Free Home Sweet Home (A Southern Comfort Novel) by Sarah Title Page A

Williams.
    “You wrote this?” he asked, even though, duh, there was her name.
    She looked up, and he enjoyed watching the flush that spread from her cheeks down her neck.
    “It’s based on my dissertation. I tried to get it published by a university press, but it got picked up by a more mainstream publisher. So I didn’t get a ton of academic cred out of it, but it made the outer reaches of the New York Times bestseller list.”
    Jake didn’t understand the disappointment in her voice. She was upset that her book made money? Her peers didn’t appreciate that it did?
    He put the book on the couch next to him. When he read, he stuck to biographies and spy thrillers. Definitely not the kind of stuff the professor would be into. He went back to the box.
    “Are you unpacking for me?” she asked, her attention back on the cat.
    “Just curious what kind of books a smart lady like you likes to read.” He pulled out a worn paperback. Tempest of the Heart it declared, in shiny, raised script. There was definitely a storm going on, and it was a windy one. The woman’s dress was being torn off her shoulder, and the man’s shirt was hanging on by a thread, his hair flowing dramatically behind them both.
    He held it up to her, his eyebrows raised. He watched that blush creep lower down her neck onto her chest.
    “That’s an old one.”
    “Looks steamy,” he said. It looked like the kind of book his mother read. She probably had this on one of the shelves in her basement.
    “It was very educational the first time I read it. I was thirteen.”
    “My mom says these books aren’t about sex, they’re about love.” He held up the book Grace had written. “I’m getting conflicting messages here, Grace.”
    She rolled her eyes at him and grabbed the romance novel. “This is fiction. An escape.”
    “So you don’t want to get swept up on a windy moor by a guy in a blouse?”
    She hit him on the knee with the book. Mr. Bingley jumped up on the couch and sniffed the other book, then lay down on top of it.
    “Seriously, Grace. I thought all women wanted happily ever after.”
    Grace fingered Mr. Bingley’s furry ears. “Not me.”
    “Then why do you read this stuff?”
    “I read mysteries, too. Does that mean I want to murder someone?”
    “You wanted me to get rid of that mouse for you.”
    She raised her eyebrow at him.
    He took the paperback from her and slid down to the floor next to her. “Angelina drew her dressing gown tighter around her bosom,” he read. “Rupert stalked forward and tore her hands away. He drew her roughly to him, his hard body crushing her lush curves as she struggled in his fierce, manly grasp. ‘Oh, Rupert,’ she cried. Rupert? What kind of hero is named Rupert?”
    “Shut up,” she said, grabbing the book away from him.
    “Hey, I’m not done with that! I want to find out what Rupert does with his manly grasp!” He reached for the book again, but she held it behind her back. They went horizontal in a tangle of limbs and musty pages, and suddenly Jake found himself on top of the professor, her lush curves very decidedly pressing against his manly . . . grasp.
    Grace stilled. Her breathing picked up. He felt every inhale in his own chest. He noticed her green eyes had flecks of yellow in them. He appreciated again the fine hints of red in her brown hair. Her lips were pink and soft and full.
    Terrible idea, his brain said, as he leaned closer to those lips. But by then it was too late. He pressed closer into her, and he felt her hands go around his neck, tangle in his hair. He deepened the kiss, feeling her open beneath him. He wrapped his arms around her, trying to get her closer, and he felt her arch up in response.
    He was so lost in the kiss, in that lush, soft mouth, that he barely registered Mr. Bingley jumping onto his back and then onto the floor. But Grace must have heard, because she pulled away. Her eyes were dark and her breath came even faster.
    That kind of vivid