The Trouble with Christmas

by Amy Andrews

  Her breath hitched at the dominantly male display, the action rippling through every muscle group from his toes to his head, emphasizing every nuance of his nudity.

  “I fell asleep.”

  It was a statement rather than a question, and he sounded so nonplussed, it surprised a laugh out of her. “You did. It looks good on you. Maybe you should do it more often.”

  “Sure.” He chuckled. “I’ll book it in for after my regular spa day.”

  Suzanne rolled her eyes at his easy dismissal of being pampered. But she couldn’t help but think he needed someone in his life to make him sleep in once in a while.

  If only he hadn’t decided he didn’t need anyone.

  “You done yet?” he asked.

  Dragging her mind back to the painting, Suzanne glanced at it one last time. “Yeah,” she said with a slow nod. “I am.”

  The change in Grady’s expression was priceless as he vaulted upright. “Really?” He glanced at the clock hanging above the mantelpiece. “In four hours?”

  Suzanne nodded. Her other paintings had taken longer because she’d spent so long getting his face right—the angle of his head and the hardness of his jaw and the exact expression she was trying to capture—but having painted it so often now, it was second nature. No doubt her love had also guided her hand.

  Pushing to his feet, Grady strode toward her, and Suzanne thrilled at how comfortable he was being naked in front of her, at the easy intimacy between them. It would disappear in a puff as soon as Grady left this cabin to get back to work—she knew that. But for now, she was going to cling to it and always remember these hours they spent together while a storm worthy of Noah raged over their heads.

  He rounded to her side of the canvas, and a knot of nerves pulled tight in her chest as he stood behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and propping his chin on top of her head. He didn’t say anything for the longest time, and there was nothing but the sound of the gale and the roar of her pulse in her ears as she waited for his verdict. She felt for sure he must be able to feel the wild slam of her heart thumping just under where his hands were clasped.

  Could he see it, what was so obvious to her? Did she want him to?

  “It’s…” His chin slid back and forth across her hair as if he was shaking his head. “It’s incredible. I look so chilled and relaxed, like…”

  “Like?” Suzanne held her breath. What did he see in this labor of love?

  “Like I’ve just gotten laid.”

  Suzanne laughed to cover up the surge of disappointment. He didn’t see it. At least not all of it anyway, because there was no doubt Grady looked like he’d been thoroughly debauched. But he’d totally missed the underlying emotion, the deeper resonance.

  Maybe that was something only a person with a trained artistic eye could see? Or a person who was in love.

  “I know I’m not an expert, but…it’s stunning, Suzy. Really stunning,” he said as he continued to peruse the painting. There was awe and respect in his tone, and Suzanne totally let it go to her head. “How do you even do that in such a short space of time?”

  Suzanne gave a half laugh. “Practice.”

  He chuckled against her hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head and Suzanne shut her eyes, enjoying the simple yet intimate caress. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Are you happy with it?”

  Suzanne nodded. “Yes. Very.” She didn’t need anyone else’s opinion; she knew it was good. The best paintings were the ones where emotion leaped off the canvas, and this portrait had that in spades.

  “You haven’t signed it.”

  She blinked at his statement. It hadn’t occurred to her to sign it. Due to the nature of her work, she didn’t usually sign any of her art. Her name was usually printed on the back and in catalogs as the reproduction artist, but that was it.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like anyone but me is going to be seeing it.”

  “Of course it matters.” His arms tightened around her waist. “You painted it. And this is your first original piece of work, and it’s wonderful. You told me you wanted to be an artist in your own right. Don’t artists put their name on their work?”

  A giddy rush of artistic pride filled her chest at his words. Grady was right. Artists signed their work. Her hand shook as she reached forward for her smallest brush, and Grady dropped his arms. She took a step, dipping the brush in an ochre-colored oil and swiftly, without thinking, painted her name in the bottom right corner where the edges of the rug became ill-defined.

  Suzy.

  Replacing the brush, she took a step back, welcoming the bands of his arms as they enveloped her again, resting the back of her head against his chest. “Suzy, huh?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Not Suzanne St. Michelle? Because you…don’t want to trade on your mom’s name?”

  “Because Suzanne paints forgeries. Suzy is the artist.”

  “Mmm,” he murmured, his lips playing at her neck. “I like it. In fact…I’m a little turned on by it.” His hands slid under the hem of her shirt, his palms sliding up her body, taking the shirt along for the ride. “That’s wrong, right?”

  His palms found her breasts, the nipples already taut and aching for his touch. A hot wave of arousal washed through Suzanne’s belly, and she shut her eyes and arched her back. “Only if it’s wrong for me to be turned on, too.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, his thumbs stroking her nipples. “You’re the artiste.”

  Suzanne moaned as the aching spread to her thighs and her butt and right between her legs. She turned in his arms, needing to be closer, whimpering when she found his mouth right there ready for her, losing herself in the heady heat of his kiss. But still, she needed to be closer, snaking her arms around his neck and rising on her toes.

  As if sensing her need, Grady slid his hands under her ass and hauled her up, separating her legs, fitting them on either side of his hips and holding her tight as he strode her over to the rug, lay her down, and showed her art came in many, many forms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Suzanne didn’t know what time it was when she woke to Grady stirring beside her and the lights blazing in the house.

  “Electricity’s back,” he said, rising to his feet.

  Suzanne squinted at the clock, battling the sudden assault to her pupils and the sticky cling of deep sleep fogging her brain. Just after eleven p.m. A little over twenty-four hours since Grady had come back to the cabin to wait out the storm. “Something’s different,” she murmured.

  “The wind. It’s stopped.”

  Suzanne blinked, tuning in to the sounds instead of the sights of tinsel and a butt-naked Grady. It was eerily quiet after the banshee howling that had been creeping her out. “You’re right.”

  The overhead lights suddenly flicked out, and Suzanne’s eyeballs relaxed. The lights around the windows went next, then the flash of the lights outside the cabin. All that remained was the red glow of coals from the fire and the tree lights blinking merrily, as if to celebrate the passing of the blizzard.

  It was so pretty, Suzanne’s heart ached with it. She’d always wanted this—the tree, the presents, the lights. It was like a Christmas trifecta. Add in the fire, the cabin, the snow, and the bittersweet ache of new love, and she’d hit the Yuletide jackpot.

  Grady went to the window near the tree and peered out. “It’s stopped snowing as well.”

  A sudden spike of alarm smashed through her romantic Christmas fantasy. “You’re not going out there in it now, are you?” Surely that was not advisable?

  He gave a half laugh. “No.” He strode back to her then, rejoining her on the rug, rolling on his side and propping one hand under his head, the other on her belly. “The guys are coming at six.”

  The spike crashed, and so did the surge of adrenaline, settling like an oily slick
in her stomach. “I guess there’s going to be a lot to do.”

  “Yes. But fingers crossed we prepared everything well enough and there’ll just be snow clearing and feeding.”

  She raised two sets of crossed fingers, and he smiled and kissed the fingertips of the closest. Suzanne’s breath hitched. Their time was almost over. The wind had been dreadful—a rabid beast yowling and moaning—but she’d have given anything right now to have it back. She ran her kissed fingertips through his stubble, over his lips, along his jaw to his ear and pushed them into his hair. He shut his eyes and angled his head and she massaged his scalp for a beat or two until his eyes opened and their gazes locked.

  “There’s one condom left,” he said, his voice low and husky.

  Winona had teased Suzanne once about the number of condoms she carried around, especially considering Suzanne had never used more than two when she’d been with a guy. But hell if she wasn’t coming out on top now.

  One condom. One last time. Because that’s what it would be. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. When he got up out of their makeshift bed in the morning, whatever had happened here would be over.

  Suzanne swallowed back the painful lump building in her throat. She would not dwell on tomorrow. She had tonight to be with the man she loved—to make love with the man she loved—and she’d take whatever she could get. “It would be a shame to see it go unused,” she replied.

  He grinned. “My thoughts exactly.” And lowered his mouth to hers.

  …

  A kiss on her shoulder woke Suzanne some time later. It was still dark outside, but it took about three seconds for her to remember that Grady was going back to work and the slick of nausea from last night made itself felt again. “I have to go,” he whispered.

  Suzanne nodded, pretending to be only half-awake even though her heart thudded painfully and every sense was on high alert. At least he wasn’t leaving without saying goodbye this time—that was something, right?

  Even if it felt horribly, horribly final. She’d known this interlude had only been temporary, known deep in her bones that as soon as he went back to work that he’d revert to the old Grady. But that didn’t make it any easier to face.

  “’Kay,” she murmured, feigning a sleepy smile. “Be careful out there.”

  “Of course.” Another brief kiss landed on her shoulder, and then he was gone.

  She waited for the sound of his footsteps to retreat before the first tear fell and a sob rose in her throat. She choked it back because Grady hadn’t left the cabin yet. He had to get dressed and grab something to eat, and she was going to have to lay here and pretend she was still asleep until he was gone. Hold it together like her heart wasn’t breaking in two and only when he left could she fall apart.

  Because she wouldn’t do it in front of a guy who could spend twenty-four hours in bed with her and walk away without any indication that it had meant anything at all.

  It was a long twenty minutes, but Suzanne did it. She listened to his footsteps retreat. To the sound of water running through pipes while he took a quick shower. To the sound of the fridge door opening and the smell of coffee brewing and bread toasting. She listened to the radio static as he turned it on low and then the trek of his feet over to where the painting still stood on its easel, counting the seconds until he trekked back to the kitchen again.

  Then the keys jingled as he pulled them off the hook on the wall, and several seconds later the door opened. Suzanne lay very still, hardly breathing as she waited for it to close. Waited and waited, the pressure building behind her eyes and in her sinuses.

  And for long moments she swore she could feel the weight of his gaze on her back and she stopped breathing altogether, her heart beating like a train. Until finally—finally—the door clicked shut and the dam burst.

  Suzanne allowed herself half an hour. One half hour before she picked herself up off the floor, literally and figuratively, and got on with the day. She needed to check on her parents. And clean up in here. Put the painting away. It was three days until Christmas, and she couldn’t spend them curled up in a fetal ball because she’d gone and done something monumentally stupid.

  There was cooking to be done and last-minute things to buy. She’d told Winona she’d go to the boardinghouse and help her with some table favors she wanted to make. Her mom had promised she’d give a talk at the old folks’ home. She had too much to do to feel sorry for herself.

  In the end, she only got twenty minutes into her pity party before being interrupted by the roar of an engine that sounded like it was bearing down on the cabin. Adrenaline surging, she sprang to her feet, dashing away tears as she dragged the duvet around her. Rushing to the window, she saw a huge yellow machine with a massive bucket clearing the snow between the cabin and the cottage. It was light enough to see that Grady was not the driver. Light enough for the driver to see her and give her a cheery wave.

  Stepping back from the window, she crossed to the kitchen and grabbed her phone where it had been charging on the bench, grateful to see the usual three bars indicating the network was up again. She dialed her mom, who picked up on the second ring.

  “Hey, Mom. Everything okay over there? How’d you guys do?”

  “Yes, darling, all good here. It was quite terrifying, though, wasn’t it? The howling was really very spooky.”

  “Yes.” It had been.

  “But it was good to have all that downtime. I’ve been so inspired since the ice-sculpting contest, I’ve been sketching up a storm. Angels, Suzanne. I have this most magnificent idea for an angel. I’m seeing angels in my sleep.”

  Oh no. Suzanne didn’t like the sound of that. She knew how her mom got when inspiration struck. How everything else became secondary. Including the man to whom she was married and supposedly trying to rekindle the flame.

  So much for taking advantage of the one bed and the romanticism of being snowed in. Her mother probably hadn’t looked up from her sketch pad.

  “That sounds a little too…Christmas for you.”

  “I know. Weird, isn’t it? Remind me to thank Grady—I think all the lights and tinsel must have rubbed off.”

  Suzanne blinked. Well…she certainly hadn’t seen that coming.

  “You guys want to come over for breakfast in a couple of hours? Actually, no… Let’s go to Annie’s.”

  Whether the diner or anything would be open in Credence this morning, Suzanne had no idea. Hell, maybe the roads were still closed. But she suddenly had cabin fever in this place where the rug she was staring at was a constant reminder of what had happened between her and Grady. And she would bet her father was feeling a little cottage fever, too.

  “Oh no, I’m just going to keep on sketching. But you and Albie should go.”

  A rumble of anger swept through Suzanne’s gut. Maybe if she hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes crying, she’d have taken her mother’s dismissal in stride. But her mom had a man who loved her and wanted to be with her—how dare she let anything come between that.

  Not to mention Grady and her were in this ridiculous situation so her Mom and Dad could work on their relationship.

  “Mom. No. Just no. We are going and you are coming with us—without your sketch pad.”

  “Suzanne.” Simone’s voice had that stubborn edge Suzanne knew all too well.

  “Mom,” she repeated. “You came to Credence to rekindle your relationship with Dad. You know, to avoid a divorce. Remember?”

  “Oh…” Simone’s voice sounded suddenly small, and Suzanne actually heard her swallow. “Yes. God, you’re right. I’m so sorry. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

  Yes, Suzanne almost snapped. But she hadn’t expected to cut through to her mother so easily, and the fact that Simone appeared to finally have some insight into her behavior tempered Suzanne’s response. “Yes,” she said gently.


  “Right, of course. Yes, let’s go to Annie’s. Your father will love it. And so will I.”

  “Good.” Suzanne nodded.

  She may not be able to get a positive relationship outcome for herself in all this mess, but she sure as hell was gunning for her parents.

  …

  The next three days passed in a blur of activity. The sun was out, and the skies were blue, and even though it was still cold, the mercury managed to rise above freezing and helped melt the two feet of snow the blizzard had dumped all over Credence. Suzanne kept her parents busy and together, with her mother’s full cooperation. They even agreed to Christmas karaoke.

  No one could get them up onstage, but the fact that they bore it in good spirits was welcome.

  Grady was absent, busy with the cleanup until well after dark. She waited up for him each night, but it was like their interlude had never happened and he’d reverted to the grunting man of few words she’d first known.

  She’d expected awkwardness and avoidance—that was what Grady did—but she hadn’t expected to be shut out. It hurt, Suzanne couldn’t deny that, and she wanted nothing more than to call him on his bullshit. But…he was beat. She could see that. And there’d been some stock loss, which he’d obviously taken hard. The last thing he needed was a nagging fake girlfriend whining about not getting any crumbs of his time.

  So she held her tongue.

  But it didn’t stop her stupid romantic heart from hoping he might come to her bed each night or her ears straining for his footfalls outside her door. Which was…pathetic. How could she even think about opening her legs for a guy who could barely spare her a word?

  Where was her pride, damn it?

  Christmas Eve was probably the worst night of all. Suzanne had cooked roast beef with sweet potatoes and green bean casserole and insisted they all watch It’s a Wonderful Life together because it was Grady’s favorite. She sincerely doubted it actually was—he seemed more of a John Wayne guy, maybe Rambo—but fake Christmas-loving Grady totally dug the film. Unfortunately, he didn’t get in until after it was over and her parents had left for the cottage.