She’d depicted so much that he’d missed. His pain. His suffering. His healing. Sure, he looked well laid, but that was just part of it. She’d captured his love for her, right there in his face. Love he hadn’t even been aware of at that point. And even more than that, there was her love for him, so obvious in every brushstroke, every nuance of his expression. She’d endowed the portrait with her feelings for him, and now that he could see it, the painting practically glowed with love.

She loved him. Suzanne St. Michelle loved him. And that’s why she’d left the portrait. She was telling him through her art what she hadn’t been able to tell him to his face because he’d been so fucking implacable.

Grady sat on the bed as a rush of emotion almost took his knees out from under him. Burl was right; loving Suzanne wasn’t going to stop or go away because it hurt him too much to contemplate. And ignoring it, choosing to have nothing to do with her, wasn’t going to shield him from the deep abyss of grief if, god forbid, something terrible did happen to her. He was in love with her, and it was going to hurt to lose her whether he was with her or not.

So he had a choice to make. Be happy with her, make a life with her for however long they might have together. Or be alone and miserable.

And fucking word it was time to stop being miserable.

Grady stood, his lungs suddenly too big for his chest. He had to go to Annie’s and hope like hell he hadn’t ruined any chance he had with Suzanne. Yes, even if that meant doing it in front of the whole damn town. In fact, it was probably better if he did. Public spectacles weren’t his thing, but the town was going to know soon enough, so they might as well hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.

Although horse’s ass was probably a more apt description.

Grady’s brain scrambled as he headed for his bedroom door and briskly walked through the cabin, grabbing the keys off the hook, his heart pumping in anticipation and terror. He stalled as he reached the back door, a sudden thought stopping him in his tracks.

He’d screwed up big-time—pushing her away like that. So he had to make it up to her big-time. Prove that he meant what he said, and for that he needed the portrait. And a dumb Christmas sweater.

…