Suzanne blinked as his tongue swiped at the moisture on his bottom lip. Will that do? She doubted she’d ever been kissed that well in her life. Sure, she’d had some great kisses, but this one? This one was like the Van freaking Gogh of kisses. Pulling herself back from the wackiness of that thought, she tried to get back on track. What had they been talking about? Oh yes, that’s right, faking it.

If that was Grady faking it, she’d like to be the lucky woman who got the real deal.

She stared at him, her thoughts still in disarray, her pulse still booming so loud in her ears, she couldn’t even hear herself think. Her brain was scrambled, her ovaries were cooked, and thank god for the bench or she’d have slid boneless to the floor.

Still too stupefied for conversation or any kind of deep analysis, Suzanne simply said, “Which one do you want?”

“The cherub.”

Suzanne frowned at his quick-fire response. She expected him to not care or tell her to just grab the one that was closest, but he’d been very sure about his choice. “What’s wrong with the cherub?”

“You painted my head on a baby. With wings.”

“Okay.” Whatever. It didn’t really matter, she supposed as her brain started to power up again and the endgame came back into sight. “Fine. I’ll bring it over in the morning. I’ll be in and out of here the next couple of days decorating.”

He winced. “When you say decorating, what do you mean exactly?”

“I pretty much made my mother believe your cabin is where they film all Hallmark movies.”

“Great.” His wince deepened. “Just how schmaltzy is it going to be?”

Suzanne didn’t happen to think there was anything wrong with some cheesy seasonal exuberance—it was Christmas, for crying out loud. “The full schmaltz. We make it extra schmaltzy here with hardly anything at the cottage. The more we Christmas it up here, the more likely they are to want to spend time away from it. In the cottage. Where there’s only one bed.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

“Do you have a spare key so I can get in and out?”

She couldn’t quite believe they were casually talking about the logistics of her parental marriage intervention like that kiss hadn’t occurred. She could still taste him, still smell the wood smoke caught in his hair, still feel the wild skip in her pulse, and yet she was talking tree trimming and keys.

Was he as poleaxed as her behind that inscrutable expression? Was his body still thrumming with the out-of-control mix of heat and happy hormones despite the return of his surly facade?

He glanced at her hand. “You’re not in New York, Dorothy. We’re in bumfuck Egypt. Nobody locks their doors.”