He shook his head slowly, the working of his jaw visible across the distance. “Nope.” Then his eyes took an inventory of what she was wearing—baggy plaid fleece pajama pants and a thin navy T-shirt with a V-neck and tiny navy buttons that ran all the way down the front to the hem. The buttons pulled a little at her cleavage, and Suzanne thanked God she’d decided to wear a bra beneath her pajama shirt—just in case.

For a beat or two, she thought he was going to turn around and go back to wherever the hell he’d been hiding. But the moment passed, and he moved toward the kitchen instead, saying, “We need more cookies?”

No, they had enough cookies to feed all of eastern Colorado, but she had to do something. “I’m making some for Winona. We give each other a fun, gimmicky gift every year so I thought, in the spirit of hokiest Christmas ever, why not?”

She didn’t mention the cookies were more risqué than hokey. Not the type you could put out for Christmas day, although no doubt Winona would.

Conscious of Grady’s every move as he stepped into the kitchen area, she took a quick swallow of her wine and went back to the frosting, hoping he’d grab whatever he’d come for and leave again, although he didn’t seem to be in any crashing hurry to do so. He crossed to the cupboard where the glasses lived, then headed for the sink. She heard the faucet turn on and the sound of running water into the glass seemed extraordinarily loud. A beat or two later, the hair on Suzanne’s nape stood to attention as she sensed a heated gaze fixed firmly on her ass.

Crap, she squeezed her butt cheeks together. Plaid was not a flattering pattern if you had an ass like hers, especially with them being so baggy. Stripes—why didn’t she bring her stripy pajamas?

“It smells good in here.” His voice was all low and rumbly. “May I have one?”

Suzanne shut her eyes at his low request, knowing it would be a particular kind of torture watching him eat cookies lounging in his pajamas. With bare feet. Maybe crumbs on his lips.

He didn’t wait for permission, and the hairs on her neck actually prickled as he sidled up. His arm, his shoulder, his hip were about an inch from hers, and the warmth radiating from his body was like a furnace. She was excruciatingly conscious of him—of his heat and his hardness and the heady aroma of his soap. Hell, she was conscious of his breathing.

His big hand slid out to snaffle a cookie but paused halfway to the tray. “What the hell?”

Suzanne was confused for a second, so caught up in her awareness of him that she’d temporarily forgotten what she’d been frosting.