Thankfully she didn’t talk anymore—no more questions or inane observations—she just took the two paces to the stairs and headed down. Maybe she’d used up her quota of words for the day, too? The thought cheered him as he followed behind her, his gaze looking anywhere but at the swing of her ass.

…

Van Gogh’s wet dream? What the hell, Suzanne?

She cringed. But she’d always been the same when she was nervous, even as a kid. Filling silences with pointless chatter. And Cowboy Surly or Rancher Surly had gotten the full verbal-diarrhea treatment.

As soon as she was done unpacking, she was calling Winona to demand an explanation. Her friend, who’d come to Credence after the first single-women campaign had gone viral and decided to stay, had convinced Suzanne a change of scenery would be good for her muse and, god knew, a Christmas away from her parents’ sterile, minimalist brownstone had been too good to pass up. Hell, she would have visited Winona on Mars. But her friend really should have warned her about Grady.

Suzanne wasn’t used to speak-as-little-as-possible-while-looking-all-sexy-and-brooding men. Men in jeans with hats and big-ass belt buckles who had rough hands and looked like they knew how to chop down a tree, ride a bull, deliver a calf, light a fire, and build a rudimentary shelter.

All before breakfast.

Men with rugged faces and beautiful lips, who looked like they’d forgotten more things about the birds and the bees than she’d ever learned.

She was going to need a handbook for Grady, and hopefully Winona had a copy.

But Winona had been right about one thing. Her muse was definitely stirring. It had crept up on her as she’d stared out over the field at the grazing horses. That itch, that…compulsion to put the scene down on canvas. To memorialize it in oil. And it had positively slammed into her like a sledgehammer as her gaze had connected with Joshua Grady.

Everything, from the way his height and breadth had dominated the porch, to the squareness of his jaw, the worn leather of his boots, and that shiny belt buckle riding low between his hips, had been inspirational. Suzanne hadn’t painted anything original in well over a decade, but those first few seconds she’d clapped eyes on Grady had been an epiphany.

Now there was a subject to paint.

It was as if the heavens had opened and glories had streamed down and a giant hand with an extended index finger had pointed at Grady and whispered, “Him,” in Suzanne’s ear.

The prospect had been equal parts titillating and terrifying because landscapes were easy, portraits not so much, and she hadn’t been able to decide whether to throw up or run away and hide.

The universe, however, had delivered verbal diarrhea.

Pulling her trusty old transport van up outside the cottage, Suzanne slipped out of the car as Grady was stomping his feet on the welcome mat and taking off his hat. Opening the door, he said, “Ma’am,” indicating that she should precede him.