But she hadn’t.

Dropping his head from side to side, Grady stretched out his traps, psyching himself up for the encounter. Deep breath…here goes nothing.

Stepping through the doorway, Grady noticed two things. The enveloping warmth of the cottage that almost made him sigh in relief after even a brief sojourn out in the frigid air.

And the splash of water.

Puzzled, he glanced down at his boots and the puddle of water surrounding them. Puddle?

Glancing farther afield, he realized it was more than a puddle—a fact confirmed by the watery gray sunlight illuminating the large window opposite where an empty easel stood. Light reflected off the watery surface, and Grady realized it was everywhere.

What the ever-loving fuck?

A noise to his left drew his gaze as Suzanne appeared from the bedroom, pulling the door shut. Her face was flushed, and there was a smudge of blue paint on her forehead that was distracting as all fuck. He almost missed the mix of emotions playing across her face and reflecting in her blue eyes. Panic, distress, irritation, and, if he wasn’t very much mistaken, guilt.

What had she done?

But that thought barely got out of the starting gates as his gaze widened to encompass all of her and any sense of rational thought fled. Her hair was in disarray all round her head, and he was pretty sure she had some streaks of paint in that, too. Even more distracting was her T-shirt boasting a Columbia University logo and no bra.

Yep—blue paint? What blue paint?

Grady didn’t like to brag, but he’d been a champion no-bra detector in high school. It wasn’t exactly something he’d put on his résumé now, but what could he say? He’d been fifteen and horny and obsessed with boobs.

Ascertaining whether or not a woman was wearing a bra at one glance had been his superpower. And Suzanne was very much not.

She was also sans pants, her legs bare, her T-shirt just skimming the tops of her thighs, which were full and lush, following on from the curvy line of her hips.

Like one of those old fashioned pinup girls.

Christ. He swallowed. It was like the universe had decided this was to be his Christmas of temptation, peered inside his head, and produced a woman to his exact specifications.

Merry fucking Christmas, dude.

“You should have warned me I was going to need rain boots,” he said.

Grady blinked. He had no idea where that had come from. What he should have said was, What the ever-loving fuck, lady—you flooded my cottage. It was what he’d planned on saying when he’d opened his mouth. But apparently you didn’t have to be a horny teenager for no-bra to make you stupid.

She blinked, too, apparently as taken aback as he was. Fuck. Get it together, doofus.

“What in the hell happened?” he demanded. Better. Much better. Finally his testicles had dropped.

“The water went out.”

Grady raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like it.”