The Trouble with Christmas

by Amy Andrews

  Suzanne’s stomach gave a lurch. Nerves. Just nerves. Not the memory of what they’d done last night.

  And just like that, she was back on that couch with him, making out, all that coiled heat and energy she could see in his gait right now unleashed on her body. On her mouth, on her pulse, on her brain. His strong fingers biting into her hips and tugging at her waist and grazing across her nipples.

  “Oh, here he is,” her mother said. “My…he walks like he owns the world, doesn’t he?”

  Oh yeah. Suzanne couldn’t have put it better herself. His stride was so damn sure. So damn male. It made her hot just watching him prowl ever closer, his Wranglers hugging his thighs in ways that were utterly indecent. Suzanne flattened her palms to her stomach, very much afraid her clothes were going to fall right off the closer he got.

  He wasn’t smiling. He was supposed to be smiling. But she doubted that anyone was obtuse enough not to see that intensity in his eyes and know exactly what it was.

  Pure, unadulterated sexual interest.

  Holy crap. Give the man an Oscar. “Babe,” she said, plastering a smile on her face as he got within arm’s reach.

  Suzanne didn’t wait for him to make the first move, not sure, despite the set of his jaw and his forward momentum, if he would or not. With her pulse tripping madly, she slid a hand up his arm to his shoulder, stepped into his space, rose on her tiptoes, and pressed her mouth to his.

  She felt the jolt go through him, felt the brief edge of his resistance before he let it go and kissed her back, his hands sliding around her, pulling her closer. He didn’t deepen the kiss, neither did she, but it smoldered, then it sparked, then it roared to life between them, the hardness of his body like fuel to the flame, the aromas of saddle leather and hay and soap adding to the inferno.

  But as abruptly as he’d lit the fuse, he snuffed it out, pulling back, chuckling light and easy against her temple, saying, “Where are our manners, babe,” before kissing near her ear and whispering, “that’s one.”

  While Suzanne’s body cried out against the sudden cessation of pleasure and her brain scrambled to compute what he’d whispered, he was holding out his hand to her father. “Hello, sir, I’m Grady. Nice to meet you.”

  Suzanne blinked as her father said, “Albie. Albie St. Michelle.” Had Grady just been…keeping score? While she’d been swept away by the intensity of a closed-mouth kiss, had he been ticking off his fake rancher boyfriend checklist?

  One kiss down, two to go?

  That was cold. Really freaking cold. Note to self—her fake rancher boyfriend could switch it on and off at random.

  Consider yourself warned, Suzanne.

  “Simone,” she vaguely heard her mother say and was peripherally aware of her and Grady also shaking hands as a full head of steam build inside her skull.

  “Mom, Dad,” Suzanne said, yanking herself back from the bubbling lava pit of her rage, “meet Joshua Grady. He prefers Grady. I prefer Joshy.”

  She gave a little laugh and slipped her arm around his waist as she smiled up at him, a whole lot of take that, dipshit in her eyes. He smiled back, his eyes glittering at her with a whole lot of oh no you just didn’t.

  “So nice to meet you,” he said, turning a friendly face back to her parents. “Suzy has told me so much about you guys.”

  Her mother’s eyebrows almost lifted right off her face. “Suzy?”

  Simone St. Michelle had resisted all attempts by her father, her friends, schools, acquaintances, and colleagues to bastardize her daughter’s name. Sue, Suzy, Susie Q (her dad’s favorite), Susan, Susannah had all been met with disapproval. She’d named her daughter after Suzanne Valadon, a French painter known for her female nudes, and it had never been anything else.

  Until now.

  “Joshy likes to tease,” Suzanne said on a half laugh, giving his waist a hard squeeze.

  “What?” he said playfully. “You don’t think she looks like a Suzy?” When her mother said nothing, he gave a chuckle, slung an arm around her neck, pulling her closer and dropping a kiss on top of her head.

  On. Top. Of. Her. Head. He might as well have patted her instead.

  “She’ll always be Suzy to me.”

  Suzanne knew without a doubt he was going to call her that from now on. Freaking fabulous… “Well anyway,” Suzanne said, realizing it was a small price to pay for his help, “I was just going to help Mom and Dad with their bags.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said with a smile that was so charming, Suzanne blinked twice in case it was a figment of her imagination. Charming had, thus far, not been in his repertoire.

  She was starting to think the man had taken some acting lessons. Hell, if she hadn’t seen that shrapnel wound with her own eyes, she’d be tempted to suspect he’d spent twelve years in some acting troupe instead of the military.

  “Thank you, Joshy.”

  “Anything for you, my love,” he said, swooping in again, whispering “Two,” against her lips before he laid a quick, hard kiss on her mouth and pulled away again. “So, Albie,” he said like he’d just kissed a plank of wood. “Let’s get you guys unpacked.”

  …

  At quarter to six, Suzanne stood outside Grady’s door, taking a deep breath. Her parents would be at the cabin for the evening’s festivities in fifteen minutes. They’d expressed the need for a rest after their tiring day of travel, and while Suzanne suspected what they actually needed was some time to adjust to the high-octane level of Christmas, she was more than okay with them spending alone time together in the cottage.

  Good for their relationship and her sanity.

  She and Grady hadn’t spoken since he’d finished helping her father unpack the car. He’d disappeared back to the barn for a bit, only returning to the cabin as night drew in and even then had only spared her a brief, “I’ll be in my office,” before he disappeared again.

  Knowing that had been awfully distracting. He was in his office. With the cherub. Did that mean he actually liked it?

  Or was he just saving it up for a mass burial/bonfire at the end?

  But he wasn’t in his office now—she’d looked in there to find it empty—and he hadn’t slipped outside again because she would have seen him leave, so he had to be in his bedroom. And she really needed to talk to him before her parents arrived.

  Lifting her hand, she knocked on his door. It was a little on the timid side, which might have something to do with the nature of her request. When there was no response, she knocked louder. Nothing. Was he ignoring her? For the love of Zeus…why was a guy in his mid-thirties hiding out in his bedroom like some kid?

  Steeling herself, she cracked open the door, saying, “Grady?” as she pushed it all the way open and peered around the jamb. He was just stepping into his bedroom from what she assumed was the bathroom, given he had only a towel slung around his waist and his hair was damp.

  For a moment, she was too stunned to move. Well…too stunned to move anything other than her eyes, which took a slow trip over his chest and abs, the narrowness of his hips and the bulge between.

  Oh Jesus. How could one man look so damn good? This was bad. Very bad. “Oh…” She averted her eyes, then turned her back. “I’m sorry. I knocked but…”

  “Oh come on now, Suzy, don’t be so modest.” The sarcasm dripped from his voice. “I’m more covered than the cherub is.”

  Yeah, well…he was also a helluva lot more freaking manly than the cherub. Definitely more endowed. Not to mention he was actually real. Flesh and blood and bone. And other more interesting anatomical bits she really wished she wasn’t thinking about right now.

  “You’re seriously going to keep calling me Suzy?”

  “Yep,” he said, and she heard rustling, a clink of a buckle, like he was getting dressed. “Payback’s a bitch.” Another beat or two passed before he said, “I’m decent now.”


  Relief lulled Suzanne into a false sense of security, and she turned to find he’d pulled on a pair of jeans—that was it. Nobody in their right mind would have called Grady “decent” right now. From his belt flapping open to the top button of his fly still gaping, he was thoroughly indecent.

  “You’re seriously wearing that sweater?”

  Suzanne, who had forgotten the very reason for entering his room in the first place, glanced down at her sweater uncomprehendingly for a moment because hell, at least she was dressed.

  It was one of the handful of terrible Christmas sweaters she’d bought in Denver. It was black with a large elf body on the front. The elf was female, in a red dress with a green belt, green shoes, and stripy red-and-green stockings. There was no face—in fact, the neckline of the elf’s dress melded with the neckline of the sweater, which made Suzanne’s head the head of the elf.

  It was awful and absolutely perfect for the hokiest Christmas ever, and she’d bought it without thinking twice. She’d also bought a matching male elf for Grady, which was why she was standing in his room. His bedroom.

  “Yes,” she confirmed, grateful for the prompt but distracted again as she looked at him. There was a hardness to Grady’s physique that a man didn’t get from pumping iron. There were slabs of muscle beneath the flesh of his pecs and abs, rather than that pillowed delineation so popular on Instagram these days.

  “Is there something you wanted?” The movement of his mouth dragged her gaze to the light whiskery growth around his lips, along his jaw, and halfway down his neck. “Or did you just want to indiscriminately ogle me?”

  Oh crap. Busted. Suzanne averted her gaze as she gave herself a mental shake. He was right. What in the hell was she doing? Standing there staring at him with her tongue practically hanging out like Scooby-goddamn-Doo.

  “Oh yes…sorry.” Her brain kicked into gear. The sweater. In her hand. The one she’d bought for Grady. “Could you wear this tonight?” Holding it by the shoulder seams, she flapped it out so he could see. This elf was wearing a green shirt and shorts with a red belt, red shoes, and red-and-green stripy socks.

  Grady stared at it like it was something he’d worn in on his boot. He shook his head. “Oh hell no.”

  Suzanne’s fingers tightened around the synthetic woolen fabric. She’d expected resistance. “Big fat Christmas Christmas, remember?” she reminded him, jiggling it a little.

  “It’s fucking awful.”

  “Yeah.” Suzanne bugged her eyes at him. “That’s the point.”

  He eyed the sweater with disgust. “And they say cowboys are hokey.”

  “So you’ll wear it?” She took a step forward.

  “Nope.” His vehement headshake stopped her in her tracks. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that.”

  “No one’s going to know, Grady.”

  “I’ll know.” He shoved his hands on his hips. “Who even makes this crap anyway?”

  “Santa’s little helpers?” she suggested, trying to be cute.

  Clearly she failed if his unimpressed snort was any indication. “More like Satan’s little helpers.”

  Suzanne shrugged. “Does it really matter?” In the short time she’d known him, Joshua Grady had made no bones about being a proud man. But surely he could cope with a few silly shirts. They weren’t exactly family dishonor kind of stuff. “Seriously, Grady, are you telling me your ego is that precious, you can’t wear some funny his-and-her matching shirts and sweaters for the next couple of weeks?”

  His eyebrows shot up his forehead before his eyes narrowed. “You mean there’s more?”

  Well crap…she hadn’t meant to break that bit of news to him tonight. “I…may or may not have bought a few more.”

  He folded his arms across his chest—his naked chest—his gaze roving over her face as if he was considering his options. The angle of his jaw ticked, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

  “Look, I don’t make up the rules about this stuff. Apparently his-and-her sweaters are what people who are really into Christmas do, remember? The heroine’s parents in that first movie wore them everywhere. Also, added bonus, it’s the kind of tacky Christmas shit my parents can’t abide. It’ll definitely send them back to their non-Christmas cottage for marriage-building time.”

  Waiting another beat or two, he said, “Fine. I’ll wear whatever you want. But if wearing hideous Christmas sweaters is a part of the deal, then I’m going to need another painting.”

  Suzanne gaped at him. “Josh—” She faltered at calling him by his real name. She hadn’t planned to, but it had just flowed off her tongue. “Are you really going to screw me out of a painting every time you don’t want to do something?”

  He shrugged. “Probably.”

  Suzanne’s temper flared again. “I told you, I’d give them all to you at the end.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, suddenly not so pissed off. “But it’s more fun this way.”

  She suppressed the urge to tell him again that the only reason they were in this mess was because she’d tried to keep her parents away from Credence for him. But that was bullshit—it wasn’t his fault that she’d been called on her bluff. Nor was the hole she’d dug herself trying to weasel out of it.

  “Fine.” She huffed out a breath. “Which one?”

  “David.”

  Once again, he hadn’t even paused to give it any thought. It was like he had a mental list he was keeping numbered in importance from one to five. Suzanne opened her mouth to protest—David was special. David was the painting that had started it all. But ultimately she supposed it didn’t really matter. In a couple of weeks, none of them would belong to her anymore.

  Her muse, who’d been ignored ever since her mom had announced she was coming to Credence, curled up a little bit more inside.

  Sad and hurt and frustrated at the prospect, she turned on her heel and stormed out of his room. Marching to the end of the hallway, she strode into her room, grabbed the canvas, and marched all the way back to Grady’s. He’d used the time to pull on a shirt, but that barely registered as she propped the painting against the wall.

  “Satisfied?”

  He crossed to it, inspecting it for long moments. Suzanne couldn’t look. It was like a knife through her soul, and she blinked hard to dispel the prick of tears as he said, “Thank you.”

  She thrust the article of clothing at him. “Put on the damn sweater.”

  Thankfully, he shoved it over his head without any further ado, and she didn’t stick around for any more commentary, just headed for the door. “They’ll be here any minute,” she tossed over her shoulder.

  He didn’t reply, and she stopped in the doorway, turning to check that he’d heard to find him wincing down at the sweater. He lifted his head and grimaced in her direction. “Don’t even think I’m wearing any of these into Credence, Suzy.”

  “What?” she said, injecting sweetness and sarcasm into her tone. “And pass up the opportunity to screw me out of another painting?”

  He snorted. “You could offer me a blow job to wear this into town and the answer would still be no.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Grady that even if his life depended on her sucking poison out of it, she wouldn’t put her mouth anywhere near his dick. But the truth was, she’d spent most of last night fantasizing about blowing him anyway and, as un-feminist as it was, performing a sexual act on him would probably take far less out of her soul than parting with her paintings.

  “Your loss,” she said with a shrug because he looked entirely too sure of himself right now, and she was damned if he was going to have the last word. “I give excellent blow jobs.”

  Then she slipped out of his room.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Grady spent the next hour making polite conversation with Suzanne’s parents as they dined, which was a welcome dis
traction from persistent thoughts of just how good their daughter apparently was at giving blow jobs. He figured she’d said it just to get a reaction and, well…mission accomplished. Damn if he could think of much else.

  Albie and Simone seemed like nice people but very sophisticated, and Grady was pleased to have had a life outside of Credence for a lot of years. Had he been more cloistered, their talk about art shows in London and Madrid and Florence might have made him feel like a hillbilly. They weren’t being deliberately intimidating, he knew that, but another man may have felt a little inadequate.

  The good thing, though, about them living in their New York bubble was their propensity to talk about it and their life there, which he encouraged, peppering them with questions. Because while they were talking about New York, he didn’t have to talk about himself. Or the fake relationship he was having with their daughter.

  Or think about how good she was at giving blow jobs.

  Fuck. Dude, stop it!

  But it was almost impossible to keep his mind fully on the conversation, especially when she was so damn touchy-feely throughout the meal. Nothing over-the-top, just constant. A hand on his forearm, her fingers straying to his and toying absently, leaning in close to nudge his shoulder with hers, her arm slung casually around the back of his chair.

  Twice she’d slipped her hand under his arm, her knuckles grazing his ribs as she looped their arms together and smooshed her cheek against his shoulder. He’d actually dropped a kiss on her head the first time. He had no idea why he’d done it other than her parents were watching and it had felt natural.

  Which was all kinds of fucked up.

  “All righty, then.” Suzanne stood, and Grady started a little as she scooped up the plates. “It’s tree time.” She was heading for the kitchen by the time he’d dragged his mind from the gutter. “Josh has bought so many lights; just wait till you see them.”