Riding Dirty for Christmas (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 1

Eden

I drag my Louis Vuitton carry-on across the snow dusted porch boards, stopping dead at what can only be described as Christmas throwing up all over my childhood home. Twice.

The house I grew up in—once a tasteful colonial with subtle white trim—now screams “North Pole meets Vegas” with enough wattage to power lower Manhattan.

A chorus line of light-up reindeer kick their legs in synchronized motion. Icicle lights drip from every surface, and... is that a rotating disco ball Santa?

The entire display would make the Bergdorf's window decorators weep.

“What have you done?” I mutter, fishing for my key while mentally calculating the electric bill.

The key twists in the lock, and I step into the foyer. Fake evergreen branches wrapped in twinkling lights snake across every doorway and banister, and instead of Mom's carefully curated lavender sanctuary, the house reeks of synthetic pine and dollar-store cinnamon—like Christmas came in a can and exploded.

My mother—who once insisted on white lights only, arranged with mathematical precision—has apparently transformed into Clark Griswold's spirit sister.

My suitcase slides into a corner as my gaze sweeps the room. Everything screams midlife crisis, from the tacky tinsel wreaths to the life-sized cardboard elves. This isn't my mother's aesthetic. This isn't my mother at all.

I came here with a mission: stop this ridiculous wedding. But first, I need to actually find the bride-to-be.

“Hello?” I call into the house, my voice echoing down the empty hall. “Mom?”

There's no Food Network blaring from the kitchen TV. No wind chimes tinkling from the porch. Not even the hum of the essential oil diffuser in Mom's meditation corner.

This is weird.

I check my phone again. No messages from Mom. Just three urgent notifications from my design team about the spring collection.

The showroom needs my approval on fabric swatches by tomorrow, and an influential client is demanding changes to their custom pieces.

I drop my keys and drink a glass of water before making my way to the mudroom. A heavy canvas Carhartt hangs on the antique coat rack where Mom's delicate Burberry trench coat should be. It's worn at the elbows, rugged, distinctly masculine. Size XL.

So this is the guy. I run my fingers along the rough sleeve of the coat. My gaze drops to the floor. Muddy work boots sit beside Mom's neat row of yoga shoes and designer sneakers.

I circle the boots like they might bite. Size 13. Steel-toed. Caked with dried dirt, tracking debris onto the pristine hardwood Mom obsessively maintains—or used to maintain.

Nothing like Dad's polished oxfords that used to occupy this space.

The gallery wall of photos still lines the hallway, but new frames have appeared with pictures I don't recognize.

I step closer, squinting at an image of Mom at what looks like a camping trip. Mom doesn't camp. Mom considers the Four Seasons “roughing it.”

The new man in Mom's life is everywhere now that I look—a baseball cap hung carelessly on a hook, work gloves tossed on the bench, a flannel shirt draped over the radiator like he owns the place. Which, if I don't intervene, he just might.

Each item screams “impulse decision” louder than the last, like the time she bought that pottery wheel that's still gathering dust in the basement. Only this impulse comes with a marriage license.

Mom's personalized ringtone blasts from my phone–Jingle Bell Rock–I'd set it as a joke last Christmas, back when she still acted like herself instead of some free-spirit wannabe.

“Mom, where are you? I'm at the house.”

“Eden, darling!” Her voice bubbles through the speaker with that new lightness that sets my teeth on edge. “You'll never guess where I am!”

“At a yoga class? Crystal healing session? Please tell me you haven't joined a commune.”

“I'm in Vegas!”

The word hits like a bucket of ice water. “What?”

“Sarah and Janet showed up at my door with plane tickets and the cutest 'Bride Tribe' t-shirts! Can you believe it?”

Sarah and Janet. Her new “spiritual sisters” from yoga. Perfect.

My stomach drops as I grip the phone tighter. “Mom, I have deadlines, clients—I came here to see you and talk about this wedding.”

“I should have called earlier but it was all so last-minute and exciting! A proper bachelorette weekend! Isn't it fabulous?”

“Mom, you're letting these new friends drag you around the country while your contractor boyfriend leaves muddy boots around the place. The floors you used to vacuum twice a day!”

“Robert owns his own construction company, thank you very much.” Her voice takes on a dreamy quality. “And he's teaching me that a little mess is just part of living authentically.”

“Authentically?” I stop in front of the work boots, fighting the urge to line them up properly. “What about the authentic you who color-coded her closet and wouldn't let us eat in the living room?”

“That was the old me, sweetie. The controlled me. Robert helps me embrace spontaneity.”

“Spontaneity is trying a new restaurant, not marrying someone after three months! Have you even thought about prenups? Asset protection? What if?—”

“Eden,” Mom cuts in with a tinkling laugh that sounds nothing like her. “Robert is different. He's everything I've dreamed of! Oh, and I'll be back Thursday night. We'll all have dinner together—you, me, Robert, and his son.”

“Thursday? That's two whole days away?—”

“I have to go, sweetie! We'll FaceTime! Oops, gotta run—we're heading to see Thunder Down Under tonight! Can you believe it? Your conservative mother at a male strip show!”

“Mom, wait—” The words come out as a squeak.

“Love you, sweetie! Don't worry so much. Everything's perfect!”

The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, trying to process my responsible, predictable mother running off to Sin City.

That's why I requested two weeks off instead of only Christmas weekend. Something's not adding up, and I need to figure out what's going on with Mom.

My phone buzzes again - another urgent message from my boss, Marcus, about the spring collection deadlines. But for once, I ignore it. Sure, being lead designer was my dream job, but lately? Those dreams feel more like handcuffs.

Right now, my mother needs me. Whatever midlife crisis she's having, I'm not letting her face it alone.

I storm up the stairs, each step fueling my frustration. As I reach the landing, my childhood bedroom door creaks open to reveal a time capsule of teenage Eden—complete with fashion magazine collages and design sketches still tacked to the cork board.

The sight of my early sketches, full of dreams about making it in the cut throat fashion industry, twists the knife deeper.

I pace the length of the room, three steps one way, three steps back, my boots clicking against the hardwood.

Mom got this house in the divorce settlement, along with enough money to live comfortably for years. But comfortable isn't enough anymore, apparently.

She's been burning through cash like it's kindling—yoga retreats, crystal workshops, and now this whirlwind romance.

Three months. She's known him for three months!

“This isn't a Hallmark movie.” I yank open my suitcase, tossing clothes onto the bed with more force than necessary. My blazer hits the dresser with a soft thud. A silk blouse follows.

I catch myself mid-throw, thinking about how cynical I've become. Maybe that's what happens when you spend too long in the city, surrounded by people who see dollar signs before they see hearts.

Small towns aren't immune to opportunists. That settlement money must look mighty appealing.

I slam a drawer shut, then drop to my knees to shove the empty suitcase under the bed. It catches on something.

“Oh, come on!” I reach beneath the bed frame, fingers searching for the obstruction. Instead of dust bunnies, I spot my old fake ID.

Victoria Marshall, age 22.

I shake my head at the awful photo—too much eyeshadow and my hair straightened within an inch of its life.

Tossing the ID onto my nightstand, I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling like all those nights I laid here planning my escape from small-town life.

“You know what? Screw it.” I sit up, grabbing my purse and checking my reflection.

The city-sleek outfit I'd worn on the plane—designer jeans, cashmere sweater, leather boots—suddenly feels like armor. “Mom is living her best Eat, Pray, Love life. Why should she have all the fun?”

I can't magically finish my collection. I can't stop my mother from making potentially life-ruining decisions. But I can do what generations of small-town women have done before me.

I snatch my keys from the hook by the door. “I'm going to sit at a bar, order an overpriced cocktail, and complain to anyone who'll listen.”

The Uber pulls up to The HideOut. The old factory-turned-bar still has its industrial edge, but someone's added rustic charm to soften the steel and concrete. I hand the driver a five-star rating before stepping out into the crisp winter air.

“What's the worst that could happen?” I mutter, adjusting my leather jacket. “It's not like I'll meet someone who'll make this disaster worse... Right?”

I yank open the door to The HideOut and step inside. The sticky floors and neon beer signs where Larry used to look the other way during our senior year sneaking-in attempts have vanished.

Instead, rustic industrial charm oozes from every corner—the kind that would make any big-city hipster drool. Someone poured their heart into this renovation, though seeing my hometown polish itself up while I was gone stirs up feelings I'd rather not examine.

I scan the room, bracing for familiar faces. No Katie from chemistry class with her endless mall selfies. No Mark Stevens, who peaked in high school. Thank god.

Then my eyes lock onto the bartender, and electricity zips through my stomach.

He commands the space behind the bar, his flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms that flex as he wipes down the counter.

Stubble shadows his jaw, and his sharp eyes sweep the room with the kind of wariness that screams he's seen it all and remains unimpressed.

A grump.

Perfect.

A bartender who looks like he'd rather wrestle a bear than make small talk. If I have to suffer through this hometown disaster, I might as well have a view. And that’s why I slide onto the leather stool directly in front of him.

He glances up—a flash of blue eyes and that stubbled jaw—then grabs a glass without a word.

No easy smile, no welcoming nod—just a furrowed brow and resigned tilt to his mouth, like he's already written off the night and it's barely started.

I should order my drink and focus on my problems. The ones I came here to solve. The ones that don't include the way his forearms ripple as he pours whatever top-shelf whiskey.

The last thing I need right now is trouble.

But when the corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, more like a challenge—I realize trouble might be exactly what I came looking for.