Why Not Real Romance? By Liz Crowe
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| Liz Crowe, Author |
The Alpha Hero as
envisioned by the typical reader is fairly predictable, and is expected to Be a
Certain Way by many. He is tall, typically a brunette for some reason, broad
shouldered, well-toned, powerful, wealthy beyond reason or explanation, and
likely wounded in his soul and seeking a lovely lady to heal him. I’ve spent some time writing these dudes
myself but my guys tend to bring a touch of realism to the equation—one that
does not always sit well with traditional romance readers or reviewers.
So, I’m officially calling
my style of fiction: Romance. For Real Life. I bring the hot ‘n powerful guys,
yes, but I also bring the real life tests of mettle, the hard choices, the
mistakes and “the morning after” that must be dealt with. It is my argument that 90% of the books out
there today, be they “young adult,” (or the sneakily named “New Adult” which is
a lot of hot romance with a lot of much younger heroes and heroines—also
billionaires too a lot of them, but whatever), “chick lit,” “crime and
mystery,” “paranormal or sci fi,” or even dare I say “mainstream fiction,” has
an element of romance in it. That core story—the oldest one ever—of the
attraction between men and women never gets old. Just ask Harlequin.
However, I meld styles,
with contemporary, mainstream story elements like challenging family dynamics,
tough typical (and not so typical) teenage experiences, hard work environments
and small business struggles, personal inner demons and external real life
pressures--along with that central, juicy, (dare I use the word) romance. I
prefer to read this more complex sort of story, so that is what I write.
This is in no way to
disrespect the efforts of any author worth reading in any genre.
On the contrary, it’s an homage to all the varying styles I have personally read
(and I’ve read a lot of them), this blending that I do. The familiar jargon “HEA” (Happily Ever After) demanded by the millions of
truly fabulous hard core romance readers out there I just turn a little further
on its natural axis, reaching for the “WHA” (the What Happens After). I like to know how the couple really gets on
after the hot hookup turns into a heartfelt relationship (if that happens—no
guarantee in my books. Just saying).
If you are a fan of the
predictable HEA you may find it in my books, but I guarantee my
characters are going to work very hard to find it. And will treat it for what
it is: “Happily For Now” with promises to work hard as that is what real
relationships require.
* * *
Mutual Release is a coming of age novel about
trust...on the long road to love.
Disclaimer: This is an 18+ book with erotic
BDSM scenes and explicit language.
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.
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 will award the
following prizes at the end of the Virtual Book Tour and the Book Blast:
1st Prize: Signed set of
first 6 books (Includes all books in the series *except for* Mutual Release)
2nd Prize: boxed set of
first 3 Stewart Realty ebooks (Floor Time, Sweat Equity, Closing Costs)
3rd Prize: Zazzle store
Stewart swag pack (including canvas tote bag, mug, t-shirt, keychain)
About The Author
Microbrewery owner,
best-selling author, beer blogger and journalist, mom of three teenagers, and
soccer fan, Liz lives in the great Midwest, 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 groundbreaking romance
subgenre, “Romance for Real Life,” has gained thousands of fans and followers
who are 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.
Author’s Sites:
