There's nothing more exciting than seeing a new book out in the world. And Rogue Affair is coming at us fast!! For more on this fabulous anthology, head over and check out the exclusive cover reveal over on USA Today's HEA Blog!
Here's a little bit about my story, SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS:
Small town reporter O’Neal Jones is a sucker for a good story. Which is why she can’t resist following high school crush Kurt Anderson on his bizarre trip up a North Cascades peak. But when it’s time to come back down, she’s not sure she can go back to real life. Could one night with a man on a mountain change everything for this no-strings woman?
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OMG, you guys!!
IN HIS HANDS is out TODAY!
It's the third book in the Blank Canvas series and it features Luc, my messed up winemaker, and Abby, who runs away from the cult next door. If you're a lover of the Blank Canvas series, you'll be pleased to know that Clay, George, and Uma make a brief appearance in this story. And if you're new to the series, the audio of all three books is currently on mega sale!
The rules are simple: 
Never speak to outsiders.
Never yearn for something more.
And never, ever seek the pleasure of a stolen kiss...or a whispered promise that with him, she can finally be free.

Abby Merkley has been a member of the Church of the Apocalyptic Faith since she was a child, and there's no way out...until her darkly handsome, brooding neighbor defies the rules and takes her into the safety of his arms.

He should frighten her, but everything inside Abby thrills at Luc Stanek's rough manners and shockingly gentle touch. He excites her, ignites her, leaves her shaken and wanting more. But evil men follow in her footsteps, and it may take more than one fierce beauty to defend her loving beast.

★ Amazon 
★ B & N 
★ iBooks 
★ Google Play
★ Kobo

I was so excited to see In His Hands get a STARRED review from PW! Here's my favorite bit:
"Anders excels at creating sympathetic characters who will win the reader’s heart. A nail-biting incursion into the cult to rescue children concludes this sterling tale of two lost souls finding true love."
Click on the picture to check out what they had to say!

Hey! I'm over on the Casablanca Authors blog writing about how great you are for reading romance! Click the image to check it out! 

Just home from a friend’s house, a little tipsy, Le Husband driving and the kids in the back. They’re two and four and it’s summer—the end of the summer, which feels even more nostalgic than usual. We’re home and we brush teeth and I’m happy that the little ones fall asleep right away and I’m thinking, a lot, about the memories we helped them make tonight.

A part of it—a big part—is who we spent the time with. A wonderful, close friend and then someone I recently reconnected with: O, I’ll call her. She’s this awesome, strong, tattooed, sweet woman, with a husband who’s all wry humor and carefully-bestowed eye-contact. We ran into them at our CSA a couple years ago, our kids are in preschool together and, it turns out, we played soccer on the same team when we were youngsters—miles away and decades ago. And now, our children are pals, at the same school.

There was a sort of ecstasy in the kids’ playtime tonight. A starry-skyed, firelit, costume-clad joy, fueled by late bedtimes and ghost stories in an unfamiliar backyard. There were lightning bugs and mosquitoes and a swingset and parents happy just to watch and stand around barely talking—not needing to talk—while the kids entertained themselves. I remember those parents, when I was a kid—unhurried, unworried.

My folks really were just there for the ride, whereas I? Oh, man, today, I’m worried about making memories for my babies.

Why? I keep asking myself. Why were my parents so laissez-faire and yet I’m convinced I’m bound for failure?

It's so different today, I think. That must be it.

I remember using a computer for the first time. Logo, they called the program back then. It is the least important of my memories. I remember when MTV aired ‘Video Killed the Radio Star,’ and you know what? That made no difference in my life. What did make a difference, at the time? Fireflies in jars, holes punched in the lids. Running free with neighbors, kids I barely knew whose faces take up more bandwidth in my memory than entire presidential terms. Trailing sparks and hot dogs and the oddly pleasant smell of DEET. None of my fondest recollections involve smartphones or apps or movies geared towards kids. The books we read were on paper that was rippable, the stories never-ending, imagination the magic ingredient. 

What strikes me the hardest is how badly I want my kids to have what I had. I see parents all around me, doling out screen time like popcorn and all I want is for things to stay special—as special as they were for me. Not the magic of technology, but the magic of real life, which feels rare today—precious.

So, for now, and as long as I can make it last, here is what I vow to my kids (no matter how much they may hate me for it in the short term):

I’ll keep you from the screen, though it’s so damned hard. I’ll point you to the page and to real-world adventures. I’ll give you memories as strong and as real and as lasting as mine.  And, all the while, I’ll pretend I don’t notice when you’re having a blast—I’ll be nonchalant and laissez-faire and lazy. It won't be easy, but I’ll stand by and watch and pretend I’m not there while you’re making your life’s best memories.

While I was pregnant with my second child (my daughter), I became obsessed with sex. It wasn’t a new obsession, but the hormones re-ignited my interest, opening me back up to something I had completely left behind: dirty books. About a decade before, I’d had a rocky, guilt-ridden relationship with the works of writers like Bertrice Small, Susan Johnson and Thea Devine. Luckily, my reacquaintance with the world of word smut came at a very fortuitous moment. It came just after some pretty amazing authors had turned the genre around, modernizing it and making it relatable on so many levels. Even more importantly, for me, who’d been writing for marketing and video games, these authors inspired me, finally pointing out a direction in which I could venture… if only I dared.

There were other factors involved, like a job I couldn’t picture myself doing forever, my maternity leave looming like a last chance saloon: three months to write my book. Three months or bust. Throughout those months of gestation mayhem, I read. And read, and read. I soaked it up, returned to my old love of romantic fiction, re-reading old classics and discovering new favorites; becoming obsessed with some pretty incredible authors and horrified by shit that I just couldn’t finish. Sometimes the shit gave me hope, because if they could do it, why the hell couldn’t I?

And I had a natural deadline: three months after the birth of my child, I had to go back to work. The only issue was that I’d never written that much in my life, was convinced that I couldn’t. Grad School? I’d love to, but no way, I’d have to write a thesis for that! I’d have to finish it. But that deadline, those three months… they just sat there, waiting for me, letting me know that this might very well be my last chance. Ever.

And then it arrived. Or rather, she did: a busy, brassy, beautiful little girl. And I wrote, with her attached to my breast or strapped to my chest. Honestly, it was crap, but I wrote it and I finished it: a filthy-ish novella, set in a small town in Virginia. I never really revised it, but I finished it. It had an end, dammit. Not a good one, but an end.

And I, in the meantime, had begun the long process of learning how to write.

I say begun because I’m only partway through it now and I suspect that I’ll be finished learning when I die. But I got it. I truly understood the drive and dedication that it takes to make that book happen. Plotting? Sure, I can power through. Character? Yeah, I’m getting there. But the best thing I learned was that writing is truly amazing. Once you get your groove, it’s the most magical thing in the world. Here I’d gone and tried being an actress, when all along the voices in my head weren’t interpreting things! No, they were telling me to write the shit down!

So I wrote for real and, with the help of my poor, clueless, wonderful best girlfriends in the world, I made it to the end of a novel. Oh, you girls deserve so, so many vodkas for the hours you listened to me plot and fret and doubt myself. But, with your help, I did it: I made one. A real, honest, whole book. And, with the help of those same amazing friends, I worked on it until it became something close to what it is today. After that, the isolation of working nights and weekends by myself got to be too much and I sought out other lonely writers, who’ve also become friends and today, life is so full and writing has become such a lifesaver and I can’t, for one single moment, take credit for everything that has happened.

Today, my daughter earned a fake tattoo by taking her first poop in the potty and I'm still woozy from signing a book contract, hard at work on my third full-length novel. So, you amazing writers who write your own thing, who forge your own paths (filthy or not), know that you forge it for all of us. And please never stop. Friends, who listen, who critique fearlessly or roll your eyes and can’t even read the smexy bits, know that you help us get through. And you daughters, you tiny ticking time bombs, whose births gave us our last chance at personal fulfillment, well… how can we ever thank you for spurring us on?

There’s only one way I can think of. And that’s to write.

Ok, there. It’s out! Now, for the details: my (fabulous) agent, Laura Bradford, sold my book (Blank Canvas is the working title) to Mary Altman at Sourcebooks in a three-book deal! 
Those of you who know me can confirm how very hard it’s been for me to keep this in for so long! I have not the words. Thankfully, I have just the GIF!

More to come when I can write a full sentence again.

There’s a lot of satisfaction at completing that last page of a manuscript. Before revisions and second-guessing, outside perspectives, critiques and more self-doubt, there’s excitement. And fear. Lots and lots of fear. I’ve got it in my belly right now—not butterflies. More like angry little guys fighting in there. Churning things up and making my life more exciting, in a virtual way, than it is in reality.

This manuscript, tentatively titled Thirst, is short at about 62,000 words. It’s short and I think it’s choppy, although I haven’t gone back to read it yet. It’s short and it’s choppy and I started it over two years ago—before my daughter was born. This book is the result of more than two years of writing and bringing up children and working the day job and writing the other book in between. Coffees and scotches and moving houses and having babies. Jesus, it’s a wonder I managed to follow the thread at all.

When I wrote those initial few pages, I was sure that this book was a kinky sort of futuristic looking into power relationships. Oh, how wrong I was. It’s not about that and, frankly, it was clearly never meant to be.

This book, which takes place in a thirsty, post-apocalyptic future, takes a different look at love. Not to mention courage and trust and knowing yourself, truly knowing your strengths enough to know how to use them in order to survive. It’s weird how I start these things, these multi-year, word-based relationships, with a very specific view of what I’m writing about. And then it’s thrown on its head.

Well, it’s nowhere near being finished, so I’ve got work to do. I’ll export this as an e-book and read it. I’ll let it surprise me, since I probably won’t recognize two-thirds of the words as my own. Funny how my own words surprise me, each and every time.

It’s a long and sordid story.

First, I’m going to just put something out there, once and for all: I am obsessed with sex. Isn’t everyone, on some level? There’s a reason that sex sells. It’s exciting, voyeuristic, depraved. It’s intertwined with love, power, hate. It feels good and looks strange and everybody does it differently. We need it to survive, as a race and, whether we consciously think about it or not, it’s a part of us, inevitably linked to our growth, maturity and, I will venture to say from personal experience, childhood.

My story is also about reading and writing and how they have made me more me. Those who know me well are aware that reading has always been my distraction of choice—my parents can attest to the mountain of illicit library books collecting dust under my bed for years, not to mention the overdue fines I stuck them with upon my departure to college. Books have shaped me, from earliest childhood through today, and writing them even more so. I’ll never forget the day my father decided it was time for me to stop reading pocket romances and start reading more mature books. He took me to the mall and bought me The Catcher in the Rye, along with a book called Maia by Richard Adams. I suppose he thought that the Watership Down author was a safe, innocuous bet. If only he had read this review, he would have known that it's actually an "erotic epic."

What I discovered, as I quickly consumed that thousand page fantasy tome (which is, sadly, no longer in print), was a world of intrigue, violence and [drumroll] sex. My poor father, who had absolutely no idea of the monster he’d created with that one innocent purchase, was thrilled. He had succeeded: I was hooked on reading. I remain today an avid reader and, while over the years my tastes have certainly evolved, I am the type of person who would prefer to read something—anything—than nothing at all.

So, I’ve read a lot of books in a lot of genres and would never limit myself to only romance or erotica. In fact, authors like JRR Tolkien and PG Wodehouse are some of my favorites, because despite everything I just told you, there’s more to life than sex. But halfway through a favorite mystery or thriller—a Martha Grimes or a Robert Parker—a love interest will come along and my pulse will pick up and I’ll feel it—that thrill. Because, in the end, what turns my crank, more than finding the murderer or getting that ring or avoiding Aunt Agatha is when people fall in love. That stupid, trite, happily-ever-after.
That answers half the question—the why romance part. Erotica, though, is more personal, older history. It’s half-memories of neighborhood kids playing doctor and the weird feelings that came with those games. There’s a French film from the 1960s, based on a novel, Angelique, Marquise des Anges, about a woman who goes through a multitude of mid-17th century trials and tribulations. There’s a scene in this film where poor Angelique, who has already survived a forced marriage, amongst other things, is being paraded on the auction block, in front of an audience of lecherous men. I was just a kid when I first watched it. I had no understanding of why, but the feelings… oh the feelings were there. To this day, I remember the titillation, the excitement engendered by that particular scene.

That is the excitement that I seek to capture through my writing. It’s an exploration of things that I’ll never live through and don’t particularly need to. What happens when you bring together these two people, in this situation and throw in a little dash of chemistry? Writing erotica lets my brain answer those questions and experience those fantasies without the commitment of real life. It’s therapy.

Erotica is, by its very nature, hot. It makes you horny; or at least it should. There’s a notion that it’s filthy, dirty smut. Well, yes. But, unlike pornographic films, where every last hair (or lack thereof) is displayed in vivid Technicolor detail, the written word spells out the basic framework and the reader’s mind fills in the blanks.

There’s a scene in the series Breaking Bad, involving a bathtub, a corpse and acid. I stuck with the show until that moment, but I just couldn’t force myself to sit through such graphic violence as that scene promised. For those of you out there who don’t, or can’t, watch porn, books may just be the way forward. I can read about violence—my brain helpfully provides only those details that it can handle—and I recommend reading about sex the same way.

A final thought on ‘Mommy Porn’: Contrary to popular belief, erotica isn’t just for frustrated moms who aren’t getting any at home. It’s for anyone who recognizes that sex is actually the good part. Like holding hands and secret smiles, physical intimacy is a highlight of a relationship, the best part of the rocky road we negotiate along the way. It’s the chocolate chips and the marshmallows and the cream in the middle. So, if I’m going to write about love, well, I’m going to make it sexy, because I'm a big fan of that cream in the middle.