‘I know,’ she replied ruefully. ‘He’s your brother and you love him. It’s me who has the problem. I’m making difficulties between you and now I might be making difficulties in his marriage.’

‘All unwittingly,’ he reminded her. ‘You don’t think you’ll ever forgive him?’ he asked tentatively.

‘I wish people wouldn’t ask that.’ She knew she sounded fretful but she also felt a rat because she knew forgiving Mac would make things easier for Grady. ‘It’s not a choice. I could say I forgive him but that would never change what I feel inside.’

‘I get that,’ he whispered, laying his cheek against her hair.

She became aware of the way their bodies touched, and his firm thighs beneath his jeans gave her thoughts a new direction. Should she really let bloody Mac Cassidy sour things between her and Grady? Things that could make her feel as giddy as a lovestruck teenager? She gave an experimental wriggle. ‘Are you inviting me to your bed tonight?’ She tipped her head back to kiss his jaw.

‘You bet,’ he said, with a hint of surprise but a host of alacrity.

They made love that night gently and tenderly, as if Grady felt Laurel needed comforting. It was comforting, and blissful and exciting. But the spectre of Mac coming between them made it hard for Laurel to slide into sleep afterwards, even warm and sated, nestled into Grady’s arms.

She must have slumbered eventually, though, because suddenly she was struggling against arms that pinioned her. Gasping, thrashing, sweating, she pleaded, ‘No, no! Stop!’

Then Grady’s voice came into the half-light of waking and the hands upon her were no longer clawing but gentle and soothing. ‘Laurel. Laurel? Laurel, it’s OK. You’re dreaming. You can wake up. You’re safe. It’s a nightmare.’

Laurel surfaced with a gasp and a thump from her wildly beating heart. Shit. The nightmare. She wasn’t fighting off bullies on an icy December night but safe in Grady’s bed in dear little Mistletoe Cottage.

She burst into tears.

Grady gathered her up, stroking her back, kissing her hair. ‘Hey, hey. I’ve got you. That must have been some bad dream.’

When she could control herself, she sank wearily against him. ‘Sorry I woke you.’

He stroked her back. ‘It’s not a prob—’ He halted. Tensed. ‘Was the nightmare about what happened to you?’ Dread tinged his voice.

She nodded. Part of her wanted to turn on the bedside lamp and vanquish the lingering tentacles of the dream along with the darkness, but she didn’t want to see Grady and the dismay that laced his voice reflecting in his eyes.

He groaned, letting his head rest upon hers. ‘I wish I’d been there with you that night.’

‘Me, too. But wishing doesn’t change a thing.’ She let go of him and began to swing her legs out from under the duvet. ‘I think I’d better go home.’