The Trouble with Christmas

by Amy Andrews

  More Grady.

  Her muse was unimpressed but hell, she’d made her bed. If she would just let Suzanne paint something else, anything else—anybody else—things might be different.

  Placing her brushes in the sink, Suzanne wandered over to the other four paintings resting against the far wall, evenly spaced apart. Walking up and down the line, several times she eyeballed the art as Keith Urban belted out a ballad. From David to Vitruvian Man and the cute winged cherub to Adam and now Atlas, she didn’t know how to feel about any of them.

  This hadn’t been her flexing her artistic wings—it had been some ridiculous power struggle with her muse. There wasn’t much original here, just more replicating other people’s work.

  But…they didn’t feel like reproductions—they felt fresh and new.

  Because of Grady. Because of his eyes and his mouth and his cheekbones, the granite set to his jaw, the surly calmness of his expression.

  And…the shrapnel wound.

  “Enough now,” she said out loud to the room. “Enough.” Please, for the love of all that was holy, let it be enough.

  Stretching her arms, Suzanne dropped her head from side to side to ease the kinks from her neck and shoulders. Standing in one spot for hours, her arm outstretched, was not good for the human skeleton. It caused all kinds of muscular aches and posture problems and, back home, she had a weekly massage session.

  Suzanne doubted there’d be a masseuse in Credence. Maybe, if she kept up this pace of output, she could drive to Denver every week and get one?

  But for now, most of all, she needed sleep.

  Picking up the brushes she’d used over the course of the day, she cleaned them thoroughly and packed everything away, ready for whatever demands her muse would make in the morning. Inserting the plug into the kitchen sink, she poured olive oil over her hands and proceeded to remove the caked-on paint. It was much kinder on the skin and far less toxic than chemical removers. No doubt she had paint in her hair and probably on her face, as was often the case, but she’d save them for the shower.

  Absently turning on the faucet to wash away the oil, Suzanne waited for the water to spill out and fill the bottom of the sink. And waited.

  She got nothing.

  Hmm. Trying again, she turned it off and then on again. Still nothing. One more time for the win didn’t change the outcome, either, as she pushed her face close to the faucet, waiting for that first drip, trying to peer up to see if it was planning on arriving any time soon or if there was some kind of weird blockage. There didn’t seem to be a blockage, and not even turning the faucet all the way on managed to produce a single trickle.

  “No, please no.” She swore under her breath. She needed a freaking shower, damn it. Please don’t let the water be off.

  Grady hadn’t mentioned sudden cessation of water supply as a possibility. She knew they were out in the middle of nowhere, but still, this kind of thing didn’t happen in New York. Not without warning anyway.

  Damn the man.

  Did he think his only responsibility as her landlord was to stand there all tall and brooding? With or without his shirt? “Shit.” She thumped her hand against the metal of the drainer in frustration.

  Heading to her bedroom, she sent up a swift prayer to the patron saint of plumbers—was there a patron saint of plumbers?—to please, please, please let it just be the sink. Not the shower.

  Please, Saint…Cistern? Not the shower.

  Striding into her bathroom, Suzanne opened the shower screen and reached in to turn on the faucet. Nothing. Freaking nada. She turned both hot and cold faucets on all the way, hoping it would make a difference. Still nothing.

  “Double shit.”

  Turning them off with an annoyed twist, she reached for her phone in the pocket of her smock. Almost eleven thirty. Grimacing at the time, she sighed. She couldn’t wake Grady now and demand he come and fix it. It was too late, and didn’t cowboys get up at the crack of dawn to do all the macho cow stuff? He probably went to bed at sundown.

  And what did cowboys wear to bed, anyway? Plaid? Fringed chaps? Woody from Toy Story onesies?

  Nothing?

  Suzanne blinked at the bizarre thoughts coming at her from left field. What the hell? She was obviously way more tired than she thought.

  Or had breathed in a little too much paint thinner.

  Go to bed, Suzanne. She looked longingly at the shower and sighed. It wasn’t the first time she’d gone to bed without a shower. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time at this cottage. But the water had better be back on by morning or she’d be hunting Joshua Grady down even if it meant saddling up a horse and going all cowgirl on his ass.

  …

  The water was back on the next morning, a fact that became immediately evident as a bleary-eyed Suzanne padded from her bedroom at just after six thirty, making a beeline for her coffee machine. About the same time she registered her feet were wet, the noise from the running faucet over the kitchen sink pierced her consciousness.

  Suzanne glanced down, spying the water that was almost lapping her bedroom door, realizing that the entire flagstone central living area was one huge puddle.

  Oh no, dear God no. What the fuck, Saint Cistern?

  Galvanized into action, Suzanne dashed to the sink, splashing through a half inch of water. Making a dive for the faucet, she turned it off hard and pulled the plug. She must not have turned it off last night in her frantic on/off twisting as she’d pleaded silently to the universe to deliver water.

  Shit. Damn. Fuck.

  The water drained out of the sink with a final insulting gurgle, and Suzanne turned slowly to survey the damage. She wasn’t sure when the water had come back on, but the puddle was widespread, making its way almost into her bedroom and all the way to the front door, soaking into the big old rug decorating the flagstone and…

  Jesus Christ! Her paintings!

  “No. Oh no, no, no,” she whispered as she splashed through more water, her heart racing, bile rising in her throat. “Please don’t be ruined.”

  Shit! Maybe this was some kind of divine retribution? Had the Gods of Art sent a flood to destroy her work? The sick feeling in her gut intensified the closer she got. She might have been conflicted over how she felt about the paintings but right now, they meant everything.

  A bitter tang of relief swept her system as Suzanne realized the puddle hadn’t yet encroached on her paintings. In another fifteen minutes, it’d have been a different story.

  Snatching them up from where they were leaning against the wall, she lay two on the long kitchen countertop and the other two propped on the worn leather couches, little islands of high ground in the sea of water that had pretty much covered most of the massive living area.

  Atlas Grady, enjoying the elevation of the easel, was obviously safe.

  Suzanne took a second to let relief wash through her. Her legs shook, and she sat on the arm of one of the couches for a moment as the adrenaline ebbed.

  That was the kind of near miss she could do without.

  A sudden spike of irritation at Grady followed close on the heels of her relief. Yes, it was her fault for leaving the faucet on. And the plug in the sink. But damn it—why had the water gone off in the first place?

  What kind of rental was this?

  And how in the hell was she supposed to clean up so much water with the one lousy mop in the cottage? She didn’t know, but she bet Grady did, and this was his cottage, so he could damn well help.

  With the residual slick of adrenaline settling into her bones, she stalked to the door, splashing all the way. Yanking it open, she yelled, “Grady! Grady!” too irrationally annoyed to even feel the slap of frigid air on her bare legs.

  Suzanne didn’t need a mirror to know that her neck veins were probably sticking out. Hell, she wouldn’t be surprised if she suddenly turned green
and burst out of her T-shirt. Her mother would be horrified by her lack of decorum. She didn’t care. Her paintings had almost been ruined, she wanted someone to rant at, and Joshua Grady was it.

  “Get your ass over here now,” she hollered.

  She had no idea if he was at the house or the barn or out pulling some other calf out of a bog somewhere, but she was pretty sure he’d be able to hear her even if he was at the ass-end of the ranch.

  Leaving the door open, she spun away from it as she surveyed the situation. Hell…where did she even start? The decision was clarified as her gaze fell on Atlas.

  With the paintings, dear Suzanne, dear Suzanne, dear Suzanne.

  The paintings!!

  Shit, Grady could not see these paintings! He wouldn’t understand. Hell, she didn’t understand.

  Hearing the slam of a distant door, the adrenaline rapidly reformed, hitting her system like a charge from a cattle prod, and Suzanne leaped into action, sweeping the paintings up one by one, sloshing through water as she carried them into her bedroom and propped them against the walls. She swore she heard booted feet on the flagstones outside as she whisked Atlas off the easel and made the last dash to her room.

  …

  Grady squared his shoulders as he glared at the open cottage door, bracing himself for entry. Not because he was worried or scared of whatever it was the damn fool woman was screaming her lungs out over. It was probably some poor spider she’d already scared half to death by her hollering. No, he was bracing himself for impact. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the other day in the mudroom—or dreaming about it, for that matter—and, after another restless night, he was tired and irritated and not feeling too disposed toward Suzanne fucking St. Michelle right now.

  Hell, if she’d yelled fifteen minutes from now, he’d have been gone for the day, and she’d have had to deal with her own damn spider.

  But she hadn’t.

  Dropping his head from side to side, Grady stretched out his traps, psyching himself up for the encounter. Deep breath…here goes nothing.

  Stepping through the doorway, Grady noticed two things. The enveloping warmth of the cottage that almost made him sigh in relief after even a brief sojourn out in the frigid air.

  And the splash of water.

  Puzzled, he glanced down at his boots and the puddle of water surrounding them. Puddle?

  Glancing farther afield, he realized it was more than a puddle—a fact confirmed by the watery gray sunlight illuminating the large window opposite where an empty easel stood. Light reflected off the watery surface, and Grady realized it was everywhere.

  What the ever-loving fuck?

  A noise to his left drew his gaze as Suzanne appeared from the bedroom, pulling the door shut. Her face was flushed, and there was a smudge of blue paint on her forehead that was distracting as all fuck. He almost missed the mix of emotions playing across her face and reflecting in her blue eyes. Panic, distress, irritation, and, if he wasn’t very much mistaken, guilt.

  What had she done?

  But that thought barely got out of the starting gates as his gaze widened to encompass all of her and any sense of rational thought fled. Her hair was in disarray all round her head, and he was pretty sure she had some streaks of paint in that, too. Even more distracting was her T-shirt boasting a Columbia University logo and no bra.

  Yep—blue paint? What blue paint?

  Grady didn’t like to brag, but he’d been a champion no-bra detector in high school. It wasn’t exactly something he’d put on his résumé now, but what could he say? He’d been fifteen and horny and obsessed with boobs.

  Ascertaining whether or not a woman was wearing a bra at one glance had been his superpower. And Suzanne was very much not.

  She was also sans pants, her legs bare, her T-shirt just skimming the tops of her thighs, which were full and lush, following on from the curvy line of her hips.

  Like one of those old fashioned pinup girls.

  Christ. He swallowed. It was like the universe had decided this was to be his Christmas of temptation, peered inside his head, and produced a woman to his exact specifications.

  Merry fucking Christmas, dude.

  “You should have warned me I was going to need rain boots,” he said.

  Grady blinked. He had no idea where that had come from. What he should have said was, What the ever-loving fuck, lady—you flooded my cottage. It was what he’d planned on saying when he’d opened his mouth. But apparently you didn’t have to be a horny teenager for no-bra to make you stupid.

  She blinked, too, apparently as taken aback as he was. Fuck. Get it together, doofus.

  “What in the hell happened?” he demanded. Better. Much better. Finally his testicles had dropped.

  “The water went out.”

  Grady raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Last night,” she said, her voice testy, her lips pursed as she folded her arms crankily.

  Oh, Jesus have mercy, woman. Do not fold your arms like that. Grady forced himself to keep his gaze trained steadily on Suzanne’s face.

  “When I was washing out my paints after eleven, there was no water.”

  “I had water at nine. It must have gone out after that.” Grady shrugged. “It happens sometimes out here.”

  He felt the need to add that because she was glaring at him like the water going out and the subsequent flood at their feet was somehow his fault. They lived in a rural area—services sometimes went on the blink. No biggie.

  “Still doesn’t explain why half the water in Colorado is on my cottage floor.”

  She sucked in a breath. That was both bad and good. Bad because it emphasized how naked she was under her T-shirt. Like he needed a reminder. Good because it meant she was angry, and he’d rather she looked at him like he was everything wrong with the males of the species than look at him like he was pie.

  Pecan pie with puddles of warm butter. Which brought him back to the puddle of water at his feet.

  “I’d been trying to fill the sink to wash up. I thought I’d turned off the faucet.”

  “Clearly you didn’t.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she snapped with a mutinous glow in her eyes. “I can see that.”

  Grady shoved his hands on his hips as he glanced around, assessing the situation—anything to keep his mind off a pair of legs he suddenly wanted to feel wrapped around his waist. “Well…there’s no real harm done.”

  She blinked. “Are you always this cool in the midst of…disaster?”

  “This is a disaster?” In the realm of disasters, he’d take it over a tornado, the bottom falling out of the beef market, or a dose of mad cow disease.

  “The cottage is flooded.” She said it kinda slowly, taking care to emphasize each word like maybe she was talking to the village idiot.

  Jesus, she was a drama queen. It was hardly Old Testament stuff. Which reminded him it was Sunday and that he should be in church being delivered from temptation. Instead of staring it down.

  But he wasn’t much of a churchgoer.

  He mentally braced himself to return his attention to her person—her face. Not her legs. Not her no-bra T-shirt. Her face. And that streak of blue paint.

  “The floor’s waterproof. It hasn’t reached the walls.” If he was mimicking her slow, village-idiot cadence, it was her own fault. She started it.

  “The furniture has wet feet and the rug’s soaked through.”

  He shrugged. “They’ll dry.”

  “Oh… Well…” She looked around like she didn’t quite believe him. “Okay, then.”

  “Why don’t you go and put on some clothes?” Grady held every muscle he owned in hard lock, his fingers biting into his hips as he fought the urge to drop his gaze. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth. “I’ll get the wet vac. It shouldn’t take long.�
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  She looked down at herself, an expression of surprise flitting across her features as if she was only just realizing her state of undress. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

  “Oh yes, right.” She glanced at him then, and there was a pinkness to her cheeks as she nervously pushed a hand through her flyaway hair, making things move interestingly beneath her shirt.

  She was going to be the death of him. He’d known her for a week, and she was already leading him around by his dick.

  He gave her a brusque nod, turned on his heel, and left.

  …

  Grady was back ten minutes later with the industrial-size wet vac he used in the barn from time to time. It wasn’t the cleanest piece of machinery he owned, but it’d suck up the water in the cottage, lickety-split. He also had a stack of clean towels to dry the floor thoroughly because on a freezing gray morning with the sun hidden behind clouds, it was going to need some help.

  Thankfully, Suzanne was fully clothed in track pants and a hoodie. The pants were loose, not clingy, and she’d rolled them up to the knees. The hoodie was pushed up to the elbows and decorated with paint stains. Her hair had been pulled back in some kind of haphazard knotty thing at the back of her head, held in place by what looked to be a very fine paintbrush speared through the center. Already some strands had worked loose, brushing her face.

  She’d also put on a bra. Thank fucking Christ.

  “I’ll suck up the excess water,” he informed her, refusing to give himself any more time to ogle the woman. He pointed at the towels he’d tossed on the couch. “Follow behind me and dry off the floor.”

  He didn’t give her a chance to reply or object or suggest another strategy because she was insulted about his gender role assumption. He liked big, loud machinery and he’d used it before. He just started up the vac and got underway, pleased that its noise obliterated any chance for conversation. He wanted to get this done and get out of here.

  He had a ranch to run, goddamn it.

  Grady’s job was much quicker than hers. The industrial-strength machine easily sucked up the water, making short work of it. He was also able to stand erect while Suzanne chose to do her bit on her hands and knees rather than bending over or squatting.