The distant sound of a car engine coming down the drive broke the impasse between man and turtle, galvanizing Grady into action. He turned off all the lights, crammed two cookies into his mouth and his feet into his boots. Grabbing his hat and his coat, he stepped outside into the pitch-black of a freezing Colorado morning, making his way to the barn as he pushed all thoughts of the warm bed and the even warmer woman he’d left behind from his mind.

…

To say Suzanne was distracted later that morning was an understatement. She’d been able to think of little else but her nighttime tryst since she’d woken at seven. All alone. She had no idea when he’d slipped out of bed—she certainly hadn’t felt him leave. Although she’d slept so deeply, she doubted she’d have felt a twister touch down. But his side of the bed had been cold, which meant he’d been gone for a while.

So…how long had he stayed? Had he just been pretending to sleep, waiting for her to nod off so he could leave as soon as possible? Had it been half an hour? An hour? Or had he stayed longer?

Had he stayed all night?

And if so, what had he thought when he’d woken? The same as her? Holy shit? And what have we done? And why do things so damn bad always feel so good?

Because it had been so very good.

Suzanne had had her fair share of good, so she felt she was a reasonable judge. But Joshua Grady, who walked around like he didn’t need any kind of human connection and admitted that he didn’t do this all that regularly, may just have been the best she’d ever had.

“Don’t you think, darling?”

Her mother’s inquiry dragged Suzanne out of her head. “Hmm?” She frowned. “Sorry, I…checked out there for a moment.”

In truth, Suzanne hadn’t heard a word of the conversation going on between her parents and Winona since they’d entered Déjà Brew for one of Jenny Carter’s sinfully good pumpkin spice lattes. It was seriously as good, if not better, than anything you could find in New York.

Jenny had apparently come to town with the other women in summer and had fallen in love with Wyatt Carter, who just happened to be the brother of Wade Carter—famed ex-quarterback for the Denver Broncos. She’d brought her five-year-old son, Henry, with her and set up Credence’s first-ever coffee shop.

“That Renoir you painted for that private client in upstate New York is your best work to date.”

“Oh.” Suzanne had to shake away the sticky web of unhelpful images in her head that had nothing to do with Renoir before she could even recall that particular commission. “Yes, I think you’re right.”