“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.”