Riding Dirty for Christmas (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 2

Jack

“ W iping down the sticky bar top for the hundredth time tonight, I curse under my breath about Ryan calling in ‘sick’ again.

Fourth Wednesday in a row. For any other bar, middle of the week would be dead, but The HideOut’s different.”

The regulars pack the place wall-to-wall tonight, bodies pressed against the worn wood paneling I installed last spring.

The wait for drinks keeps growing longer, but no one seems to mind. They know I'll get to them eventually.

That's the thing about being the only bar in town—you learn to take care of your people, even if you do it with a scowl.

“Hey Jack, you planning to get to our order this century?” Carl waves his empty glass from the end of the bar, his voice carrying over the classic rock. “Been waiting for those wings for twenty minutes here.”

“You're welcome to apply for the job.” I toss the rag over my shoulder. “Kitchen's hiring.”

Carl huffs and turns back to his buddies. I grab three mugs and start filling them from the tap, my movements automatic after years behind this bar.

The brass rail needs polishing, the beer lines need cleaning, and I've got inventory waiting, but it'll have to wait.

The regulars stomped in from the snow an hour ago, tracking slush and good humor across the floors, and they're not going anywhere until closing.

On a night like this, with frost creeping up the windows and the wind howling outside, The HideOut lives up to its name.

The door swings open, letting in a blast of December air that barely cuts through the stuffy warmth of bodies packed into The HideOut.

The bell chimes, and something makes me look up.

That's when she walks in, and the whole room shifts. She's all city confidence in a tailored leather jacket and designer jeans, so far from the usual Wednesday crowd that I almost drop the glass I'm drying.

She surveys my bar like she's appraising property—expensive boots stepping carefully around the peanut shells I haven't had time to sweep up.

But it's her eyes that get me—sharp blue and restless, carrying a weight I recognize. The look of someone running from something.

“Jack! Those beers aren't going to pour themselves!” Carl shouts.

Right. I've got regulars to serve and a bar to run. She's just another customer passing through. Focus, man. She'll order a drink or two and be on her way.

But my eyes keep drifting. She carries herself like a city girl—I recognize that edge, that wariness. Wore it myself for years growing up in Boston with Mom, before Bailey's Cove taught me how to breathe again.

A splash of foam hits my hand, and I realize I've overfilled Carl's mug. Cursing under my breath, I clean up the spill and slide his beer across the bar.

Two cosmos for the ladies at table six, three tabs for the guys watching the game. Years of practice keep my hands moving while my mind wanders.

When I look up again, those blue eyes are fixed on me, one eyebrow raised like she's waiting to see if I'm worth her time.

She's positioned herself perfectly—right where I can't ignore her even if I wanted to. And damn it, I don't want to.

There's something about her that doesn't quite fit the 'tourist passing through' vibe.

She's too comfortable, like she knows exactly what she's doing in a small-town bar on a snowy Wednesday night. And damn it, I want to know why.

Up close, her features are striking—dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, a splash of freckles across her nose, and curves that make my fingers itch to reach across the bar.

“What can I get you?”

She drums perfectly manicured nails against the bar top. “I'll have a Negroni. Equal parts gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. Stirred, not shaken, with an orange peel.”

“Do you see a mixologist around here?” I gesture to my flannel shirt and the basic well liquors behind me. “I can do a whiskey sour if you're feeling fancy.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Whiskey sour? This place has gone upscale.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Last time I checked, The HideOut specialized in warm beer and regrettable decisions.”

“We've expanded our regrettable decisions menu.” I lean against the bar, forgetting for a moment about the crowd behind me. “Now we offer premium regrets at bargain prices.”

She laughs - a genuine sound that transforms her face, making her look younger, less defensive. Something in my chest shifts sideways.

“In that case, surprise me, but make it strong. Nothing that glows in the dark or comes with a tiny umbrella.”

I grab my best whiskey and mix her drink with more care than usual, sliding it across the bar with a flourish. She takes it, our fingers almost brushing, and that almost-touch hangs in the air between us.

Before I can see if she likes it, shouts erupt from the other end of the bar.

“Jack! Wings and beers, man - we're dying over here!”

“Order up!” The kitchen bell dings behind me.

“Duty calls.” I straighten, but my eyes linger on her for a beat longer than necessary. I tap the bar in front of her. “Don't go anywhere. I'll work on that surprise.”

Her lips curve into a challenge.“We'll see if this lives up to the hype.”

I deliver pitchers and shots, wipe spills, and run tabs, but my attention keeps drifting to her corner. She pulls out her phone, thumbs flying across the screen before she sets it face-down with a sharp tap that I can read even from here.

Frustration. Her shoulders tense as she scans the room like she's looking for escape routes.

The whiskey sour sits untouched in front of her. She traces the rim of the glass with one finger, lost in thought. Even looking uncomfortable, she carries herself with a confidence that draws attention.

The guys at the pool table have noticed her too, but something in her posture warns them to keep their distance.

“Jaaaaack!” Carl waves an empty pitcher. “Another round!”

I'm mixing Carl's drinks when Tommy Miller stumbles up to her, red-faced and swaying.

“Eden? Eden Warren?” Tommy's voice carries over the crowd, his words slurring as he drops onto the stool beside her. “Holy shit, it is you! Haven't seen you since high school graduation!”

I watch Tommy wobble on his barstool as he leans too close to Eden, invading her personal space as he attempts what he probably thinks is a charming smile.

Her spine straightens like a steel rod's been inserted into it.

My jaw tightens. Tommy's harmless when sober, but drunk Tommy lacks boundaries.

“Remember that time in Bio when you dissected that frog?” Tommy leans in, his beer sloshing. “You were so squeamish, but I helped you cut it open.”

“Oh, great. A blast from the past I didn't ask for.” Eden shifts away, but Tommy scoots his stool closer.

“Aw, don't be like that! Remember that party at Mike's house?” Tommy's hand creeps toward her arm. “The one where you-”

Eden's knuckles whiten around her glass.

I'm already moving before I finish that thought, sliding between them with practiced ease.

“Hey Tommy, why don't you sit over there and enjoy your drink, buddy?” I gesture to an empty spot at the far end of the bar.

“Just catching up with an old friend...” Tommy protests, listing sideways.

“And now you're done.” I plant my feet. “Other seat. Now.”

Tommy's face darkens for a second, then he shrugs. “Whatever man, your loss.” He grabs his beer and stumbles toward the spot I indicated, muttering under his breath.

Eden.

The name hits me like a shot of whiskey - smooth and burning at the same time. I've been watching her all night without knowing her name, and somehow it fits her perfectly.

When I turn, her eyes meet mine. Something protective stirs in my chest, but I push it down.

She gives me a quick nod - silent thanks in the twist of her lips.

I shrug, grabbing a rag and wiping down the bar where Tommy had been. “Just doing my job. Can't have anyone making my customers uncomfortable.”

As I move down the bar to serve other customers, that little voice in my head whispers, You're full of it. Because the surge of protectiveness I felt when Tommy invaded her space had nothing to do with customer service.

I catch myself watching her again between orders. The Friday night rush has settled into a steady rhythm, leaving pockets of quiet between the chaos.

I make my way over, leaning against the bar closer than strictly necessary. Close enough to catch a hint of something expensive and floral beneath the perpetual smell of beer and fried food.

“Another whiskey sour? Or are you branching out?”

Her red lips curve into a smirk. “Depends. Do you know how to make anything more complicated?”

“You're lucky I didn't hand you a light beer.” I cross my arms, trying to look stern despite the smile threatening to break through.

“Such hospitality. No wonder this place is packed.” She traces the rim of her empty glass. “Though I suppose that's what happens when you're the only bar in town.”

“We've got competition. The gas station sells six-packs.”

“Good to know the HideOut maintains its stellar standards.”

Her smirk softens into a genuine smile making her look more beautiful. Damn it. I don't need to be noticing things like that.

I should walk away. Focus on restocking the beer cooler or wiping down tables.

Instead, I reach for a fresh glass, fingers brushing hers as I take the empty one. That brief contact sends a current through my skin.

“Let me introduce you to The HideOut's finest creation.”

“Are you going to serve me some local moonshine that'll make me go blind?”

I smile, warming to the way she matches my rhythm, barb for barb. “Only on Tuesdays. You're safe tonight.”

I start mixing – bourbon, fresh cranberry juice, a splash of spiced simple syrup I made this morning. Her eyes track my movements, analytical, like she's taking mental notes.

“Impressive technique,” she comments drily. “Did you learn that at bartending school?”

“YouTube, actually,” I deadpan, garnishing the drink with a sprig of fresh rosemary and a few cranberries. “Plus a correspondence course from Prison Mixology 101.”

That gets me a real laugh – quick, surprised, like she wasn't expecting to find anything amusing here. The sound travels straight to my chest, settling somewhere dangerous.

“Here,” I slide the drink across the bar. “Tell me what you think.”

She takes a careful sip, eyes widening slightly. “This is... actually good.”

“Try not to sound so shocked.” I rest my forearms on the bar, drawn into her space despite myself. “We small-town folk occasionally manage to surprise.”

I've been tending bar long enough to read people. The way they carry themselves, how they hold their drink, why they choose the corner seat at the bar.

Eden's got 'escape artist' written all over her, from her designer boots to the way she keeps watching the door. But she's still here, three drinks in, and I can't help wondering why.

“So,” I say, keeping my tone casual while wiping down the counter, not ready to walk away. “Tommy mentioned high school. You grew up here?”

She traces the rim of her empty glass. “True.”

“And now you're back for...” I let the question hang.

She stares into her glass. “Family obligation. Short visit.”

“Ah yes, troublesome family.” I nod sagely. “Let me guess – overbearing parents? Nosy aunts?”

“Something like that.” Her guard is up, but curiosity flickers in her eyes. “You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Ah, I got spared all of that. I only met my dad a couple years ago. We're on good terms now, but?—”

A crash from the kitchen interrupts as Ryan drops what sounds like every pan we own. I glance toward the noise, catching Eden's startled expression.

“Well,” I say, lowering my voice, “if you need an escape from the madness, I know all the best hiding spots in town.”

She takes another sip, letting the glass linger against her lower lip. “Careful,” she says, leaning closer. “A girl might get the wrong idea.”

The way she looks at me over the rim of her glass makes my pulse jump. “Or the right one.”

Something flickers in her eyes—maybe fear—before she masks it with a smile. “Pretty presumptuous comment for a man who's known me all of a few hours.”

“Part of the job description,” I say, softening my observation with a smile. “We're like therapists, just with better props.”

I reach beneath the bar, producing a plate of gingerbread cookies, their frosting antlers slightly lopsided. “Meet our world-famous Tipsy Reindeer.”

“Cookies?” She eyes them warily, as if they might bite her instead of the other way around.

“Mrs. Henderson's secret recipe,” I say, nudging the plate closer. “The frosting's spiked with bourbon. Don't tell the health department.”

“Oh my god, you're ridiculous,” she says, as she takes a cookie, careful not to get frosting on her blouse.

What is it about this woman that's got me so off-balance?

I've served hundreds of customers, dealt with every type of person who walks through these doors. But none of them have captured my attention like she has in the span of one night.

A group of college kids crowds the bar, waving cash and shouting drink orders. I hold up a hand to acknowledge them. “Give me a minute.”

Eden waves me off. “Go. Your adoring public awaits.”

Her smile is dangerous. And promising.

I feel her eyes on me as I walk away, and I put a little extra swagger in my step. The next hour passes in a blur of orders and small talk, but I'm hyper-aware of her presence at all times.

She's watching me too, pretending not to, but I catch her gaze more than once.

I keep finding excuses to return to her end, staying longer each time. Two hours and several drinks later, the crowd thins as midnight approaches.

Most customers have cleared out, leaving behind empty glasses and scattered peanut shells.

“Last call!” I announce to the remaining stragglers.

The kitchen staff clocks out, their voices fading as the back door swings shut. Eden remains at her seat, watching me work.

I move through my closing routine slower than usual, stretching out these last moments. She'll leave town as soon as whatever family drama brought her here resolves itself.

Exactly the kind of complication I don't need in my life right now. And yet here I am, walking straight into trouble with my eyes wide open. Damn it. I'm getting soft.

When I make it back to her end of the bar, I notice the glaze in her eyes. Instead of pouring her another, I slide her a glass of water.

“Are you cutting me off?”

“Looking out for your best interests.” I lean against the bar. “Besides, I'd hate for you to forget our conversation in the morning.”

Her fingers brush mine as she accepts the water, and that simple touch sends electricity through my skin.

“Presumptuous of you to think I'd want to remember it,” she fires back, but there's no heat in it.

The light hearted banter feels risky, like standing too close to a flame; knowing you should step away but can't resist.

“Last call was ten minutes ago,” I say, not looking up.

“Trying to get rid of me?”

Something in her tone makes me pause. The sharp edges of her earlier confidence have softened, replaced by something vulnerable.

“I need to check inventory in the storeroom,” I say carefully. “Could use an extra pair of hands.”

The tension lingers between us, thick and electric. We both know this isn't about inventory.

Eden bites her lip, tilting her head like she's considering my question. It takes all my willpower not to lean across the bar and kiss her right there.

“I draw the line at manual labor.” She smirks. “But I'll supervise your technique.”

As the last customers filter out, I can’t help thinking that this night is not over. And judging by the way Eden's watching me, she's thinking the same thing.

This night is becoming something I never planned. And for once in my life, I'm perfectly fine with not having a plan.