He didn’t bother to greet anyone. He just said, “I missed you so much, I couldn’t wait to see you,” forcing a lightness to both his voice and step he did not feel as he advanced.

He wanted to growl at her, wanted to fucking stomp.

Her parents smiled at him indulgently. Her mother was holding a bag of frosting, her father a tree-shaped cookie cutter, but neither of them held his attention as he closed in on her, their gazes meshing. God alone knew what was sparking in his eyes, but whatever it was, she read it well. Her big blue eyes widened slightly, her pupils dilated.

“We’re making Christmas cookies,” she said, and the low, raspy quality in her voice scraped along Grady’s nerve endings.

“Suzanne says they’re your favorites,” Simone added.

Grady didn’t bother responding to either of them. He was rounding the bench now and she was right there, in reaching distance, turning to face him in a yellow shirt that hugged her curves like a fucking glove, her hip pressed into the bench. He didn’t stop to think about what he did next, just stepped right into her space and slid his hands up her arms to her shoulders. Her breathing tumbled out all rough and choppy between them. So did his. She swallowed, and he could feel it all the way down to the V of muscle slung between his hips.

He’d come in here to confront her about the girlfriend thing, and she was smiling and looking good and smelling like fucking cookies, and the devil was riding him, whipping up his pulse and his libido, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to yell at her or lay her on the bench and bury himself inside her.

Jesus, he’d never known this maddening push and pull with a woman. Bethany had been sweet and lovely, and every other woman he’d been with since had been more than happy to let him lead.

This woman… God. This woman was so damn infuriating. Why did he have to want her so fucking badly?

“Grady?” she whispered, her voice husky and uncertain.

“Mistletoe,” he said, thanking all the sweet, sweet angels that Suzanne had gone mistletoe mad.

Then he lowered his head and crushed his mouth to hers. She gave a startled little “Oh!” but it got lost in the hard press of his lips and the sweep of his tongue as he swallowed her all up—the sugar, the vanilla, the spice. Her cookie dough lips. He kissed her like they were the only two people in the room, the rush of his blood through his head and the lash of heat in his veins a roaring, snapping imperative. He kissed her until she melted against him and made a sexy little noise in the back of her throat.

“He sure wasn’t joking about missing you.”