel from the parking lot and told her: I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to drive to radiation by myself. She paused, then replied, “I’ll figure this out.”

Within a few days, she had. Recruiting four female friends and three of their husbands, Rachel made a schedule of my radiation drivers, all of whom had gladly signed up. Since Rachel’s work schedule wouldn’t allow her to drive me herself, she served as coordinator, and texted me the night before each appointment with the plan. Tomorrow, your driver is Merry. She’ll be there at 9:15 a.m.

On that Monday, four days into treatment, the skin on my breast was already starting to sting. Rob sat across from me, and I asked him about the book he was reading. He told me about finding the paperback at the swap shop at our local dump. I told him I loved Cheever’s stories, too — especially “The Swimmer.” After my session, Rob drove me home, and I got out of the car feeling lighter.

When you’re preparing for radiation, the doctors will tell you that you can drive yourself. It’s easy; it’s only 20 minutes. But it’s not easy — and it’s never only 20 minutes. Perhaps I could have managed the actual mechanics of driving, but I know it was those rides from my friends that got me through the treatment.

When my friend Nora brought me to my appointment, she came into the exam room and asked questions. On Leah’s days, we’d have breakfast first at my house — a Dutch baby with raspberries. Emma cried with me when we saw a boy, the same age as my younger son, arriving at the radiation center for treatment. Merry showed up on her driving days with bouquets of flowers from her garden. Surrounded by longtime friends — chatting, the way we’d done for years — I was able to see cancer as only a part of my larger life.

On my last day of radiation, in mid-July, my husband, Dan, brought doughnuts for the radiation team at Maine Med. After my session, everyone gathered and clapped as I rang the cowbell to announce that I was done. When I got home, our older son was standing in the dining room with a Lazy Daisy cake he’d baked, covered with candles.

It’s now been almost a year since those appointments, and I still remember them clearly: my breast swelling to the size of a watermelon; my nipple bleeding and my areola peeling off; the instructions coming through the loudspeaker, reminding me to hold my breath and stay still.

But I can’t recall the pain anymore. What I can still feel is my friend Jess’s leg against mine on the waiting-room sofa; the relief that rolled through me when I left the treatment room and found Emma or Rob or Dan waiting for me. More than anything, I feel a deep sense of worthiness. During those five weeks of driving — with conversations about books and teenagers and what goes best on Dutch babies — I learned how it felt to be truly cared for. I realized that love can take on many shapes: flowers, cakes, spreadsheet schedules.

Sometimes it was as simple as a friend in the waiting room holding a paperback, ready to talk about it all the way home.

Caitlin Shetterly is a journalist, editor, and author. Her new novel, The Gulf of Lions, was published in May. She lives in Maine with her husband and two sons.

P.S. “9 life lessons I learned after my cancer diagnosis,” and what does it mean to think about cancer as a battle?

(Photo by Ángela Rober/Stocksy.)