APPRAISED
A
Real Estate Romance
By
Liz Crowe
100%
free to subscribers of her monthly newsletter November 17, 2015 PLUS
again on Liz’s milestone 29+20 birthday December 17, 2015.
APPRAISED
is rated NC17 (NOT XXX)
for language and adult situations.
How
to get a copy:
Sign
up! On November 17 AND December 17 you will receive a link to
download this book in your preferred format, plus the sequel
CONTINGENT in early January.
Goodreads
Link to leave your thoughts and recommendations:
Blurb:
Sawyer
Callahan is a former cop turned accounting instructor, part time real
estate appraiser and handy man, and single dad to a teenaged girl. He
keeps his once-chaotic life now firmly under his strict, somewhat OCD
control. Until he decides to sell the house that reminds him too much
of his late wife.
Miranda
Landon is hot-shot real estate agent with a relationship-sized chip
on her shoulder that she exorcises, frequently, with the help of as
many men as possible.
These
two meet, of course. But what happens may surprise you.
APPRAISED
is the first in a series of 100% FREE Liz Crowe novels told in a
unique back-and-forth point of view style. Real Estate Romance with
humor and spice available to subscribers to Liz’s once-a-month
newsletter.
Excerpt
#1 (rated R for language):
It was a
buzz writing up offers and listings practically on the hood of my
car. But the fall-throughs from all the fakers and porch pissers
were, by statistical necessity, also increasing.
Maddening,
I thought as I ran my hands down my torso, studying my almost-forty
imperfections with a critical eye. I’d never be skinny. I never had
been. I was almost five foot ten flatfooted and had broad shoulders
thanks to my years spent in the pool as a kid and teenager. I’d
never, ever been anything less than a size eight, which as I’d been
told by the helpful and knowledgeable Ashley was “the new ten” or
something equally depressing.
At the
moment, I bordered on “the new twelve or fourteen” I supposed,
being the ten going on twelve I bounced between no matter how little
I ate or how many hours I sold my soul to the cycle. Ashley
again—she’d insisted that I’d change my entire perspective on
the universe if I tortured myself three times a week with her on
those stupid stationary bikes. I did like it. It made me forget
everything but the extreme urge to jump off the bike, declare
everyone in the room full of shit, and stomp out. The three hours a
week I spent forcing myself not to do that were hours well spent, if
they kept me under the deadly number twelve on the clothes tags, I
figured.
“You’re
truly statuesque,” Ashley always insisted. “Womanly. In perfect
proportion. No wonder all the guys tent their tighty-whities every
time you walk into a room.”
I didn’t
bother reminding her of the basic simplicity of men. No, I wasn’t
hard to look at. My thick auburn hair was exotic. I had huge,
expressive green eyes and had lived enough years to know how to use
them. I had decent tits, full hips, natch. And did two hundred
crunches every fucking night to keep my unruly belly in check. But my
basic shape was, in a word, larger than what was considered perfect
in this snake-hipped, ironing-board stomach obsessed world. I’d
learned to live with it.
No, men
sensed something else about me—either an eagerness or desperation
for their direct, most personal attention. That was what kept them
all salivating in my presence. I put out. And I didn’t want
anything more than that. It wasn’t rocket science.
But I
wasn’t taken advantage of, oh no. No man left my bed—or empty
house, office, or broom closet—without having satisfied me. I came
first. And often. That much was understood and I had not met a guy
yet who wasn’t willing to fulfill that basic, simple order of
operations. I’d spent way too many years thinking I’d had an
orgasm at the inept and self-centered hands of my husband. Those days
were over.
Thanks to
my Las Vegas friend, I mused, letting my mind wander to him—he of
the amazing skill set, the beautiful face, the lovely laugh, the
generous lips and hands. He was a trained masseur, he’d claimed
when we first met. He’d just “relax” me. And we’d see where
it took us.
I shivered
at the memory of that first week I spent with him. He’d taught me
about the triggers, the zones, the way I could use my body to please
my partner. I think I fell in deep love with the man that week, but I
refused it, rejected it. I’d paid him after all. He’d taken my
money that first time. The other times—all the deeply erotic
experiences we’d shared since—were free of charge, he’d
claimed.
COPY-PASTE-ABLE
TWEETS (pre-vetted for length):
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Liz
Bio:
Amazon best-selling author, mom
of three, Realtor, beer blogger, brewery marketing expert, and soccer
fan, Liz Crowe is a Kentucky native and graduate of the University of
Louisville currently living in Ann Arbor. She has decades of
experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint as a
three-continent, ex-pat trailing spouse.
With stories set in the
not-so-common worlds of breweries, on the soccer pitch, in successful
real estate offices and at times in exotic locales like Istanbul,
Turkey, her books are unique and told with a fresh voice. The Liz
Crowe backlist has something for any reader seeking complex
storylines with humor and complete casts of characters that will
delight, frustrate and linger in the imagination long after the book
is finished.
Don’t ever ask her for anything
“like a Budweiser” or risk bodily injury.
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