The Trouble with Christmas Read online

  Suzanne stopped abruptly, aware suddenly by the ever-flattening line of his mouth that she was babbling. He was staring at her with an expression that left her in little doubt a simple “yes” or “no” would have sufficed.

  He gave a brief nod and shoved his hat on his head. “I’ll give you a hand.” Then he turned on his heel and strode to her van.

  It took the two of them fifteen minutes to unload everything. Fifteen long, silent minutes broken only by Suzanne occasionally directing him as to where to put something down. Sliding the van door shut with a muffled whump, he turned, his gaze settling on her face. The brim of his hat threw his face into shadow, which made him hard to read. But this close, she could see he had light-green eyes and some stubble. Short but enough to still feel rough.

  “If that’s all, ma’am, I’ll be going?”

  If that was all? Joshua Grady really did not want to stick around. Suzanne knew she was an average woman. Average height, average looks, average size fourteen who could probably stand to lose a few pounds from her ass and thighs—she was more pear than hourglass. Good teeth, nice smile, clear skin. She was…attractive at best. A six who could push herself to a seven, maybe an eight for a gallery opening or one of her mother’s exhibitions.

  She’d had boyfriends both casual and longer term—she was no blushing virgin—and she got along well with members of the opposite sex. But she wasn’t the kind of woman to whom men flocked. She was pretty sure this was the first time she’d actually repelled one, though.

  If only that turned off her muse. Unfortunately, she was a fickle little tramp and always had been. And she’d been MIA for a good ten years while Suzanne had reproduced other artists’ works in the very lucrative field of museum and insurance-required reproductions.

  Until today.

  “Thanks so much, Joshua,” Suzanne said. It would have taken her much longer to unpack the van without him, and it was appreciated. “May I call you Josh?”

  The angle of his jaw tightened. “No.”

  Suzanne blinked at the blatant rebuttal and the morphing of his face from craggy and interesting to bleak and forbidding. But even more intriguing were the mental shutters slamming down behind his pale-green eyes. Shooting him her best flirty smile, she attempted to make amends. She could flirt with the best of them if required, and she’d never met a man who didn’t appreciate being the object of a little flirting. “Well…anyway…I’d like to make you dinner to thank you for everything. What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  Grady clearly did not appreciate the flirting.

  His brows beetled together, a deep V forming between them. “Look, lady.” He paused and drew in a breath. “I know there was a whole single-women thing that happened here over the summer and that a lot of dudes around these parts are looking to get hitched, but I’m not one of them. I don’t know what my uncle told you, but I am not in the market for a woman. Not for dinner or dating or a relationship or even a quick tumble in the sheets. I like peace and quiet. I like solitude. I’ve said more words today than I have all week. So you stay here”—he cocked his head at the cottage—“and I’ll stay there”—he pointed at the back porch of his place—“and we’ll get along just fine.”

  He drew a breath again, and Suzanne could do nothing but stare. It was the most animated his face had been since her arrival, and it was a thing to behold, his square jaw working, his eyes glinting with cold steel.

  Suzanne blinked as realization cut through her artistic drive. Did he think she was here to…ingratiate herself with him? To…date him? Have sex with him? Did he think his uncle had pimped her out?

  Did he think she was here to get herself a husband?

  Jesus, what kind of Dark Ages bullshit was this? Sure, six months ago, the town may have been awash with single women looking for love, but Suzanne wasn’t any part of that, and she most certainly wasn’t here for a man.

  A spike of indignation quickly flared into a slow, steady burn of anger. This dude’s ego was as big as the whole damn ranch. And, flash of pain or no flash of pain, he could go and do something exceedingly sexual and anatomically impossible to himself. Suzanne narrowed her eyes, better to aim her death rays at him.

  “Look, mister. This whole brooding cowboy act might work on some women, but I think I can contain myself around all your manly man bullshit, and here’s a newsflash for you. I’m here to paint not hook up or trap some…cowpoke into putting a ring on it. All this y’all have”—she went deliberately southern as she gestured wildly around her—“is real charmin’, but I’m a New Yorker. So yeah, you stay over there, and I’ll try and resist the urge to leave love letters on your porch every morning.”

  She was breathing hard by the time she stopped, and her pulse was thumping like a jackhammer through her ears, but man was she ticked. He, on the other hand, appeared to be unaffected by her vitriol. Giving her a barely there nod, he pulled down on the brim of his hat.

  “Ma’am,” he said, then calmly walked away.

  Suzanne watched him go, so damn pissed at him and his assumptions and how good his wide shoulders looked as he strode toward his cabin, she could barely see straight. Her muse, however, was popping champagne corks.

  Which did not bode well.

  Not for her or Joshua Grady.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Grady headed straight for his fridge and popped the tab on a Coors Light. He swallowed half the can before he drew breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, irritation simmering through his blood. He walked out to the front porch and sat his ass down on the top step, staring out over the front field again.

  A cowpoke? The woman had called him a cowpoke?! Okay, her word choice had been deliberate, but he wasn’t some hillbilly cowboy.

  And why on God’s green earth did her opinion even matter?

  So she had the kind of body that ticked all his hell yeah boxes. She had curves and thighs and hips his fingers itched to explore. She had eyes he could drown in. But he’d only just met her. And she drove the Scooby Mobile for fuck’s sake!

  How could anyone who drove a cartoon car be taken remotely seriously?

  Yet his skin felt tight and itchy as he grappled to understand the clash of emotions battling like gladiators inside his chest. Half an hour in Su-sahn Saan Meeshell’s company and he was about as thrown as he’d been that time Valentine, his horse, had been spooked by a rattlesnake and tossed him on his ass.

  And he didn’t like it one little bit. Not from some mouthy blonde outsider who’d looked at him like he was a piece of chewing gum on her designer Uggs.

  Okay, maybe he’d asked for the cowpoke crack. He had pretty much accused her of husband hunting and had all but pulled out his dick and pissed around his house to mark his territory, but that look in her eyes just before she’d asked him what he was doing tomorrow night had scared the bejesus out of him. Her incredible eyes had lightened and gone all teasing and, on the heels of calling him Joshua, calling him Josh, he’d panicked.

  Gone on the attack.

  His mother had called him Joshua. And Bethany, his high school sweetheart, had been the last woman—girl, really—to call him Josh. And they’d both died, along with his father, in a horrific interstate pileup in terrible conditions more than seventeen years ago. December, seventeen years ago.

  Yeah. Merry fucking Christmas.

  His cell vibrated in his back pocket, and he grabbed it, grateful for the distraction. It was another text from his uncle.

  Suzanne settling in okay?

  Grady gave a soft snort. She had looked very at home standing in front of the huge picture window of the cottage, the flat, brittle landscape behind framing her curves. He, on the other hand, was seriously fucking disturbed.

  He tapped yes and sent it.

  Burl’s reply was instantaneous. What’s she like?

  Grady grimaced. Unprepared. Annoying. Disturb
ing. And his kind of hot. But Grady settled on something more neutral to send his uncle.

  Chatty.

  A crying tears of laughter emoji appeared on the screen. Burl may have been sixty-five, but he’d always been a gadget man. New tech had never fazed him. Grady would bet his last nickel his uncle was probably at Annie’s at this time of day, enjoying his retirement from the ranch, eating pie and laughing his ass off, huddled over his screen.

  Do you good to use your words. You’re going to turn mute out there by yourself.

  Grady rolled his eyes at his uncle’s exaggeration. He shot off a quick reply. People talk too damn much.

  Three little dots appeared on the screen as his uncle composed his reply. They wavered for long seconds as if Burl was writing a tome, but when the words appeared long moments later, there were only two. Be nice.

  Grady didn’t want to be nice. He wanted to get through this month like he did every December—as quickly as possible. Not entertaining some artist chick from New York City who used the words wet dream in casual sentences with people she’d only just met and had the most freakishly unsettling eyes.

  I’ll be civil.

  Thanks to his military training, Grady had never promised things he couldn’t deliver, and he’d already been not very nice. He’d accused her of something he had no basis for and besmirched Burl’s character in the process. His uncle was a good, decent, honorable guy who’d brought Grady to the ranch to live after his parents’ tragic deaths and given him a way to channel his grief and anger that was productive instead of destructive.

  He probably should apologize to both of them. But he wouldn’t.

  Burl sent a gif of Judge Judy rolling her eyes and, despite the situation, Grady cracked a smile as he shoved his phone back in his pocket. Somewhere behind him, he heard the sound of a car engine firing to life with a couple of sickly splutters and, a few seconds later, he was watching the dust kicked up by Suzanne’s god-awful van as she left the property.

  Grady perked up at the thought that maybe she’d decided her temporary landlord was too much of an asshole and to get out while the going was good. But he dismissed it quickly.

  He’d never been that lucky.

  …

  Suzanne grimaced at the strong, bitter coffee a woman called Annie had just poured. It wasn’t the sort she was used to; in fact, Suzanne probably hadn’t ever ingested drip-filter coffee. Annie grinned and said, “Good for the digestion.”

  Winona introduced the women, and Suzanne blushed as her friend raved to Annie about Suzanne’s talent with a paintbrush. “A painter, huh?” Annie glanced around at the beige walls that boasted some food advertising posters that looked as if they’d been there for a couple of decades and some framed black and white photographs of what she presumed was Credence town center back in the day.

  “I’d always had a hankering for paintings on my walls. Just never got around to it.”

  “You’ve got a lot of places to hang art here,” Suzanne said as she took note of the wall space. In her opinion, there wasn’t a wall in existence that couldn’t be improved by adding art.

  Annie nodded absently. “You take commissions?”

  “I do, but…” She doubted Annie could afford her fee. “I do reproduction stuff, nothing original.” Hopefully that would all change during her time in Credence. “But I can definitely recommend someone to you if you’d like?”

  “Ain’t got a lot of money.”

  “That’s fine. I know where all the bargains are to be had, too.”

  Annie beamed. “Thanks, I might just take you up on that. Pie’s on the house,” she added and shuffled off to her next customer.

  Winona quirked an eyebrow at Suzanne. “Look at you go, babe. Already fitting in here.”

  Suzanne laughed and rolled her eyes before taking another sip of coffee and remembering she wasn’t in New York anymore. “This stuff’ll put hairs on your chest.” Her voice cracked a little as the coffee coated her vocal cords on the way down.

  Winona grinned across at her. “There’s better coffee at Déjà Brew—that’s Jenny Carter’s new place down a bit farther. But the pie makes up for it.”

  Oh hell yes it did. This pecan pie was one of the best things she’d ever put in her mouth—just as Winona had promised. Suzanne shut her eyes and moaned as the warm savory ooze of melted butter mixed with the sweet hint of maple syrup and the crunch of nuts slid over her tongue. Actually freaking moaned. She’d never tasted pecan pie like this, certainly never had it served with melted butter puddling on top of it, but holy taste buds, Batman, it was divine.

  She was coming to Annie’s every day for a slice of this artery-clogging heaven. Well worth the heart attack.

  “So…how are you finding the cottage? Didn’t I tell you those windows are perfect?”

  The windows were amazing and the view spectacular. But… “I wish you’d raved less about the light and spent some more time giving me the lowdown on Grady.”

  Winona shoved a hand through her dark curls, scrunching her nose a little. “Burl’s nephew?”

  Suzanne nodded, absently wishing she had a mass of lush curls instead of fine, dead-straight fluff. She’d always envied Winona’s looks and confidence and her ball-breaking attitude, refusing to be dismissed by people who were quick to disparage her for writing erotic romance fiction for a living.

  “I don’t really know him,” she continued. “Burl was the one who showed me the cottage. I think Grady was in the barn or something. Why? Is he a pain in the ass?”

  He was something all right. He’d sure made an impact for a guy who hadn’t said a whole lot. Suzanne pursed her lips. “Let’s just say for a man of few words, he managed to convey his displeasure over me being at the cottage loud and clear.”

  Winona raised an arched brow. “That doesn’t sound very neighborly of him.”

  Suzanne almost laughed. “I don’t think Grady does neighborly.” Try as she might, she just couldn’t summon an image of him knocking on her door with a smile and a basket of home-cooked muffins.

  On the back of a horse in fringed chaps twirling a lasso above his head? Yes. In a field fixing a fence, his hat pulled low? Yes. Driving a tractor or some other big-ass bit of machinery with no shirt on? Yes.

  Stretched out buck-naked on her bed with the light flooding in through the windows as he watched her paint? Yes, yes, hell freaking yes.

  “You want me to talk to Burl?”

  Suzanne shook her head and opened her mouth to deny the request, but a deep voice got in before she could say a word. “Talk to Burl about what?”

  Winona smiled and stood. “Burl.”

  She hugged the older man, who was big and rangy, his frame still strong despite his gray hair. He had Grady’s green eyes and a nice smile. “You must be Suzanne.” He held out a weathered hand, and Suzanne shook it. “My nephew giving you grief?”

  Suzanne chose her words carefully. “I…get the feeling he…prefers his own company.” Burl was Grady’s uncle, and he’d been good enough to rent the cottage to her, so it would have been rude to trash talk his nephew. Plus, this wasn’t high school.

  Burl nodded. “Yeah. He’s a bit of a loner, I’m afraid.”

  The opening strains of The Eagles’ “Desperado” played in Suzanne’s head as she thought about Grady, a lone figure on horseback riding fences for the next three or four decades. It made her kinda sad.

  “Will that be a problem?” Winona asked. “Is he…”

  Her voice trailed off, but there was no doubt what she meant. Burl clearly took her meaning with no offense. “No. He’s fine. It’s just a tough time of year for him is all, and he likes his space after twelve years in the military.” He nodded thoughtfully at Suzanne, his astute old gaze running over her as if she were a prize mare. “Do him good to have some company for a change.”

  Suzanne wasn’t
as confident about that as good old Uncle Burl. Grady had made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with her, but she smiled and said, “Why don’t you join us?”

  “I’d love to, but my wife’s the jealous sort.” He cracked himself up, which left Suzanne in zero doubt his wife was the exact opposite. “I gotta keep going. Just came in to pick up some of Annie’s cobbler. Best in the county.”

  “Best in the state, Burl,” Annie quipped in a crotchety voice from over at the counter where she was taking someone’s order.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Burl agreed, winking at Suzanne and Winona before bidding them goodbye.

  Suzanne watched Burl head for the counter, aware of the weight of Winona’s gaze settling on her profile. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right out there, babe?”

  Dragging her gaze off Burl to face Winona, she smiled. “Of course. I’m not worried for my safety.” If anything, Suzanne felt safe as houses with Grady’s brooding presence just down the way. There was something about the man that screamed protector. Probably those twelve years in the military. “I just wish he wasn’t so…”

  “Un-neighborly?”

  Suzanne shook her head. Rugged. Capable. Cowboy. “Interesting.”

  Winona leaned forward, her curls following as a light switched on behind her eyes. “Bug-under-a-microscope interesting? Or hot-piece-of-ass interesting?”

  Taking another mouthful of heaven allowed Suzanne to stall and forget for a moment about Grady’s ass walking away from her earlier, cupped to perfection in a faded pair of Wranglers.

  “He’s very…manly.” Which was a gross understatement. Suzanne was sure he could probably impregnate the entire female population of the United States with just one of those long, silent looks.