Or when he discovered the cherub painting propped against the wall in his bedroom.

Grady didn’t say anything as they left; in fact, Suzanne wasn’t sure he even noticed as he turned in slow circles, taking in the full festive purgatory of it all. It was probably best to just slip out anyway—he needed time to get used to his new surroundings, and she’d be here with him soon enough…

…

The next evening, washing up in the mudroom, Grady winced at the lights twinkling from the cabin. They’d greeted him from a mile away like Santa’s fucking lighthouse as he’d driven in from the eastern boundary. But the normal house lights were on, too, which could only mean that Suzanne was inside.

Probably committing god knew what sin against Christmas in his cabin.

He’d been worried that having all those decorations in his place would bring back memories of long-ago Christmases. Ones he’d locked in a box inside his head marked do not open. He needn’t have worried. Suzanne’s unholy Christmas horror show was more the stuff of nightmares than fond memories.

And he was right in the middle of it all.

This morning, after lifting the snowman lid on his toilet, he’d had to literally sit on Santa’s face to take a dump—a fact he would take to his grave. And this time tomorrow night, he’d be meeting her parents. Who thought he and Suzanne were shacked up and doing the wild thing.

Jesus. He must be getting soft in his old age. He was still pissed about the paintings but somehow, he’d agreed to a fake relationship. And it wasn’t because of the paintings—although seeing the cherub waiting for him in his room last night had been surprisingly gratifying—it’d been the way she’d said, They’re my parents, Joshua.

That right there had stuck a claw in his gut and twisted. He’d give anything to still have his parents alive and, had they been, he’d have wanted them to still be together, too.

Unwittingly, Suzanne St. Michelle had found his Achilles’ heel.

Fuck. Why did it have to be Christmas? Any other time, he could have had some degree of separation from the emotion in her appeal, but this season always stirred up some pretty fucked-up memories. Which was why he hadn’t wanted her here in the first place and why he was certain it wasn’t going to end well.

Ever since Suzanne had pulled up in her ridiculous Mystery Van—not even two weeks ago—he’d felt like a bomb had been thrown into his very neat and ordered existence, and it made his skin itch just thinking about it. Grady knew all about explosions—real and metaphorical. In one way or another, they’d defined his life. It’d just taken him to the grand old age of thirty-five to realize that explosions could be made from sugar and spice and all things nice.

They could be made from green woolen hats and red coats. From ridiculously unsuitable Ugg boots and a smudge of blue paint on a forehead. From the soft press of breasts and the erotic push of fingers into the hair at his nape. From the trace of red wine on lips to the sound of breathy whimpers at the back of a throat.