The Trouble with Christmas Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  About the Author

  The Truth About Cowboys

  The Aussie Next Door

  Just One of the Groomsmen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Amy Andrews.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  [email protected]

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Liz Pelletier

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Model Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Cover images by

  rcreitmeyer/Depositphotos

  bluejayphoto/Getty

  Metallic Citizen/shutterstock

  karandaev/Depositphotos

  Interior design by Toni Kerr

  Print ISBN 978-1-64063-819-8

  ebook ISBN 978-1-64063-820-4

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition October 2019

  Also by Amy Andrews

  The Credence, Colorado Series

  Nothing but Trouble

  The Trouble with Christmas

  Naughty or Nice Series

  No More Mr. Nice Guy

  Ask Me Nicely

  Sydney Smoke Rugby Series

  Playing By Her Rules

  Playing It Cool

  Playing the Player

  Playing with Forever

  Playing House

  Playing Dirty

  Other books by Amy Andrews

  The Kissing Contract

  Taming the Tycoon

  Seducing the Colonel’s Daughter

  Tis the Season to Be Kissed

  This book is dedicated to all the Christmas freaks out there. You are my kind of people.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Joshua Grady—Grady to all who knew him—didn’t want much out of life. Just this ranch, Sunday night football, and to be left the hell alone. At thirty-five, with twelve years in the military, including a tour of Iraq and two of Afghanistan, he figured he’d earned the right.

  He was a goddamn war hero. He even had a shiny medal and a fancy piece of paper from the government to prove it.

  Unfortunately his uncle, who owned the ranch, had other ideas.

  New tenant incoming.

  Grady scowled at the text. Then scowled at the plume of dust advancing in the distance as a vehicle made its way slowly down the rutted road leading to his cabin. Jamming his Stetson on his head, he strode out to the porch, his big hands curling around the circumference of the rough-hewn wood of the railing as he sucked in the frigid December air. His scowl deepened, and Grady shoved his hands on his hips as the car rounded the bend and appeared from the center of the dust.

  He blinked twice at the beat-up old van with lurid green and pink panels emblazoned with huge yellow flowers. Jesus. It was the Mystery Machine. And about as out of place here in rural Colorado as a tractor on Fifth Avenue. The vehicle pulled to a halt and the engine cut, and Grady half expected Scooby and the gang to tumble out as the door opened.

  They didn’t.

  A woman slid down from the cab. Grady had been expecting a woman—Susan something something, his uncle had informed him when he’d arrived to get the cottage ready yesterday—but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Living outside Credence meant not having to be sociable with anyone, least of all a woman who filled out blue jeans in ways that made him remember how much he liked women in denim.

  Grady had decided a long time ago on a solitary life and was not, consequently, settling-down material, despite his well-meaning uncle’s assertions about the joys of holy matrimony. He’d sure as hell stayed away from Credence during the summer when a nationwide ad campaign had brought busloads of single women to the small eastern Colorado town, hoping a few might stay and make Credence their home—and some of the Credence bachelors their husbands.

  A couple of dozen had stayed, but he wasn’t interested in any of them. Or this woman, either. He’d told his uncle repeatedly the last couple of weeks that he didn’t want the cottage rented to some artist, and it was hardly his fault accommodations were scarce due to the sudden spike in population.

  That ridiculous ad campaign hadn’t been his idea.

  But the land—several thousand acres of it—including the cabin and the cottage belonged to his uncle, and Burl Grady had the final say. Not that Burl had ever played that card until now, but it was the first time in three years Grady had regretted knocking back his uncle’s very generous offer to sign over the ranch to him forthwith rather than waiting for it to come to him in his uncle’s will.

  He had enough money to buy his own damn ranch but his uncle had wanted to retire, and taking over the reins had been the one way Grady could think of to repay his aunt and uncle for stepping up during the worst time of his life.

  Except now he had to put up with Little Miss Blue Jeans for a month.

  She didn’t see him as she walked toward the white fence that partitioned off the field to the front of the cabin, but Grady couldn’t look away. She was hard to ignore. Her hair was contained in a bright-green knitted hat, so he had no idea whether she was blond, brunette, or redhead, but her knee-high Ugg-type boots and her sweet rounded ass swinging in those jeans were way more fascinating anyway.

  Neither short nor tall, she was amply proportioned, a fact emphasized by her leaning on the top rail of the fence, which pushed out her ass. Grady shut his eyes. He’d never gone for skinny—he liked fullness and curves and this woman needed a flashing neon sign attached to hers.

  Opening his eyes, Grady diverted his gaze, concentrating instead on seeing the vista in front, a sight of which he never tired. A couple of his horses grazed in the field on the grass that was getting sparse now, given the onset of winter. He’d need to feed them later but, for a moment, he forgot his chores and the angst about his unwanted guest and sucked in the deep, clean air of eastern Colorado.

  The sky was a brilliant cloudless blue, the winter sunshine more for show than effect, given it was a brisk forty-two, but they’d forecast snow for the next week, so he’d take the sunshine—weak or not. Too soon the sky would be bleak, tree branches would be a parched frozen gray, the fields blanketed in white.

  Right no
w, there was still a tinge of green, and the sight of it filled him with a sense of belonging so profound it swept his breath away.

  Even if there was a woman in blue jeans messing up the picture.

  Blue jeans and no coat—just a thin-looking long-sleeve T-shirt. For God’s sake, she was going to freeze to death out here.

  As if she knew he was thinking about her, she moved back from the rail a pace or two and slowly turned in a circle, her face lifted to the sky, her arms outstretched. It was the kind of pose kids adopted when it was snowing, opening their mouths to catch some flakes. She wasn’t opening her mouth, but she appeared to be trying to catch some sunshine.

  There was nothing particularly remarkable about her face. She wasn’t stunningly pretty or ethereally beautiful or even chipmunk cute. She was kind of average-looking. Not the sort of face that launched a thousand ships. More…girl next door.

  That should have made him feel better. It didn’t.

  It was on her second turn that she spotted him standing with his hands on his hips, staring at her like some creeper, and she gave him a little wave. Grady didn’t return it.

  “God…sorry,” she called. An easy grin spread over her face as she broke into a half jog.

  “You must be Joshua.” She pulled to a stop at the bottom of the four steps, her warm breath misting into the cool air.

  Her cheeks were flushed and her nose was pink and there was absolutely nothing average about her eyes. They were lapis lazuli, and they looked at him with such frankness, like they were assessing him and not just physically but mentally, cataloging and memorizing every single detail, even the ones he didn’t want anyone to see.

  “Grady,” he ground out, feeling exposed and pissed off that this woman who couldn’t even dress for the weather and was driving a cartoon car was having such an effect on him. “People call me Grady.”

  If she’d picked up on his surliness, she ignored it, tramping up the stairs to stand beside him, holding out her hand to shake, which Grady took reluctantly. “I’m Suzanne St. Michelle.”

  She pronounced it Su-sahn Saan Meeshell, which sounded very posh and very French and made Grady think about French kissing and then just kissing in general. He dropped her hand.

  What the ever-loving fuck?

  “Man,” she said, her accent 100 percent New York as she half turned to the view and inhaled deeply. “You’re really living the dream out here, aren’t you?”

  Grady gave a ghost of a smile. He’d learned a long time ago that dreams were made of dynamite and horseshit. She didn’t appear to need an answer, though, as she chatted on.

  “It’s so easy to forget in the city that there’s all this space and land and sky. It’s so flat, and there’s nothing for miles except fields and cows and horses. They’re such beautiful creatures, aren’t they?”

  Her question appeared to, again, be rhetorical, and she barely drew breath before leaping into a change of subject.

  Christ. She was a talker…

  “I bet the stars are magic out here, aren’t they?” She paused to look at him this time but held his gaze only for a beat or two before she glanced back at the field and kept right on going. “Yep. No light pollution out here in the middle of nowhere. I bet it’s dark as pitch in the middle of the night. It’s the kind of sky that would have given van Gogh wet dreams.”

  She faltered slightly, barely a hiccup in time, just enough for her to frown slightly, like she knew she’d just said something a little inappropriate. But, flattening her hand against her belly, she forged on.

  “And it’s so quiet, no horns or traffic or blinking lights or sirens or crowds, or people for that matter. No background hum of chatter all around you. It’s so…serene.”

  Yes. Exactly. Serenity. Something Su-sahn Saan Meeshell had pierced in about two seconds. Grady strapped on some mental Kevlar.

  Suddenly, she turned back to face him with those startling blue eyes, pulling her woolen hat from her head. Fine, almost white-blond hair cascaded around her shoulders like a flurry of snow.

  Yep…there went his serenity.

  “So…” She inspected his face before dropping her gaze to take in his plaid flannel shirt, his well-worn Levis, and his even more worn boots. “You’re, like, a…cowboy? The real deal?”

  Grady was silent for long moments. Was that another rhetorical question? When she continued to look at him expectantly, he answered. “I’m a rancher.”

  She wrinkled her nose in concentration. “What’s the difference?”

  “Ranchers ranch. Cowboys wrangle cows.”

  “Kinda like a shepherd?”

  Grady blinked. “Sure.” In the way a shark was kinda like a fish.

  She was looking at him expectantly, those blue eyes trained on him as if she was waiting for him to elaborate, but Grady had just about surpassed his quota of words for the day.

  “Okay then,” she said after several awkward seconds of silence that she—hallelujah—didn’t feel the need to fill up. “Your uncle said you’d show me the cottage?”

  Grady nodded, grateful for something to do even if it did mean extending his time in Little Miss Chatty’s company. He glanced at the van and tried not to wince. “Drive your…vehicle round back.”

  Thankfully she didn’t talk anymore—no more questions or inane observations—she just took the two paces to the stairs and headed down. Maybe she’d used up her quota of words for the day, too? The thought cheered him as he followed behind her, his gaze looking anywhere but at the swing of her ass.

  …

  Van Gogh’s wet dream? What the hell, Suzanne?

  She cringed. But she’d always been the same when she was nervous, even as a kid. Filling silences with pointless chatter. And Cowboy Surly or Rancher Surly had gotten the full verbal-diarrhea treatment.

  As soon as she was done unpacking, she was calling Winona to demand an explanation. Her friend, who’d come to Credence after the first single-women campaign had gone viral and decided to stay, had convinced Suzanne a change of scenery would be good for her muse and, god knew, a Christmas away from her parents’ sterile, minimalist brownstone had been too good to pass up. Hell, she would have visited Winona on Mars. But her friend really should have warned her about Grady.

  Suzanne wasn’t used to speak-as-little-as-possible-while-looking-all-sexy-and-brooding men. Men in jeans with hats and big-ass belt buckles who had rough hands and looked like they knew how to chop down a tree, ride a bull, deliver a calf, light a fire, and build a rudimentary shelter.

  All before breakfast.

  Men with rugged faces and beautiful lips, who looked like they’d forgotten more things about the birds and the bees than she’d ever learned.

  She was going to need a handbook for Grady, and hopefully Winona had a copy.

  But Winona had been right about one thing. Her muse was definitely stirring. It had crept up on her as she’d stared out over the field at the grazing horses. That itch, that…compulsion to put the scene down on canvas. To memorialize it in oil. And it had positively slammed into her like a sledgehammer as her gaze had connected with Joshua Grady.

  Everything, from the way his height and breadth had dominated the porch, to the squareness of his jaw, the worn leather of his boots, and that shiny belt buckle riding low between his hips, had been inspirational. Suzanne hadn’t painted anything original in well over a decade, but those first few seconds she’d clapped eyes on Grady had been an epiphany.

  Now there was a subject to paint.

  It was as if the heavens had opened and glories had streamed down and a giant hand with an extended index finger had pointed at Grady and whispered, “Him,” in Suzanne’s ear.

  The prospect had been equal parts titillating and terrifying because landscapes were easy, portraits not so much, and she hadn’t been able to decide whether to throw up or run away and hide.
r />   The universe, however, had delivered verbal diarrhea.

  Pulling her trusty old transport van up outside the cottage, Suzanne slipped out of the car as Grady was stomping his feet on the welcome mat and taking off his hat. Opening the door, he said, “Ma’am,” indicating that she should precede him.

  Hot damn. He’d ma’amed her. It wasn’t the first time she’d been ma’amed in her almost thirty years, but it had been the first time her clothes had almost fallen off at hearing it. There was something about the way this man ma’amed that made Suzanne aware she had ovaries.

  She walked into the cozy, open-plan cottage dominated on the far side by two large windows just as Winona had indicated. She knew instantly where she would set up her easel. Crossing to the windows—drawn as only an artist can be to light—she stared out over acres and acres of brittle winter pasture and, in the distance, a large section of wooded land.

  “Bedroom’s that way,” he said from behind.

  She turned to find him standing in the doorway, obviously not planning to enter. He pointed with the hand that held his hat to the left where she could see a bed through an open door.

  “The heating”—he swiveled his head in the opposite direction, using his hat to again point to the far wall and the modern glass-fronted freestanding fireplace—“is gas.” Switching his gaze to the kitchen area situated between the two windows, he said, “Kitchen should have everything you need. You have bags?”

  Suzanne blinked at his obvious desire to be gone. It made her curious, and hell if it didn’t make her want to paint him right now. From her vantage point, with the light behind him, he wasn’t much more than a tall, dark shape taking up all the space in her doorway, but his presence was electric, looming.

  But not in a threatening way. It was…spine-tingling, and her pulse skipped a beat, which made her feel like an idiot. She’d just met the guy. How freaking embarrassing.

  “I…have so much stuff.” Suzanne crossed to where he stood, determined to be businesslike to cover for her ridiculously juvenile response. “A couple of bags, a dozen canvases of varying sizes, about a zillion different paints, a box of books because there’s nothing quite like the smell of a book, don’t you think? My pod coffee machine because I’m such a caffeine junkie, and heaven help anyone who talks to me before my coffee every morning. Some CDs and a player, which I know is a little old-school, but Winona said the internet can be pretty spotty out here, and I have to paint to music because silence drives me nuts. Some groceries I picked up in Credence and—”