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  He jumped when someone touched his arm. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, then giving up when they stayed fixed in place, he looked up. He met the clear blue eyes of his sister, Maureen. "Can I help you with him?" She asked, taking the chair next to him. He stared at her, then back at his son, who was greedily sucking on the bottle, his small, perfect hands clenched in tight fists as if he could will the milk to move faster into his mouth. He sighed, without even realizing it, and laid his aching head back. Mo rubbed the back of his neck.

  "Thanks," he muttered, keeping his eyes closed. "This is…"

  "Honey, I know," his sister whispered. "You have been through so much."

  "No, no, this isn't mine."

  "Jack," She gripped his arm. "You are allowed to grieve. You don't have to be the anchor all the time you know."

  He opened his eyes and looked up at the mockingly perfect blue sky, pondering the truth of her words. "Here, give me the baby," she held out her arms.

  Jack looked down into his son's peaceful, sleeping face and felt his heart clench so tightly he had to clear his throat to distract himself. His son. His. He looked up, seeking Sara but she was sitting with her mother, who seemed to be crying again. As if sensing his gaze, Sara looked up straight into his eyes. The place her brother had occupied as an elemental part of her universe was a visible emptiness – a weird black hole next to her that he could actually see. He sighed. "I didn't even really like the guy." He muttered into Brandis' head, keeping the boy held tight to his chest.

  Maureen resumed rubbing his neck. "Of course you did. He wanted what was best for his sister. So did you, if I recall."

  Jack chuckled, shifted the baby to his shoulder to pat out a burp or two and shot her a look. "Yeah, okay. Point taken."

  "Well, it's true. You were no more interested in me with Brandis than Blake was with you and his sister."

  "Touché." Jack mumbled, still watching his wife try and comfort her mother.

  "Jack, look at me," Mo demanded.

  He let his eyes wander over the clumps of unhappy people scattered around his lawn once more before coming to rest on his sister's. Their deep blue matched his exactly. She put a firm hand on his arm. "You guys have to keep communicating. Don't let her shut down. Don't worry, this is equal opportunity nagging. I'm telling her the same thing. You're too damn much alike. I see both of you looking like the walking dead, not relying on each other like you should. Are you listening to me?"

  He nodded, but he hadn't been. Not really. All he still saw was Sara, crumpled on the floor of the hospital hallway. Then Lila's wide, dark, shell-shocked stare because he had to be the one to tell her that Blake was dead in a freak car accident and that they would be using his lungs to save Rob's life. He shut his eyes again, trying to make the whole fucking mess go away.

  He startled when Mo plucked the sleeping baby from his arms. He'd never felt so numb, so utterly devoid of anything but the bright clear agony of "what the fuck happens tomorrow when we wake up" in his entire life. He shot Sara another glance making sure she didn't need anything before he stood. Stretching his arms and back, he grabbed a beer and headed over to sit with Rob whose face held even more misery than Sara's. He kissed Lila and the baby in her arms then sat and drained the brew in nearly one long gulp.

  "We're quite the pair aren't we," he asked, indicating the infant who was currently screeching his fool head off no matter what Lila did to comfort him. She stood and walked away. "Sorry," he muttered. Rob just heaved a sigh and looked at him, hands gripping his thighs as if trying to keep himself from launching out of the wheelchair.

  "No, it's fine. He's… she's… God," Rob put his head in his hands. Jack sat with his friend, silent and useless for nearly an hour resuming his perusal of the gathered mourners. When his sister looked up at him and winked he smiled and raised his empty beer bottle, visions of the last time he had been with her at a funeral making him nearly suffocate with frustrated grief.

  Paradise Hops

  Coming to Sizzlin' Books - October, 2012

  Lori wrestled open the back brewery door, ears already ringing from the curses that echoed through the large, brightly lit room. The brewery boys, and three second brewers stood in a line, like they were in a marine barracks all looking as nervous as mice observed by a very hungry cat.

  "And who the fuck," boomed a voice, "might you be? No one told me there was a girl brewer in this place."

  As a reflex, Lori looked around, seeking out the girl who'd pissed off the faceless angry voice that must belong to Eli Buchanan their new master brewer. She'd been instrumental in convincing her father to hire the guy. He was a brewing celebrity, a genius, temperamental and prone to quit perfectly good breweries if the mood suited him. He was exactly what Brockton needed. They had to get past their staid, complacent attitude in a rapidly changing craft beer environment.

  "Yeah, I'm talking to you. The one who showed up fifteen minutes late for my morning staff meeting." She flushed, frowning at the line of men, many of whom had worked for her father for years as they shuffled their feet and wouldn't meet her eyes. "Who the hell are you, and why are you on my brewery floor?"

  She cleared her throat, squared her shoulders and channeled the anger building in her chest. "I'm Lori. Lori Brockton. This is the first day of my brewery rotation." She hated how thin her voice sounded.

  "Your brewery rotation eh?" She stepped back at the vision that emerged from between towering stainless steel fermentation vessels. "What is this? Brewing Day Camp? I'm supposed to babysit the Brockton kids?" He glared at her, making her blink in the glare of his bright, steely blue gaze. Eli Buchanan was larger than life. At least six foot five, with long blonde hair held back by a small piece of leather. Clad in light blue jeans, in a Brockton Brewing grey t-shirt, the span of his shoulders and definition of his torso forced an exhale from Lori's lips. He kept quiet as her eyes took him in, from rubber boot clad feet to the light red hair covering his jaw. "Well? See anything you like?"

  "Uh, no, I mean, it's not camp. I mean, you are…I'm…" she stuttered, then stopped. The man stood stock still, glaring as if challenging her. She stood up straighter. "I'm here for the next six months to learn this part of the business. You know, so I can be your boss someday." The man frowned at her. She frowned back.

  Then he tilted his head back and laughed, stepped into her personal space and smacked her ass so hard she yelped. "I look forward to that day girl Brockton. Yes, I do." A couple of the men started forward as if to protect her but she waved them back. This asshole had another thing coming if he thought she'd be intimidated by him. As much as she might have been at one point, something about him was as non-threatening as Garrett, but in a different way – a much more spine-tingling way.

  About Liz Crowe

  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.

  www.lizcrowe.com

  www.brewingpasssion.com

  www.a2beerwench.com

  www.facebook.com/lizcroweauthor

  www.twitter.com/beerwencha2

  www.facebook.com/roma
nceforreallife

  www.facebook.com/jackgordonrealtor

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Current Releases

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Note to the Readers

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  Coming Soon

  Author Biography

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Current Releases

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Note to the Readers

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  Coming Soon

  Author Biography