Free Boots on the Ground: Homefront, Book 1 by Rebecca Crowley

used to calling the shots in the bedroom. He would be very happy to let her push him around between the sheets—and even happier to reverse their roles when she least expected it.
    She raised her hands to his shoulders, ran her forefinger over the hair at his nape that was slowly but steadily growing out. He had no military tattoos, no visible combat scars unless he undressed—soon nothing would mark him out as someone who’d spent all of his early adult life in the service of his country. No one could see inside his head, no one would notice him checking exits, no one would know that most nights he jerked awake from vivid nightmares in a cold sweat. He’d be just another guy in his thirties with a high school diploma and a little piece of land, trying to make his life amount to something. Quiet. Unremarkable. And solid as lead.
    Laurel slid her thumb across his temple, bringing him back to the here and now. A tiny crease formed between her brows as she studied him with soft, searching eyes. “Where have you gone?”
    Had any woman ever looked at him like that before? Like she could unlock him and throw him open if she was gentle and careful. Like she wanted so desperately to see what was inside that she didn’t care how long it took, she’d keep chipping away until the moment he was flung wide and she was turning over each of his secrets in her hands with the same care and attention she’d show an injured baby bird.
    The answer was no—never. Women had looked at him with dismay, with exasperation, with annoyance, and more recently with hungry, self-serving lust. He didn’t mind—it wasn’t like he had much more to offer in return.
    But Laurel’s gaze penetrated straight to his core in a way he hadn’t thought possible. He smiled against the flutter of fear in his stomach, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as he bolstered his inner defenses, brought his face closer to hers as he prepared to lie through his teeth.
    “I’m right here,” he murmured. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
    After the screech of the smoke detector cut short their tête-à-tête, after Grady ran through what Laurel suspected was a military-grade vocabulary of vulgarities as he scraped burned rice from the sides of the pot, after they ate the surviving chili against a backdrop of easy conversation, and after Grady caught his hands behind his head in a stretch so expansive she genuinely feared for the survival of the cartoon mascot on his shirt, she decided it was time to make her move.
    “So the bed in the guest room was comfortable?”
    “Yeah, it was great.”
    She brought her gaze squarely to his, broadcasting her intent. “You can stay in it tonight.”
    Instantly his eyes widened with sheepish apology, and her heart sank. “I can’t, Laurel, I’m sorry. I haven’t been home since Saturday, and I have to work tomorrow, and—”
    “It’s fine,” she replied with a blitheness she didn’t feel, and which he evidently saw right through, because he covered her hand with his and leaned into the space between them.
    “You’ve shown me incredible hospitality today, and I really hope I’ll be invited back. Just not tonight, okay?”
    “Okay.” She nodded, encouraged by his earnest tone of voice and the heavy warmth of his palm. She pushed back from the table, reached for her purse and suddenly remembered her conversation with Blake.
    “Actually, the kidnapping’s not quite over. I’ll drop you home, but first I need to ask for a favor. And yes, your answer will determine whether or not I release you.”
    He arched a curious brow. “Favor?”
    She held up her car keys and jingled them in the air. “What are you doing on Memorial Day?”

Chapter Seven
    Grady’s stomach somersaulted with apprehension as he pulled up beside the curb, already feeling embarrassingly out of place as he parked the dusty bulk of his truck at the end of a line of late-model, high-end SUVs and sedans. Laurel flashed him a smile almost as