“Fine,” she acquiesced. “I’ll take it.”

“Fine.”

“So…that’s a yes? You’ll help me with Operation Hokiest Christmas Ever?”

“It is. But I want a painting now. As a down payment.”

Suzanne blinked. What the? “You think I’m going to renege on the deal?” Giving him those paintings was a necessary evil, a means to an end that would probably kill her, but she’d never go back on her word. She just hoped she wasn’t giving him a piece of her muse, too.

“Consider it a sign of good faith.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s your sign of good faith? For all I know, you’ll be lousy at faking it.”

He regarded her for long moments before picking up his wine, downing the other half, and striding around to her side of the bench. Suzanne’s breath quickened as he got closer and closer, his sweats hiding none of the power of those quads, his gaze on her mouth utterly intent. She backed up a couple of steps as he closed the gap between them, her heart beating a wild tango.

Suzanne placed a hand on his chest as he stepped into her space. She meant to hold him back—she honestly did—but that T-shirt really was as soft as it looked, and the same hungry gleam she’d seen in his eyes earlier basked her in heat. An answering heat unfurled inside her as she curled her fist in his shirt.

“Grady?” she whispered, her pulse loud in her ears.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, as if unsure where to put his hands, and she knew, with sudden clarity, he was going to kiss her. And she panicked.

“That’s not necces—”

The swift lowering of his mouth cut her off, and her eyes rounded as she looked at him, disconcerted to find him watching her, too. His lips were stiff and mostly closed and completely immobile, like he was out of practice. Or really sucked at it. And Suzanne held herself still and awkward in his arms and waited for it to be over.

But then, bit by bit, the timber of the kiss changed. His lips softened, his body relaxed, and he breathed out a little roughly; then his eyes fluttered closed and a strangled kind of groan came from somewhere deep inside his throat. The kind of groan that made her think maybe he didn’t suck after all.

It was the groan that was Suzanne’s undoing.

It opened up her senses, tapping into the taste and the smell and the touch of him. Wood smoke and red wine and the buzz of electricity just beneath her skin morphed her response from awkward to tentative, and she closed her eyes as his hands slid to her hips, pulling her up onto her toes, hitching her closer, and hers slid around his neck.

Their chests bumped together, their hips bumped together, and suddenly his mouth was all the right kinds of hard and soft, deep and wet, and when his tongue dipped inside her mouth and stroked along hers, it was Suzanne’s turn to make some nonsensical noise in the back of her throat, somewhere between a moan and a whimper.