The Trouble with Christmas

by Amy Andrews

  If he detected her sarcasm, it was impossible to tell. This man was the living end.

  “Grady…I’m not sure we should be so prescriptive. I think we should aim for more spontaneity, depending on the situation.”

  “Twice a day,” he repeated.

  She stuck out her chin. If this was a negotiation, then two could play at that game. She was used to haggling her commission price. “Five.”

  “Three. And nothing in town. Only here on the ranch. This relationship stays on the ranch.”

  Wow. He really did not want to kiss her. “You care what people in town will think?” She’d have thought Grady cared diddly what anyone thought.

  “Nope. But I’ve got to live here after you leave, and my private life is nobody’s business.”

  Suzanne supposed there was some logic in that. Grady didn’t strike her as the kind of guy who enjoyed public sympathy.

  He folded his arms as if it was his final offer. “Take it or leave it.”

  “On the mouth.”

  Her parents were supposed to think she and Grady were an item—three chaste pecks on the cheek weren’t going to cut it. He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

  “Fine,” she acquiesced. “I’ll take it.”

  “Fine.”

  “So…that’s a yes? You’ll help me with Operation Hokiest Christmas Ever?”

  “It is. But I want a painting now. As a down payment.”

  Suzanne blinked. What the? “You think I’m going to renege on the deal?” Giving him those paintings was a necessary evil, a means to an end that would probably kill her, but she’d never go back on her word. She just hoped she wasn’t giving him a piece of her muse, too.

  “Consider it a sign of good faith.”

  “Oh yeah, and what’s your sign of good faith? For all I know, you’ll be lousy at faking it.”

  He regarded her for long moments before picking up his wine, downing the other half, and striding around to her side of the bench. Suzanne’s breath quickened as he got closer and closer, his sweats hiding none of the power of those quads, his gaze on her mouth utterly intent. She backed up a couple of steps as he closed the gap between them, her heart beating a wild tango.

  Suzanne placed a hand on his chest as he stepped into her space. She meant to hold him back—she honestly did—but that T-shirt really was as soft as it looked, and the same hungry gleam she’d seen in his eyes earlier basked her in heat. An answering heat unfurled inside her as she curled her fist in his shirt.

  “Grady?” she whispered, her pulse loud in her ears.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, as if unsure where to put his hands, and she knew, with sudden clarity, he was going to kiss her. And she panicked.

  “That’s not necces—”

  The swift lowering of his mouth cut her off, and her eyes rounded as she looked at him, disconcerted to find him watching her, too. His lips were stiff and mostly closed and completely immobile, like he was out of practice. Or really sucked at it. And Suzanne held herself still and awkward in his arms and waited for it to be over.

  But then, bit by bit, the timber of the kiss changed. His lips softened, his body relaxed, and he breathed out a little roughly; then his eyes fluttered closed and a strangled kind of groan came from somewhere deep inside his throat. The kind of groan that made her think maybe he didn’t suck after all.

  It was the groan that was Suzanne’s undoing.

  It opened up her senses, tapping into the taste and the smell and the touch of him. Wood smoke and red wine and the buzz of electricity just beneath her skin morphed her response from awkward to tentative, and she closed her eyes as his hands slid to her hips, pulling her up onto her toes, hitching her closer, and hers slid around his neck.

  Their chests bumped together, their hips bumped together, and suddenly his mouth was all the right kinds of hard and soft, deep and wet, and when his tongue dipped inside her mouth and stroked along hers, it was Suzanne’s turn to make some nonsensical noise in the back of her throat, somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

  The kiss escalated. Grady’s hands tightened on her hips as she shoved her fingers into the hair at his nape, the damp silky strands a sensual delight. He bent her back a little as he deepened the kiss, his mouth harder and wetter, demanding more. Suzanne gave it, returning fire, giving more, reveling in the hard press of him—his chest, his arms, his thighs.

  Then, as suddenly as he’d swooped, he was gone, breaking away, stepping back, leaving them staring at each other, their chests heaving, the rough pants of their breathing loud in the charged space between them. His mouth was wet and swollen. She’d never seen Cowboy Surly look so damn undone.

  God alone knew what she must look like.

  “Well?” he demanded, his voice a low burr. “Will that do?”

  Suzanne blinked as his tongue swiped at the moisture on his bottom lip. Will that do? She doubted she’d ever been kissed that well in her life. Sure, she’d had some great kisses, but this one? This one was like the Van freaking Gogh of kisses. Pulling herself back from the wackiness of that thought, she tried to get back on track. What had they been talking about? Oh yes, that’s right, faking it.

  If that was Grady faking it, she’d like to be the lucky woman who got the real deal.

  She stared at him, her thoughts still in disarray, her pulse still booming so loud in her ears, she couldn’t even hear herself think. Her brain was scrambled, her ovaries were cooked, and thank god for the bench or she’d have slid boneless to the floor.

  Still too stupefied for conversation or any kind of deep analysis, Suzanne simply said, “Which one do you want?”

  “The cherub.”

  Suzanne frowned at his quick-fire response. She expected him to not care or tell her to just grab the one that was closest, but he’d been very sure about his choice. “What’s wrong with the cherub?”

  “You painted my head on a baby. With wings.”

  “Okay.” Whatever. It didn’t really matter, she supposed as her brain started to power up again and the endgame came back into sight. “Fine. I’ll bring it over in the morning. I’ll be in and out of here the next couple of days decorating.”

  He winced. “When you say decorating, what do you mean exactly?”

  “I pretty much made my mother believe your cabin is where they film all Hallmark movies.”

  “Great.” His wince deepened. “Just how schmaltzy is it going to be?”

  Suzanne didn’t happen to think there was anything wrong with some cheesy seasonal exuberance—it was Christmas, for crying out loud. “The full schmaltz. We make it extra schmaltzy here with hardly anything at the cottage. The more we Christmas it up here, the more likely they are to want to spend time away from it. In the cottage. Where there’s only one bed.”

  He sighed. “Fine.”

  “Do you have a spare key so I can get in and out?”

  She couldn’t quite believe they were casually talking about the logistics of her parental marriage intervention like that kiss hadn’t occurred. She could still taste him, still smell the wood smoke caught in his hair, still feel the wild skip in her pulse, and yet she was talking tree trimming and keys.

  Was he as poleaxed as her behind that inscrutable expression? Was his body still thrumming with the out-of-control mix of heat and happy hormones despite the return of his surly facade?

  He glanced at her hand. “You’re not in New York, Dorothy. We’re in bumfuck Egypt. Nobody locks their doors.”

  “Oh…right…” She glanced at her wine, at the pasta, at the turtle tank, at the door. Anywhere but Grady and his thoroughly kissed mouth. “I guess I’ll be going.” He didn’t say anything, just stood there, his gaze intense. Putting on her big-girl panties, she lifted her gaze to meet his, forcing herself to smile and act normal. “Thanks again. For doing this.”

  “Don’
t thank me yet.”

  …

  “Okay…let me get this straight,” Winona said, her warm breath misting into the cold air inside Ethel because the van’s heating was on the fritz. She was bundled up in her winter coat, scarf, gloves, and hat, as was Suzanne. “We’re going to Denver to buy up the tackiest, most over-the-top Christmas stuff possible and then decorating Grady’s place with it so your parents, whose marriage is on the rocks and are arriving the day after tomorrow, think you’re in a relationship with a cowboy from Credence.”

  “In a nutshell.”

  “And I thought I had an active imagination.” Winona shook her head. “I couldn’t make this shit up.”

  “It’s bad, right?” Suzanne glanced briefly across to her friend. “I’m going to hell.”

  “In the grand scheme of things that get you into hell, lying to your parents and bribing Grady are probably low down on the scale.”

  “Right?” Her friend’s statement was buoying. “I mean, I’m not selling cigarettes to kids in the third world or jacking up the price of a lifesaving drug by five thousand percent overnight.”

  “Exactly.”

  Which didn’t actually make Suzanne feel better. Lying and bribery were still shitty things to do.

  “Stop at the next gas station; I’ll get us coffee so we don’t turn into Popsicles.”

  It was a lousy day for Ethel’s ancient heating system to become recalcitrant. Suzanne knew she should just buy a new van—she could afford it—but Ethel had been with her from the beginning, from her very first commission. And paint stains and the reek of thinners really ruined that new-car magic.

  Still, heat would be nice.

  They stopped twice along the way before Suzanne pulled Ethel into the parking lot of a Christmas shop on the outskirts of Denver she’d found when Googling last night, because there wasn’t enough tinsel and garland in Credence for Suzanne’s needs. Hell, there wasn’t enough in all of eastern Colorado. She’d made a comprehensive list of all the things she’d needed to turn the house into Santa’s grotto, and she ticked through them mentally now.

  It was that or think about the kiss—again.

  So the guy could kiss. That should hardly be surprising, given how competently he did everything else in his life. Except competently wasn’t the right word. Competently was thoroughly inadequate. Masterfully was much better. For a kiss that had started out like Grady hadn’t ever graduated from the kissing-your-forearm school of tutoring, he had owned her by the time he’d pulled away.

  She’d been left in no doubt that he could pull off their fake relationship. She just needed to remind herself that it was fake. An act. It would be easy to forget if subjected to too many kisses of that caliber.

  “Holy cow!” Winona’s astonished exclamation pulled Suzanne out of the seductive web of last night’s kiss. “I have no words,” she said as they both stared at the twenty-foot-tall inflatable Santa Claus tied down to the roof of the shop. In his hands he held a sign that said, Happy Birthday, Jesus.

  If anyone was going to hell, it was the makers of that abomination.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By four thirty, Suzanne and Winona were sitting in front of the fire as they indulged in a celebratory glass of red wine. The one from last night, which Grady had left on the bench top. They were laughing at the sweater Suzanne was wearing with dancing elves on a red background and Jingle My Bells knitted in cursive white print at the bottom.

  She’d come across an entire aisle full of tacky clothing and gone a little overboard buying five pairs of sweaters in matching his-and-her styles. They were perfectly, kitschily awful. As were the T-shirts she’d bought, including sizes and styles for her parents, too.

  Suzanne didn’t even hear Grady arrive until the door swung open and both she and Winona turned with a start to see his very distinct silhouette in the doorway right beneath a terrible plastic sprig of mistletoe. Suzanne’s fingers tightened around the wineglass. Do not think about kissing Grady under that Mistletoe.

  Oops. Too late.

  “Why is my cabin lit up like the Fourth of July?” he demanded, with barely a nod at Winona and absolutely no preamble.

  “It’s not that bad,” Winona dismissed as Grady shut the door behind him.

  All the windows had been frosted in fake snow and outlined with pink and green globes. The front porch railing and uprights were wrapped in lights, and a fringe of multicolored icicle lights draped off the gutters. They twinkled on and off in no particular sequence, and occasionally all flashed in unison.

  “You want to hope Santa’s not an epileptic,” he grouched.

  “I doubt he’d have a sleigh license if he was,” Winona quipped.

  She seemed completely unfazed by Grady’s mood, and Suzanne wished she could be half as cool and confident. But then Grady stripped off his heavy coat and hat, hanging both on a hook near the door, and Suzanne was just grateful for the ability to make words at all.

  He didn’t bother to ruffle out his hair, which was suffering somewhat from being confined in his hat, because Grady didn’t appear to give a shit what his hair looked like.

  “How did you get them on the cabin without breaking your damn fool necks?”

  Had Suzanne been in her right mind, she’d have told him women could do all kinds of stuff, including finding and climbing ladders and using tools like hammers, and very few broke necks or nails doing it. But the way his plaid shirt and jeans fit his body sapped all her fight.

  “Burl helped us.”

  Grady grunted. “Of course he did.”

  They’d run into Burl in Credence when they’d stopped at the feed store to check out the Christmas trees in the lot that was apparently used for this purpose every year. Burl, knowing Grady would be out all day, had offered to help transport the tree they’d purchased and, when Suzanne had said she was decorating the cabin as a surprise for Grady, he’d stayed on and helped with the myriad lights. Suzanne was damn pleased they’d taken him up on his offer. The lights alone had taken Burl a few hours of pottering to complete, which had freed up her and Winona to complete the indoor decorations.

  Suddenly, as if becoming aware of his surroundings, Grady’s eyes skimmed the room. They landed on everything. Acres of garland and tinsel hung from every surface possible. From the exposed beams of the ceiling to the edge of the mantelpiece to the kitchen bench and the coffee tables. His gaze took in all the tinsel and holly and mistletoe, his eyes widening as he saw the lurid paper chain of butt-ugly fish in elf hats fringing the bottom of Zoom’s tank.

  Ornaments graced almost every flat surface. And not classy, elegant ornaments like her mother might choose if she ever slipped and hit her head and decided Christmas was worth celebrating. These were cheap, made-in-China imports, all plastic and tacky. Suzanne’s favorite was fat Elvis in his worst kind of Vegas gear, including cape and a Santa hat, riding a reindeer. That one was in pride of place on the mantelpiece and actually played “Blue Christmas.” Her next favorite was a snow globe with a Dunkin Donuts shop in it.

  “Oh dear god,” Grady said, his gaze growing ever wider as he pivoted slowly around. When there were very few surfaces not touched by Christmas, it was a lot to take in.

  “Isn’t it perfectly, horribly wonderful?” Winona enthused. “Just needs the tree decorated now, and it’ll be complete.”

  The eight-foot tree had been left bare—Suzanne was keeping that as a family affair. Her mother would love that. Not.

  “It looks like the Christmas fairy threw up in here.”

  “Good.” Winona sighed. “Our work here is done.” She stood, leaving a half glass of wine untouched. “Well, I better get going. I have a date with Bob and Ray at the old folks’ home tonight.”

  “I’ll be off, too,” Suzanne said, also standing, seeing her opportunity to escape.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to watch the diff
ering shades of horror constantly shifting over Grady’s face as he spotted some new insult to Christmas. And she really didn’t want to be here when he discovered that she’d switched his toilet seat out for a special festive one. Nuts and holly and red berries were encapsulated in the clear plastic ring, along with Santa in a laden sleigh being pulled by reindeer.

  And then there was the super kitschy snowman toilet lid cover and mat. The lid cover was the snowman’s head, complete with a pipe for a nose, and the mat on the floor that sat snug around the pedestal was the snowman’s body. Maybe worst of all was the three-foot inflatable Santa that currently sat in the Adirondack chair on the front porch, some green tinsel tied jauntily around his neck. She definitely didn’t want to be here when he spotted it.

  Or when he discovered the cherub painting propped against the wall in his bedroom.

  Grady didn’t say anything as they left; in fact, Suzanne wasn’t sure he even noticed as he turned in slow circles, taking in the full festive purgatory of it all. It was probably best to just slip out anyway—he needed time to get used to his new surroundings, and she’d be here with him soon enough…

  …

  The next evening, washing up in the mudroom, Grady winced at the lights twinkling from the cabin. They’d greeted him from a mile away like Santa’s fucking lighthouse as he’d driven in from the eastern boundary. But the normal house lights were on, too, which could only mean that Suzanne was inside.

  Probably committing god knew what sin against Christmas in his cabin.

  He’d been worried that having all those decorations in his place would bring back memories of long-ago Christmases. Ones he’d locked in a box inside his head marked do not open. He needn’t have worried. Suzanne’s unholy Christmas horror show was more the stuff of nightmares than fond memories.

  And he was right in the middle of it all.

  This morning, after lifting the snowman lid on his toilet, he’d had to literally sit on Santa’s face to take a dump—a fact he would take to his grave. And this time tomorrow night, he’d be meeting her parents. Who thought he and Suzanne were shacked up and doing the wild thing.