“I guess I could just…paint more.” It seemed so simple. Too simple. But maybe it would work. Maybe leaving Credence was admitting defeat, and why was she giving up so damn easily without putting everything on the table first?

God knew her muse was already buzzing at the prospect.

“Hell yeah you could,” Winona agreed.

Suzanne stood, her heart rate picking up as the now-familiar flow of creative energy pulsed like a life force from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. “I could even start now.”

Her mother also stood. “I can prep canvases.”

Albie stood. “I’ll grab your stuff out of the van.”

“And I’ll keep your glass and belly full and remind you to shower once a day,” Winona offered.

Suzanne felt excited and jittery and like bursting into tears all at once. She had no idea if any of this was going to make a dent in Grady’s armor whatsoever, but she was fired up enough to give it one more try. “Thank you,” she whispered as she gathered her three coconspirators in for a group hug. “Thank you for the pep talk.”

She just hoped it worked.

…

Reminiscent of her first days in Credence, Suzanne painted for three days solid. The sun shined and the snow melted outside and her parents canceled their flights and moved out to a hotel on the interstate they would never normally be caught dead in, so they could stay on and help. She produced nine portraits of Grady in all his many-splendored forms—the surly rancher, the reluctant nephew, the reclusive loner, the generous lover.

They were less detailed and half the size of the others and also he was dressed because this wasn’t an exercise in trying to embarrass him—it was a proclamation. Suzanne, wearing her heart on her sleeve and proclaiming her love for Joshua Grady to everyone in Credence.

He’d wanted to keep their fake relationship a secret from the town because he hadn’t wanted to be the subject of gossip or pity when she’d gone back to New York and, three weeks ago, that had been fair enough. But things had changed. She’d fallen in love with him, and she didn’t want to keep that quiet. She wanted the whole damn world to know.

And it started with these paintings.

Every expression she’d seen flit across Grady’s face was there. His pain and his anguish. His steely concentration and his frustrating recalcitrance. His amusement. His desire. The gentleness in his eyes when he’d assured her about the portrait, the muted grief she’d seen when he’d talked about his parents, and his torment as he’d admitted his love for his aunt and uncle. The tilt of his mouth when he was relaxed in sleep and his intensity just before he kissed her.