His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, and there was a spark of irritation in his gaze as he shot her a phony, overly bright smile. Her gaze automatically zeroed in on the slightly reddened area of his bottom lip where she’d nipped him. It stood out like a beacon to her, but if her parents had noticed it, they hadn’t said.

“Well, as Uncle Burl says, Suzy, it’s not Christmas until we’re giving the horses seizures.” He laughed, but his eyes did not. “You don’t think it’s too much, do you?”

“Oh no, absolutely not,” she enthused, shooting laser beams at him from her fake goo-goo eyes. “It’s perfect.”

He reached across and gave her hand a very firm squeeze. “I’m so thrilled you love it. There’ll never be another Christmas like this.”

The double message behind his words was clear as he withdrew his hand. And, despite the undercurrent of hostility that had flared between them again, Suzanne couldn’t help but think how sad that was—for both of them.

…

Her parents came to the cabin for dinner and left just after seven as the first light drift of snow was falling. Grady promptly disappeared through the archway, too. Suzanne assumed he was doing work in his office, but two hours and four batches of cookies later, she figured he’d gone to bed. A fact that seemed to be confirmed when there’d been no strip of light under the office door as she’d passed by twenty minutes earlier to have a quick shower while the cookies cooled.

She didn’t usually frost cookies at nine at night. Hell, she couldn’t even remember the last time she had frosted cookies prior to today. But the two movies she and Grady had watched seemed to make a big deal out of Christmas cookies, and the batches she’d made earlier with her parents had been a bit of a hit. Despite her mom’s initial resistance, citing the perils of butter and refined sugar, she’d really gotten into the frosting side of things.

Her father had not been wrong when he’d said they’d have cookie masterpieces. Simone’s renowned artistic flair was evident even with cheap tubes of frosting.

And now it was Suzanne’s turn, because it was this or go to bed, and it was way too early for that. She would only lie awake for hours, and that was not a good idea when her head was full of Grady. For the first time in her life, despite the coziness of the fire and the low murmur of traditional Christmas carols from her playlist and the absolute delight of the twinkling tree, she wished she didn’t prefer the night hours. It was hardly conducive to ranch life when everything was about early to bed, early to rise.

She’d never make it as a rancher’s wife.