Once again, he hadn’t even paused to give it any thought. It was like he had a mental list he was keeping numbered in importance from one to five. Suzanne opened her mouth to protest—David was special. David was the painting that had started it all. But ultimately she supposed it didn’t really matter. In a couple of weeks, none of them would belong to her anymore.

Her muse, who’d been ignored ever since her mom had announced she was coming to Credence, curled up a little bit more inside.

Sad and hurt and frustrated at the prospect, she turned on her heel and stormed out of his room. Marching to the end of the hallway, she strode into her room, grabbed the canvas, and marched all the way back to Grady’s. He’d used the time to pull on a shirt, but that barely registered as she propped the painting against the wall.

“Satisfied?”

He crossed to it, inspecting it for long moments. Suzanne couldn’t look. It was like a knife through her soul, and she blinked hard to dispel the prick of tears as he said, “Thank you.”

She thrust the article of clothing at him. “Put on the damn sweater.”

Thankfully, he shoved it over his head without any further ado, and she didn’t stick around for any more commentary, just headed for the door. “They’ll be here any minute,” she tossed over her shoulder.

He didn’t reply, and she stopped in the doorway, turning to check that he’d heard to find him wincing down at the sweater. He lifted his head and grimaced in her direction. “Don’t even think I’m wearing any of these into Credence, Suzy.”

“What?” she said, injecting sweetness and sarcasm into her tone. “And pass up the opportunity to screw me out of another painting?”

He snorted. “You could offer me a blow job to wear this into town and the answer would still be no.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Grady that even if his life depended on her sucking poison out of it, she wouldn’t put her mouth anywhere near his dick. But the truth was, she’d spent most of last night fantasizing about blowing him anyway and, as un-feminist as it was, performing a sexual act on him would probably take far less out of her soul than parting with her paintings.

“Your loss,” she said with a shrug because he looked entirely too sure of himself right now, and she was damned if he was going to have the last word. “I give excellent blow jobs.”

Then she slipped out of his room.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven