Home Sweet Home (A Southern Comfort Novel) (10 page)

That would have been good for me, too, she wanted to say, but the way he was stalking over her on his hands and knees left her a little tongue-tied. She opened her mouth as soon as he kissed her and when she felt his hands under her shirt she thought, well, that’s it, I’ve melted. But Jake persisted and licked a trail up from her waist to her neck, pulling her shirt up and over her head as he went. She wiggled out of her shorts while she waited for him to take the initiative with her bra. When he didn’t, she started to do it herself; she didn’t mind. But then Jake stilled her with a hand on her arm and she looked up at him, surprised, but lay back down, hands at her sides.

“What is this?” he asked, running his hands gently over the whole front of her.

“Boobs?” She was teasing him, but also hopefully directing him.

“I never would have guessed . . .” He traced a finger around the edge of her bra. It was one of her more serviceable ones, gray cotton, designed for comfort. Jake’s finger followed the bright pink lace sewn to the edges, then spread his fingers over the polka dots on the gray fabric. Grace tried her hardest not to arch into his touch, not to look too eager, but when he leaned down and kissed between her breasts, then ran his tongue along the outside of the lace, she didn’t care how she looked.

She felt good. He felt good, the rough stubble of his cheeks brushing against her belly-flop sensitive skin, the calluses on his hands scraping gently as he ran his hands down over her hips, taking her underwear with him.

He spent more time—more time than she thought she could stand—trailing kisses all over her skin before he finally nudged her up and took her bra off. She really liked what he was doing, but she was ready for him to get on with it.

He must have felt that same mad impatience because he cursed and attacked her mouth and she held on, attacking back, as he worked his hips between her legs and settled in against her.

The feeling of him hard and bare against her brought her back to reality. Grace mentally ran through the contents of her bathroom cabinets, which was hard to do when Jake’s hands and mouth were running through her contents. But she managed because she knew this would get even more dire soon. She was ninety-seven percent sure she didn’t have any condoms, although there might still be that glow-in-the-dark one that Jane gave her as a joke last Halloween. Whatever, it would work. It was safe to put something glow-in-the-dark in her body, right?

But then Jake bit her neck and she squeaked.

“Get out of that head of yours,” he said, gently licking over the spot, then trailing kisses along her chin and up to her mouth. “I’m trying to turn you on to men again.”

“Jake,” she said breathlessly just as he kissed her. He probably thought she was just sighing in pleasure. Which she was doing, but she also needed to apprise him of the condom situation. But as she tried to push his shoulders up she got distracted by how wide they were, and how the muscles played beneath her fingers as he shifted to pull her closer.

“Hey.” Jake nipped her chin. “Stay with me, here.”

“I know, I know. But I don’t have any condoms,” she said in a rush before he could distract her again.

He looked at her blankly, then rested his forehead on hers. Then, in a rush, he was out of bed. Oh, God, she thought. Is this the end? She didn’t want to have unprotected sex, but couldn’t they, like, do other stuff?

“Don’t look so panicked, I ain’t leavin’,” he said, digging something out of his discarded jeans. He came up, muscled and victorious, a foil wrapped prize between his fingers. Before she could think of something clever to say to show her appreciation, he was back, his whole body covering hers, then inside of hers, and the only clever thing she could say was a loud, appreciative moan. He paused, brushed her hair back, so she wrapped her legs around his hips and he got the message and moved. She picked up his rhythm and they were moving together, his eyes locked on hers until she threw her head back and shouted, then he shouted, and they collapsed into each other.

“I should go,” Jake murmured into her neck. Grace was glad he said it, because she was about to and she didn’t want him to get offended. He felt good, if a bit heavy, lying half on top of her, their sweat-slicked limbs tangled in the sheets. She could get used to this kind of entanglement.

Which was exactly why he needed to leave.

“Okay,” she said, and brushed the hair on the back of his neck. He had really good hair. It was thick and wavy and she liked that it was a little too long, because it gave her fingers something to play with as she worked up the energy to kick him out.

She looked over at the clock, but they had knocked it off the nightstand in their fervor. And what fervor. She stretched as best as she could underneath Jake, tilting her head back to look out of the open curtains. It was definitely late, and not quite early. He could probably get out unnoticed by Mrs. Wallace and her neighborhood watch.

“I should be able to avoid your neighbors if I go now. What time is it, anyway?”

She smiled up at him and he kissed her, hard and fast. He started to get up and she wanted to pull him back, to tangle the sheets up with him a little more, but she had to let him go. He was definitely trouble, and she was determined to avoid romantic entanglements.

Determined.

He climbed out of the bed, tripping over the sheets and pulling them to the floor. She sat up just enough to pull them back onto the bed. She was cold all of a sudden. She watched him step into his jeans, then look vaguely around the room for the rest of his clothes. His hair was sticking up in the places where she had toyed with it, and standing there, looking tired and a little confused in just his jeans, he was the most perfect combination of sexy and cute she had ever seen.

But she was determined.

She pointed to the back of the purple armchair in the corner. He smiled ruefully and retrieved his shirt, then quickly pulled it over his head. Hmph. Should have kept my pointing to myself, she thought. Then he bent down and found his boxers under the ottoman—how had they gotten
under
the ottoman?—and, shrugging, he stuffed them in his pocket. Oh, good Lord, she was never getting back to sleep now.

But she had to let the poor man out, so she rolled out of bed and grabbed her robe off the back of the door. He stuffed his feet into his shoes and followed her down the stairs. She started to open the door, but he pushed it closed, then pushed her up against it and kissed her so hard her insides rebelled and she wrapped her limbs around him.

“Good night,” he said, that crooked grin teasing her.

She unwound herself but kept her head close. “Good night,” she whispered, and kissed him on the nose.

As soon as she closed the door behind him, she died. She leaned against the door and squealed as quietly as she could, which was pretty difficult considering she was bursting inside. Holy crap. Jake, the pain in her butt, was a Love God.

No, not love. She didn’t do love.

He was a Like God.

No, he was a Sex God.

Her toes curled just thinking about it. She thought about calling Jane, just so she would have someone to squeal with. But it was late, or early, and besides, Jane really didn’t need to hear the details.

Just as Grace was deciding that she didn’t want to share them anyway, there was a knock at the door. Since the knock was directly behind where her head was, she jumped, and, without thinking, threw the door open.

Jake was back.

“Uh, my truck won’t start,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck in that way that he did when he was feeling conflicted. “I must not have closed the door all the way.”

“Oh,” said Grace.

“I could call someone for a jump, or—”

Before he even finished whatever ridiculous solution he was about to propose, Grace grabbed him by the neck of his shirt and pulled him inside. Before she could even think about releasing him, his mouth was on hers and he hauled her up into his arms and carried her back upstairs.

The house finally, finally, settled down for the night.

J
ake woke up with a start. He’d been having this strange dream where everything smelled like cupcakes and he was coming home like Ward Cleaver, with briefcase and suit and tie. In the dream, he was happy—probably the cupcakes—but woke up with a strangled feeling—probably the tie. He didn’t dream a lot, or at least he didn’t remember his dreams, so he was already disoriented, and when he didn’t immediately recognize his surroundings, he started to panic.

Then Grace moaned in her sleep and snuggled closer into his side and Jake figured it out pretty quickly. Grace was sleep-warm and smelled better than cupcakes. He remembered his car not starting, which was why he spent the night even though he never spent the night. He reached over to the nightstand, which was a mess, and fumbled with the alarm clock. It was late, but it was Sunday, so that didn’t matter. He rolled out of bed and dug around for his cell phone, then sent Kyle a quick message to come help him start his car. That would take a while, he knew, so he shooed Mr. Bingley out of the spot he’d just vacated on the bed and curled himself around Grace. She probably had stuff to do today. He should wake her up, he thought. He should definitely not wrap his arms around her and go back to sleep.

Grace woke up to a pounding on her front door. She jerked out of bed, then remembered Henry. Crap. She looked at the clock, which had been righted on the nightstand, and frowned. He was early. And she was naked.

And so was Jake.

She debated waking him up and shooing him out the back door. Or letting him stay and hoping he slept through Henry’s visit. She didn’t regret having slept with him, but for some reason she didn’t want Henry to know. She didn’t really want anyone to know. That would make it real. And this wasn’t real, this was just a sex thing. A really, really good sex thing, but not real. Not a relationship.

Although she would probably tell Jane.

Just not all the details.

The pounding on the door was getting more insistent and Jake was starting to stir, so Grace threw on her robe and ran down the stairs. Halfway down it occurred to her that greeting Henry in her bathrobe was probably not the most professional way to maintain their working relationship, but momentum propelled her forward and there was nothing she could do. As she was about to open the door, she heard the person on the other side yell, “Hey, lazy! I’m here to start your damn truck! Quit bonking the Professor and get out here!”

Kyle.

So much for nobody knowing about her and Jake.

Grace threw the door open and Kyle jumped back, his arm still raised to pound the door again.

“Uh, hi, Professor. Jake here?”

“Yeah, dumbass,” said a bleary Jake, trudging down the stairs in his crumpled clothes, shoes in hand.

“I’m here to save
you
, buddy, so who’s the dumbass now?” Kyle looked very confident when he started that rant, but sort of fizzled out in the end. “Never mind. I need coffee, bro, so let’s do this.”

“Go,” Grace shooed when Jake gave her a sorry-for-my-friend look with a side of bedroom-eyes. Part of her wanted Jake to get rid of Kyle and just stay, but even if the other part of her didn’t rebel and scream at that idea, Henry was due and she should probably put on clothes before he came over.

Jake kissed her on the nose and promised to call. She raised her eyebrows in a look that she hoped conveyed it-doesn’t-matter-because-you’re-not-my-boyfriend, but she was glad he said it all the same. And she did want him to call; they were friends. Now she supposed they were friends with benefits.

Was she turning into one of her undergrads? Was she going to start wearing sweatpants with inappropriate words on the butt? In public?

Or would she continue to become an old lady by complaining about what the kids were wearing these days?

Mr. Bingley did a figure eight around her legs, then Jake’s, which tripped Jake up as he tried to get out the door. Kyle just shook his head and stalked down the front steps. Jake gave Grace one more kiss—she pushed him away before he could get too serious about it—and followed Kyle. Grace watched him go, laughing at the spring in his step and maybe also admiring the view a little, but shut the door as soon as the jumper cables came out. She leaned against it, listening to the sound of one motor, then two starting, then both fading away as the boys drove off in pursuit of coffee.

Grace leaned back against the door, sighing like an idiot. But she couldn’t help it. Maybe it was just post-coital glee, but she felt really good about this. She had never had a purely physical relationship before. She had always felt like she shouldn’t get intimate with someone unless she had feelings for him, and she followed that rule until the feelings became too strong—on either side—and backed off. Well, she usually ran screaming, but the end result was the same.

It hadn’t been that way with Lou. Lou always maintained a certain distance with her, and that, in a strange way, made her feel safe. His heart was shielded, her heart was shielded, they could carry on and be close, maybe even forever.

Grace had discovered that he wasn’t so much protecting his heart as keeping it aside for his not-actually-ex wife. She’d also discovered that she had become more emotionally invested than she realized. She couldn’t understand why she couldn’t stop crying, and it took Jane to point out to her that it was normal, that her heart was broken.

Jane rescinded her analysis when, a week later, Grace was back to normal, sleeping with a physics post-doc, and applying for jobs elsewhere.

Grace just didn’t give her heart away. She never would, and was afraid of how close she’d come with Lou. She wouldn’t fall into that same trap with Jake. She liked him, there was no denying that. He was clever and he was kind, when he wanted to be, and she didn’t think she’d ever been so physically attracted to a man in her life. She shivered against the door frame, remembering the way he felt last night.

But there was a distance between them that could never be crossed. With Lou, there had been almost a hero-worship element to their relationship. He was a genius, and his literary brain was what had attracted him to her in the first place, and what fueled their passion. There were nights when they would start a debate at dinner that would become so heated they would just rip each other’s clothes off, then continue the debate afterward, lying in bed. That would never happen with Jake. Not that they didn’t have plenty to argue about, but it was different. They connected on a different level. It was physical more than intellectual, because their intellects worked so differently. Grace always joked that she had the ability to retain only the kind of knowledge that had absolutely no practical application. Jake’s genius was entirely in the practical application. She liked that, not just because it meant he could fix stuff for her, but it was interesting to watch a brain so different from her own puzzle out a problem.

Interesting, but not clothes-ripping-off, heart-stealing exciting.

But, man, she was physically attracted to him.

She was just starting to get weak in the knees from remembering when there was a knock at her door. I really need to get a doorbell, she thought. Or just quit standing against the door frame. Then she smiled because she thought it might be Jake, and that he might have brought her coffee. She loosened her robe a little and flung the door open with an “I’m so glad you came back!”

Only it wasn’t Jake.

It was Henry.

And he was staring at her boobs.

She shrieked and slammed the door. After a few deep breaths, she pulled her robe tighter and opened the door with a professional and welcoming smile.

“Good morning, Henry.”

“Good morning. I’m early. I just didn’t see how early. Sorry about that.” His eyes twitched a little. She figured he was probably trying to avoid looking at her chest again, which she appreciated.

“That’s okay, I lost track of time.” And my mind, apparently. “Come on in. Do you mind waiting down here while I . . .”

“Oh, no, take your time. I brought a few things to show you.” He held up a manila folder bursting with papers and clippings. “I’ll just get organized?”

“Sure, and feel free to take a look around.”

Henry’s eyes lit up and she thought if he hadn’t been holding that folder, he would have rubbed his hands together with glee. Well, at least he wasn’t offended by her casual attire.

As she shut the door behind him, she saw Mrs. Wallace across the street, Lucy tugging at the leash while she stood staring, openmouthed, at Grace.

So much for the Spinster House, Grace thought, and shut the door.

Two hours later, Grace was thoroughly sick of the Spinster House. She’d taken a quick shower and pulled on a cotton sundress (not pajamas—she made sure of that). Her hair was tied up in a messy bun on top of her head, and she hadn’t bothered with makeup. After a few minutes with Henry, she thought she could have come down in her pajamas with a bag on her head and he wouldn’t have noticed. Heck, she could have come down naked, and he still would have paid more attention to her sconces.

At first, it was great. She loved her house and she loved showing it off. She was proud of the work she’d put into it, although Henry seemed to disagree with some of her bolder paint choices. But a good way into the first hour of his visit, she realized that he was only half-listening to what she was saying. She knew this because at one point when he asked if the fireplace tile was original, she told him, no, she had artfully chipped the ceramic herself, and Henry just ran his hands over the tile, saying “remarkable, yes, of course it’s original” and immediately asked her a question about the mantelpiece. It wasn’t a very good joke, so she couldn’t blame him for ignoring it, but why did he go to all the effort of asking her questions if he didn’t care what the answers were?

She shouldn’t blame him. She had gone on British Lit tangents that bored people to tears—Jane, in particular, was prone to crying when she brought up her work during holiday visits. It was an occupational hazard. Henry’s thing was Kentucky history and he taught classes in the urban planning program, and every time he mentioned that he made a joke about most of Kentucky history hardly being “urban” planning.

When she invited Henry over, she’d been uneasy with the thought that she would have to spend an afternoon talking about spinsters. But Henry spoke more about architectural details—the features on the mantel that were unique to the period, the turret that Grace hadn’t quite managed to turn into the reading nook she hoped for.

“I guess bookshelves won’t work,” Henry said, running his hands along the circular wall of the small turret space. “This window is gorgeous.”

The turret had regular rectangular windows cut into the curved walls, but above them was a row of cut-out stained glass. The designs were abstract and quite progressive for the time, Henry assured her. Grace was surprised to hear that they were original. To her, they had more of a mid-century feel. She had taken to calling them “Mad Men Windows” in her head, and she was kind of annoyed that she’d have to stop. Although, she supposed, she could call them whatever she wanted. It was her head.

The windows, apparently were a gift from a secret admirer, and the key to the house’s identity. “It’s not a well-known story,” said Henry. “Because it was a bit of a scandal. It would have been a much more destructive scandal if it had ever gotten out.”

“The art is that controversial?”

“No, it’s not the art. It’s the artist. Do you see this signature?”

Grace squinted at the corner of one of the panes. There, in a section of dark red, was a faintly visible symbol Grace knew she’d seen before.

“David Tulley,” said Henry proudly. “I’d know that symbol anywhere.”

“Wow.” Grace had heard the name when she first came to visit the Pembroke campus. David Tulley was a regional glass artist of some renown who had created the beautiful, stained glass mural in the Willow Springs Public Library. Alumni and townspeople alike were crazy about that window, and about the artist.

“I think I must be the first person to recognize the windows’ creator here. You didn’t notice it, did you?” Henry asked. When Grace shook her head, he continued. “I didn’t think so. And I can’t imagine how it happened, but somehow the realtor and the appraiser must have missed it as well. Otherwise the house would have been way out of your price range. No offense.”

Grace shrugged. It was no secret, especially to a fellow professor, that they weren’t exactly rolling in dough.

“This is indicative of his early work. I reckon this was done well before he refined his style enough to take on a huge project like the library window.” Grace smiled. She hadn’t noticed it before, but when he got excited, his language was a combination of highbrow and Appalachian.

“But why is it a scandal?” she asked. “Why would he keep it secret that he did work on a house for one of the prominent citizens of Willow Springs?”

“That, I had to dig for,” he said, putting his folder on the floor to delve through it more thoroughly. “Ah, here it is.” He held up a photocopy of what looked like a diary entry. “I noticed this when I was looking at some of Ree Summers’s diaries. Look at this.” He pointed to a spot on the page, then read it out loud to Grace. “Met DT today; acted, as always, as perfectly indifferent friends. Approved his drawings for the windows; how could I not? They are gorgeous. Upon leaving, he handed me a note, and I blush to even recall its contents: ‘The windows are designed to perfectly reflect light on the most gorgeous features of your naked skin.’ Of course, I burned it immediately. Probably shouldn’t have transcribed it here, but I can’t resist. There is little about DT that I can.”

Henry was a little flushed after reading the note, and Grace didn’t blame him. She thought the windows were pretty but had no idea they had such a steamy past. She also felt bad for Ree Summers. How terrible to try to gain one’s eternal rest, only to have people like Henry—and Grace—always digging into one’s private papers. She didn’t blame Cassandra Austen one bit for burning her sister Jane’s letters. Grace would give her right arm to read them, but she didn’t blame Cassandra for honoring her sister’s wishes.