No way in hell was her mom inviting herself to the ranch on the promise she’d be fully involved in Grady’s (nonexistent) seasonal fervor and then weaseling out right at the start. Her mom had messed up Suzanne’s Christmas plans by practically begging her for this break away, for a chance to work on her marriage, and that started tonight with them both doing something they’d never done together.

Terrible ornaments or not, few things underscored the sense of family more than all being gathered around a Christmas tree. Or so she’d been told.

“Grady will be terribly disappointed if you don’t. He’s been looking forward to it. He even made a playlist for it. This is what families do at Christmas, Mom.”

Suzanne didn’t say and you promised. She didn’t need to; the emphasis in her voice made it obvious enough. Which probably made her a lousy daughter, but Suzanne was in a tough spot—albeit of her own making. She was trying to help her parents and get the Christmas she wanted all while operating within the parameters of her lie.

She felt like she was juggling boiling hot kettles.

“Of course we’ll be here,” her father said with a strained smile. “Won’t we, Simone?”

“Yes.” Her mother brightened. “We’d love to.”

“Good.”

Suzanne beamed at her parents like it was the best damn thing she’d ever heard. Man, this was exhausting. Her parents had better have this patched up sooner rather than later because this act she was putting on was bonkers.

“Now, come and see the cottage. You’ll be pleased to know I stopped Grady from going overboard in there. He did insist on a tree, but it’s only a couple of feet high and one of those fake ones you seem to like so much. Trust me, for him, it’s understated.”

Her parents exchanged a glance like they weren’t sure Grady had understated in his vocabulary. Poor guy, she really owed him big-time. But then she remembered he was getting her paintings—her priceless paintings—so it was a fair trade.

“Excellent,” her father said, gesturing toward the door. “Lead the way.”

They’d completed the tour of the cottage—Suzanne had insisted her parents kiss in that doorway, too, which had been just as lackluster—and were stepping outside to grab the luggage from the car her father had brought around when Grady appeared. He strode toward them from the direction of the barn, his big coat buttoned up, his hat pulled low, and his boots eating up the ground. His shoulders were squared like their predicament was a problem he was tackling head-on and, even from a distance, his cool green gaze pinned her to the spot.

Suzanne’s stomach gave a lurch. Nerves. Just nerves. Not the memory of what they’d done last night.