That was the kind of near miss she could do without.

A sudden spike of irritation at Grady followed close on the heels of her relief. Yes, it was her fault for leaving the faucet on. And the plug in the sink. But damn it—why had the water gone off in the first place?

What kind of rental was this?

And how in the hell was she supposed to clean up so much water with the one lousy mop in the cottage? She didn’t know, but she bet Grady did, and this was his cottage, so he could damn well help.

With the residual slick of adrenaline settling into her bones, she stalked to the door, splashing all the way. Yanking it open, she yelled, “Grady! Grady!” too irrationally annoyed to even feel the slap of frigid air on her bare legs.

Suzanne didn’t need a mirror to know that her neck veins were probably sticking out. Hell, she wouldn’t be surprised if she suddenly turned green and burst out of her T-shirt. Her mother would be horrified by her lack of decorum. She didn’t care. Her paintings had almost been ruined, she wanted someone to rant at, and Joshua Grady was it.

“Get your ass over here now,” she hollered.

She had no idea if he was at the house or the barn or out pulling some other calf out of a bog somewhere, but she was pretty sure he’d be able to hear her even if he was at the ass-end of the ranch.

Leaving the door open, she spun away from it as she surveyed the situation. Hell…where did she even start? The decision was clarified as her gaze fell on Atlas.

With the paintings, dear Suzanne, dear Suzanne, dear Suzanne.

The paintings!!

Shit, Grady could not see these paintings! He wouldn’t understand. Hell, she didn’t understand.

Hearing the slam of a distant door, the adrenaline rapidly reformed, hitting her system like a charge from a cattle prod, and Suzanne leaped into action, sweeping the paintings up one by one, sloshing through water as she carried them into her bedroom and propped them against the walls. She swore she heard booted feet on the flagstones outside as she whisked Atlas off the easel and made the last dash to her room.

…

Grady squared his shoulders as he glared at the open cottage door, bracing himself for entry. Not because he was worried or scared of whatever it was the damn fool woman was screaming her lungs out over. It was probably some poor spider she’d already scared half to death by her hollering. No, he was bracing himself for impact. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the other day in the mudroom—or dreaming about it, for that matter—and, after another restless night, he was tired and irritated and not feeling too disposed toward Suzanne fucking St. Michelle right now.

Hell, if she’d yelled fifteen minutes from now, he’d have been gone for the day, and she’d have had to deal with her own damn spider.