My
very special guest today is a fresh, strong voice in erotic romance that more
and more readers are discovering and loving everyday. Liz Crowe isn’t like
anyone else in erotic romance. She stands alone, with a writing style and voice
that is real, approachable and recognizable in our own lives. Pick up one of
her books and you’ll realize you’ve met these people. Liz’s characters are the
stronger sides of ourselves, the handsome guy down the street, the woman who
manages your favorite pub. Liz Crowe’s characters are the grittier and more
glamorous reflection of us. I hope you’ll enjoy her as much as I do, and if you
haven’t read a Liz Crowe book—what are you waiting for! : )
The
book Liz is introducing to us April 4th is “Mutual Release”, its published by Tri-Destiny as part of their Sizzlin' Books line. Evan and Julie's story is Book 7 in the highly popular Stewart Realty series.
Here’s
the Blurb:
Can
two dark souls ever make a light?
As president of her own distribution company, Julie Dawson has all she
ever wanted -- money, power, and respect. But her carefully crafted façade
conceals a torment of abuse and helplessness. After years remaining
emotionally aloof, she is finally independent, but alone. Because she refuses
to rely on anyone but herself ever again.
Evan
Adams is no stranger to success, or personal demons.
The horrific trauma that destroyed his twin sister, and tore
his family apart, forced him to craft a new life from the ashes of the old.
He's content enough, focusing ahead and not dwelling on his murky past.
But something important is missing. He knows what that thing is but refuses to
acknowledge it.
When
a chance encounter brings these two strong-willed but damaged people together ,
what seems like a long, erotic journey through hell could lead them
to a match made in heaven.
MUTUAL
RELEASE:
A coming of age novel about trust...on the long road to
love.
Want
more Mutual Release? Here’s an extended excerpt:
Monday dawned
bright, clear, and cold, even for an October morning. Evan ran his usual route
around the west side of his newly adopted town, relishing how strong he felt
and looking forward to his workday – the one where he had a tight grip on his
own destiny for a change. After a long hot shower, two huge cups of coffee, and
an apple, he grabbed his presentation thumb drive and laptop and headed out.
One of the things
he’d inherited from his father was a love of classic English cars. He had sold
two of the three Jags, kept his favorite and bought an MG Spyder, not giving a
shit at how much it cost to keep the damn thing running properly. As he sped in
his sports car across Interstate 96 on his way to the far-flung Northern
Detroit suburbs to sweet talk, finagle, and wow the big-time distributor, he
was on top of his own personal mountain. Nothing would spoil the day. He
refused to allow it.
He pulled into a
visitor’s parking spot, tucked his Ray-Bans over the visor, and smoothed his
hair before jumping out and striding to the glass front doors. “Dawson” was
etched in the glass, nothing more or less, as if it were a boutique law firm or
ad agency. Nothing out front indicated that it was one of the most successful
craft beer and domestic wine distribution companies in the Midwest.
Tucking away a
shiver of intimidation, he pushed the door open and saw a small shrine to
Michigan craft beer. The front receiving area was full of faux six packs,
cases, kegs, and displays representing every brand, including some that were
nationally known. A single desk sat near another set of doors. Through its
clear glass he could see a bustling group of people, men and women, all dressed
in top-notch suits, getting ready to go out on their sales day. The place oozed
professionalism, even a bit of snootiness that surprised him.
But he shook it
off, walked up to the stunningly attractive blond woman at the front desk. She
sat frowning at a large computer screen. He stood for a few seconds, thinking
she would acknowledge him. Finally he had to clear his throat to make her look
away from whatever had her mesmerized.
“Oh, hello. Sorry
about that.” Her smile made her already gorgeous face light up and left him
slightly breathless. Looking back, he figured he must have looked like a
complete ass as he stood there, unable to form coherent words, his brain awash
in sensations he had not allowed himself to experience in a damn long time. She
arched one perfect eyebrow. He gulped, knowing he should say something.
“Uh, so, I have an
appointment?” He winced at the upturning of his sentence as if he were asking
her a question. Clearing his throat, he started over, pasted on his best “Evan
Adams, Charmer” smile and held out a hand. “Evan Adams, owner of Big House
Brewing in Ann Arbor, here to see Mr. Dawson. I’m a little early.”
She tilted her
head, then shook his hand matter-of-factly. But he had to stop himself from
stumbling backwards at the thoughts coiling up in his lizard brain at her
touch. His mouth dried out and an odd yet familiar roaring sound fired up
between his ears. She frowned. “You okay, there, Evan?” Her lips caressed his
name, making him repress a shiver.
“Yeah, sorry. So,
anyway, I’ll just sit… over here… until Mr. Dawson is ready. You know, since
I’m, uh, early.” He winced, marveling at the depth of his dorkiness. She put
her elbows on the desk, eyeing him closely. He observed that she seemed a
little overdressed for a receptionist but figured this place must have a strict
dress code.
“Sit here,” she
said, patting the seat nearest her desk. “Keep me company for a while.”
“Um, sure,” he
said, flushing red to the tips of his ears, then moving closer to her while
trying to look cool, casual, not ready to jump up and escape.
She smiled. “So,
tell me about your company. You know, while we wait for Mr. Dawson.”
He relaxed and
launched into the tale, thankful to have a reason to talk and not sound like
the world’s oldest high school geek trying to flirt with the prom queen. She
asked a lot of questions, kept him talking. And after about a half hour, he was
laughing with her at his tale of trying to empty a brewing vessel full of wet
grains and dumping about ten pounds of the stuff all over himself.
At one point she
brushed her hair back, and his breath caught in his throat at the glimpse of
her long neck and the small indent between her collarbones. He had no idea what
that was, that soft spot that seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. But he wanted
to put his tongue there very, very badly. Allowing his eyes to flicker over her
profile, the striking angles of her face, he gulped, looked away.
Getting a grip, he
pulled a business card from his portfolio and handed it to her. “I’d love to
talk with you more,” he said, trying to ease his voice down from its
high-pitched nervous whine to a sexier, more natural tone. “But since I don’t
even know your name…” He looked at the nameplate on the desk. It was blank.
She leaned back,
propped her high heels on the desk in a strange move that had him instantly on
edge and practically panting with horniness.
“Uh, so,” he
glanced at his watch, his nerves dancing up and down his spine once more, “if
you are interested, maybe we could, you know, go out. Have a beer? Keep
chatting?” He closed his eyes, unable to bear his own flop sweat another
minute. “Never mind.” He slumped back in his seat. Where the "Master
Dom" Evan Adams had hidden he did not know, but damned if the guy was
staying there and leaving this ridiculous, stuttering loser in his place.
The silence spun
out about a minute longer than was truly polite. He finally looked up at her.
She was staring at him over the tops of her shoes, her head tilted to the side
as if wondering why the hell he was even cluttering up her space. Finally, the
doors to his left opened and a tall, good-looking guy in a suit stood there,
surprise clear on his face. “Julie,” he said. “We’ve been looking all over for
you. Your nine o’clock appointment isn’t here yet but…”
The woman held up
a hand, silencing the man but keeping her eyes pinned on Evan’s. His heart sped
up and that familiar, yet nearly forgotten, roaring sound started up in his
ears once more.
Julie Dawson. J.
Dawson. The person he’d been communicating with through his… or her… secretary.
Holy. Fucking.
Shit.
He stood, furious
that she’d sat there and let him babble on like a bloody idiot for nearly
forty-five minutes. “Well, that was fun,” he said, staring her down, or
attempting to. But his skin was both on fire and cold at once. Something about
the woman made him have to hang on to his laptop case tight, just to keep from
stepping close and kissing those full red lips so hard she would be his in an
instant. “Or not. Thanks for your time.”
“No, no, don’t
go,” she said, getting to her feet in one fluid, sexy move. She was over six
feet tall in her shoes, curvy, womanly, and sending out the sort of signals he
had not intercepted in a long time – too long, if the way he was overreacting
was any indication. “Really, I want to know why you think my company would be
in any way interested in yours.”
He processed her
barb, clenched his jaw, and poured out the reasons behind why Dawson would
benefit from jumping on his bandwagon now, in the early days, so they could
grow the brand in a key market together. She listened, standing behind the
stupid receptionist’s desk, her assistant wildly typing notes on his tablet.
Finally, she held
up a hand again. “How very… creative.” She walked around to the front of the
desk, giving him an eye-popping full view of her. She was like sex on two
perfect female legs, the exact body type he craved – full breasts and hips,
cinched in but not obnoxiously small waist, long hair, and legs that went on
and on… and on. “And, um, Evan?”
He jumped back,
hearing his name again.
“Yeah, my eyes are
up here. But never mind. I’m used to being ogled, and by way more successful
brewery owners than you.” She held his business card between thumb and
forefinger, as if it were made of dog shit. “Tell you what, why don’t you let
me ponder your… proposal. And assume that your eye-fucking session won’t happen
again.”
She turned from
him and walked away without a word. Her assistant shrugged and followed her
back in, leaving Evan breathless, furious, and never more aware of his
neglected libido.
Liz Crowe Bio:
Microbrewery owner, best-selling author, beer blogger and
journalist, mom of three teenagers, and soccer fan, Liz lives in the great
middle west, in a Major College Town.
Years of experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint
as an ex-pat trailing spouse plus making her way in a world of men (i.e. the
beer industry) has prepped her for life as erotic romance author. When she isn't sweating inventory and sales
figures for the brewery, she can be found writing, editing or sweating promotional
efforts for her latest publications. Her
ground breaking romance sub genre: “Romance for Real Life” has gained thousands
of fans and followers, interested less in the “HEA” and more in the “WHA” (“What
Happens After?”)
Her beer blog a2beerwench.com is nationally recognized for
its insider yet outsider views on the craft beer industry. Her books are set in
the not-so-common worlds of breweries, on the soccer pitch and in high powered
real estate offices. Don’t ask her for
anything “like” a Budweiser or risk painful injury.
Mutual Release is
available for pre-order on ARe:
XXOO Kat
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