But she had. She now had a rancher boyfriend she was living with in what she’d pretty much painted as Santa’s freaking grotto.

“Mom, I don’t think—”

“Please, Suzanne,” her mother cut in, her voice equal parts urgent and desperate. “I promise I won’t disparage the way your rancher chooses to celebrate Christmas. I would never embarrass you like that, darling. Whatever he wants to do, I’ll be fully involved. I’m willing to try anything because we need this, and I…don’t know what else to do.”

God… Suzanne swallowed. How was she supposed to say no to that? This was her mom, who never asked her for anything. Her parents. Who loved each other. Were good for each other. Who belonged together.

It wasn’t her mother’s fault that Suzanne had dug herself a great big hole that couldn’t be refilled without getting a lot of mud in her face. Crap… There was no way she could say no to her mother when the stakes were so high. “Of course,” she said on a loud exhale of air. “Grady and I would love to have you.” Then she shut her eyes and waited for a lightning bolt to blast through the roof and fry her to a pulp.

None was forthcoming.

Her mother gave a little, rather undignified (for her) whoop, and Suzanne blinked. “I’ll book flights now and text you the details.”

The phone cut off in her ear, and Suzanne flopped back against the mattress, pulling the covers over her head again as she curled her legs into her chest and disappeared into her cocoon of what-the-fuckery to contemplate all the ways Grady could kill her out here where no one could hear her scream.

…

At just after five o’clock that night, Suzanne walked along the path that connected the cottage to the cabin. It was dark already, the sun having finally slipped below the horizon a half hour ago, and the air was frigid, a constant puff of steam misting into the air from her mouth. Thankfully it was lit enough by the moon to navigate the path without assistance from a flashlight.

In one hand, Suzanne carried a bottle of red wine—a nice one she’d brought with her from New York—in the other, a bowl containing the warm pasta dish she’d cooked earlier. Just because she mostly lived on two-minute noodles and Oreos when she was painting didn’t mean Suzanne couldn’t cook. In fact, she very much enjoyed the process as long as she had time on her hands, because cooking was a kind of art, too, and all art should be lingered over.

But today, with her muse rocking in a corner somewhere, she’d had plenty of time and the ingredients to make her penne arrabbiata or, as she’d coined it, Suzanne’s Ass-kissing Pasta. It was quick and simple and smelled delicious with the handfuls of basil leaves she’d thrown in, and her stomach grumbled as she stood on Grady’s back porch and knocked on the door.