Riding Dirty for Christmas (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 4

Eden

“ A whole new family at my age, can you believe it?” Mom trails behind me as I wrestle the roast from the oven.

“You know what I love about him, Eden? He notices everything. Like last week, he remembered exactly how I take my coffee, right down to the splash of almond milk. And he brings me fresh flowers every Sunday—just because!”

Perfect. Too perfect. I think about Dad's forgotten anniversaries and missed coffee orders.

Men who remember little details usually want something. I just have to figure out what.

“There are so many things about Robert to love. I can't wait for you to meet him and his son—you're going to love them both!”

I slide the roast onto the counter, buying time before I respond.

Love them? You've known them for eight months, Mom.

Did anyone ask if I wanted new family members for Christmas? “The timer went off early. Is this done enough?”

“Perfect timing! Robert will be here any minute!” Mom flutters around me, straightening already-perfect place settings visible through the kitchen doorway.

Crystal glasses gleam under way too many candles, and the tinsel—dear god, the tinsel. It's like Martha Stewart had a nervous breakdown and decorated while having a fever dream about the North Pole.

I have a mission tonight: find the cracks in Robert's perfect small-town contractor facade. Something has to explain why he swept in right after Mom's divorce settlement.

My phone sits on the counter, notes app full of carefully crafted questions. Once I expose whatever he's hiding, I'm heading straight to the HideOut.

No. Bad Eden.

The HideOut is definitely off limits after what happened the other night.

My fingers drift to my collar, tugging it higher. Even my expensive concealer hadn't completely hidden the evidence of that storage room encounter.

The mark on my neck burns like a guilty secret, a reminder of exactly why The HideOut—and its owner—need to stay firmly in my past.

“You're going to love him,” Mom adds for the hundredth time, adjusting her red silk dress.

I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Can't wait.” The words taste like vinegar in my mouth.

A holiday playlist croons in the background—something about silver bells and magical nights—while I arrange serving dishes that definitely weren't part of our normal Christmas collection.

Mom's post-divorce spending spree apparently extended to an entire Williams-Sonoma store.

“The cranberry sauce needs more orange zest.” Mom peers over my shoulder, wringing her hands. “It’s Robert’s favorite.”

Of course it is. Just like those imported water glasses were his style, and that artisanal coffee maker matched his morning routine.

How much of Mom's settlement has already gone into impressing this guy?

“The sauce is fine,” I say, sharper than intended. “Everything's perfect, Mom. Really.”

She beams at the word 'perfect,' missing my sarcasm entirely. “I just want tonight to go well. It means so much to have everyone together, especially with the wedding so close?—”

The doorbell chimes and Mom practically levitates. “They're here!”

My stomach clenches. Time to meet the man who somehow convinced my marriage-cynical mother that a Christmas wedding was a brilliant idea.

If he's playing her, I'll find out. I didn't take two weeks off during peak season just to watch Mom get her heart broken again.

“How do I look?” She smooths her dress for the tenth time.

Like a woman in love. The thought hits me like a sucker punch. “Beautiful, Mom.”

I trail behind her to the door, mental checklist ready. Suspicious business practices? Hidden debts? There has to be something?—

The door swings open and my prepared interrogation falters. Robert stands there beaming, arms full of gifts—wildflowers and wine for Mom, a box of what looks like expensive chocolates.

No slick charm or fake smile. Just warm eyes and a genuineness that's hard to fake, even in his ridiculous light-up reindeer sweater.

“Cat!” He somehow manages to hug Mom despite his full arms, then turns that megawatt smile on me. Before I can step back, he wraps me in a warm embrace. “Eden! Finally!”

I stiffen, caught between basic politeness and the urge to maintain distance. What was I expecting exactly? Some mustache-twirling villain straight out of a Scooby-Doo holiday special?

“Eden, you're even lovelier than your mother described,” Robert says, his voice thick with emotion. “Cat, can you believe it? At the tender age of fifty-eight, I'm blessed with two beautiful kids.” He beams between us. “I can't wait to be your father?—”

Whoa. Let's take a little breather. “Would you like some wine?” I blurt, retreating toward the kitchen.

I busy myself with uncorking a bottle while Mom and Robert settle at the dining room table. The clink of glasses and Mom's delighted laughter float through the doorway as I arrange appetizers on a tray.

When I return, the way Robert looks at my mother—like she hung the moon—makes my throat tight. He notices Mom's new earrings, compliments her dress, even remembers details about her yoga instructor's dog from weeks ago.

My certainty wavers. I came armed for battle against a con man, but Robert's genuine affection is proving to be a more formidable opponent.

The way Mom glows under his attention, how carefully he handles her heart?—

“Eden, thank you so much for being here,” Mom says, squeezing Robert's hand. “This means so much to Robert. He only discovered he had an adult son a few years ago. He didn't even know he was a father, and now he's loving it.”

“My son's finishing up at work,” Robert explains, checking his phone. “He texted that things are wrapping up at the bar and he'll be here shortly.”

Something weird slithers in my belly. “Where did you say your son worked again?”

The doorbell chimes.

Mom jumps up to answer it. “Eden, come meet your stepbrother!”

I set down my wine glass and prepare to meet another too-good-to-be-true member of this perfect family.

From the foyer, I hear her excited voice: “Let me take your helmet and jacket!”

A deep, familiar chuckle sends electricity down my spine. “Thanks, Caterina. Sorry I'm late—busy night at the bar.”

“When are you taking me for that ride you promised?” Mom asks. “I've never been on a motorcycle before.”

“Haven't forgotten,” that voice replies—the same voice that had whispered against my neck two nights ago. The hickey throbs like a guilty conscience. “But between the weather and the holiday rush at The HideOut?—”

“Eden,” Mom beams, oblivious to the sudden tension crackling through the air, “this is Jack. Jack, my daughter Eden.”

The world stops.

Standing in my mother's entryway is six-foot-two of pure trouble—familiar blue-gray eyes, messy dark hair, and that damn crooked smile that had me pressed against a storage room wall two nights ago.

No.

No way.

I stand awkwardly, my legs unsteady. What's the protocol here? Do I shake his hand like we're strangers?

Hug him like family?

“Princess.” Jack’s voice is carefully neutral, but his eyes say something entirely different.

He steps forward, hand extended, every inch the polite almost-family-member. As if his hands hadn't been all over me forty-eight hours ago.

“Funny running into you here. Phones still broken in the city?”

Heat floods my face as I think of his number, hastily scrawled on a cocktail napkin, now crumpled at the bottom of my purse.

I force myself to shake his hand, trying to ignore how my body remembers exactly what those calloused fingers feel like against bare skin.

“You two know each other?” Mom's delighted tone makes my stomach clench.

“We met briefly,” Jack says smoothly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles before releasing my hand. “At the HideOut.”

My cheeks burn remembering our “brief” encounter. Flashbacks of heated kisses and roaming hands threaten to short-circuit my brain.

“Oh, you met while I was in Vegas?” Mom beams. “I told Robert it was just the kind of place you'd love, Eden. Jack preserved all those gorgeous original features. The exposed brick, those stunning wooden beams?—”

“Wait—you own the bar?” I blurt, staring at Jack.

My mind flashes back to that night—him wiping down the counter, pouring drinks, that towel slung over his shoulder as he'd leaned in close to hear my order.

“I thought you were–” I trail off, realizing how that sounds.

“Just what did you think I was, Princess?” His voice drops low, eyes glinting. “The help? I was short-staffed when we met, although I do enjoy getting my hands…. dirty when needed.”

The deliberate pause before “dirty” sends heat crawling up my neck.

“Jack, honey, sit across from Eden,” Mom directs, still playing happy hostess. Because, of course, she does. “I want my children to get to know each other.”

My stepbrother slides into the chair, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth—the same lips that two nights ago were doing things that are definitely not appropriate to think about at your mother's dinner table.

“We're just so thrilled to be joining our families,” Mom gushes, reaching for Robert's hand.

He catches it, his thumb tracing circles on her palm in a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. It's the same way Jack had held my hand when?—

No. Not going there.

Definitely not going there.

I grab my wine glass, gulping rather than sipping. Across the table, Jack's eyes track the movement, lingering on my throat.

This is going to be the longest dinner of my life.

“To our new family!” Mom raises her glass in a toast.

“Like our own Hallmark movie,” I manage.

Jack's laugh erupts as a poorly disguised cough, his eyes meeting mine with that infuriating devil-may-care glint.

Desperate for a distraction, I reach for the bread basket. At the same moment, Jack's hand stretches out, our fingers colliding over a crusty roll. I snatch my hand back like its on fire.

“So, Eden,” he drawls, leaning forward slightly. “Your mom tells me you're quite the fashion designer. Any exciting projects in the works?”

I straighten my spine, refusing to back down.

“A new menswear line, actually. Lots of flannel.” My eyes drift to his shirt, the same style he'd been wearing when he'd backed me against that wall. “Very rustic chic.”

He chuckles, the low sound sending a shiver straight to my core. “Sounds right up my alley. Maybe you could show me your designs sometime.”

I grip my knife tighter, the metal cool against my suddenly hot skin. The weight of unspoken memories hangs between us—his hands exploring my “designs” with devastating thoroughness.

“Jack, honey,” Mom interrupts, “you'll have to show Eden around town. There have been so many changes she hasn't seen yet.”

I focus on my plate, hyper-aware of Jack's presence beside me. His cologne—subtle, masculine—is the same from that night, triggering memories I don't need right now.

“I'd be happy to give her a... thorough tour.” His voice drops on the word 'thorough,’ causing me to choke on my wine.

“Eden? Are you alright?” Mom fusses, reaching across the table.

“Fine,” I manage, dabbing at my chin with my napkin. “Just... went down the wrong way.”

“You should be careful with that wine,” Jack says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice without looking at him. “Wouldn't want you getting into any trouble.”

The word 'trouble' catches in my chest like a fishhook. Two nights ago, trouble wore a leather jacket and tasted like whiskey.

“Yeah, thanks.” I reach for my water glass, desperate for something to do with my hands that doesn't involve grabbing my stepbrother by his perfectly fitted shirt.

Jack has the audacity to wink. Under the table, his foot brushes against mine—deliberate, teasing.

I jerk away instinctively, my knee hitting the table. The water glass tips, sending a small flood across the pristine tablecloth.

“Oh!” Mom jumps up, reaching for napkins.

“I've got it,” Jack and I say simultaneously, both reaching for the spill.

“I'm just so happy you two are getting along,” Mom beams. “Isn't it wonderful, Robert? The kids already seem so comfortable with each other.”

Our hands collide over the soaked tablecloth. Our eyes lock, and I see the same impossible truth reflected in his gaze: we are so screwed.

“Merry Christmas to me,” he murmurs, so quietly only I can hear.

Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

“More wine?” Robert offers, reaching for the bottle.

“Please,” Jack and I say in unison. Our eyes meet again, and that magnetic pull tugs at my core. Two nights ago, that pull had led to?—

“Eden, sweetheart,” Mom's voice cuts through my dangerous train of thought. “You haven't touched your food. Is something wrong with the roast?”

Besides the fact that I'm sitting across from the man who rocked my world, who's now going to be my stepbrother?

“Everything's perfect, Mom.” My voice only shakes a little.

“Perfect,” Jack echoes, his foot brushing mine under the table. This time, I don't pull away. I can't. “Just like a Christmas miracle.”

Mom beams at us over her wine glass.

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of loaded glances and careful distances.

Mom and Robert trade loving looks while Jack and I perform our dance of pretending to be strangers. Every accidental touch and shared glance carries the weight of our secret.

But they don't notice. They're too wrapped up in their own happiness to see the tension crackling between their children.

After Mom serves dessert—something decadent with chocolate and candy canes—I realize my mission has completely derailed.

I came here to expose Robert's flaws, but didn’t find any. Instead...

“Oh!” Mom claps her hands. “We should take a family photo!”

Family photo. Right. Because that's what we are now. Or what we're supposed to be.

“Everyone squeeze in!” Mom directs, positioning us by the fireplace. Jack steps behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth. “Smile!”

Before the flash goes off, Jack's phone chimes. He steps away, checking the screen with a frown.

“I should probably head back to the bar. Staff problems again.”

“On Christmas week?” Mom pouts. “That's terrible timing.”

“Worst time of year for it. Two staff down sick, one with some stomach bug from their kid's school, and another who stopped showing up. Four weeks now.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Hard to find reliable help these days.”

Mom's eyes light up. “Eden used to tend bar!”

“Did you now?” Jack's eyebrow lifts, challenge glinting in his eyes.

“Jesus, no. I haven't done that since college.” I shoot Mom a look. “I'm here to help with wedding preparations.”

“Oh, honey, don't worry about the wedding,” Mom waves her hand, giggling as Robert kisses her temple. “It's a simple registry ceremony. Nothing fancy.”

“I could use the help. Although Friday nights get pretty intense at the tavern,” Jack says, shaking his head. “Wouldn't want to stress you out.”

The dismissal in his tone hits a nerve. “Oh, you don't think I'm up to handling your small-town bar?” The wine and the memory of his hands on me make me reckless. “I'm better than you think.”

“Are you now?” His eyes darken. “Let's see about that.”

“Tomorrow night it is.” I stand, needing distance from his heat, his scent, everything about him.

“I'll walk you out,” Mom tells Robert and Jack, while I busy myself gathering plates, desperate for something to do with my hands besides grabbing that leather jacket and?—

“Eden,” Robert's voice stops me. “It was wonderful to finally meet you.” His genuine smile makes guilt twist in my stomach.

“You too,” I manage.

Jack lingers in the doorway while Mom and Robert head to the car. “Six sharp, Princess. Don't be late.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, big brother.”

His eyes flash dark at the title, and for a second I think he might—but no. He turns away, leaving me with nothing but the ghost of his cologne and the promise of tomorrow night.

“What have I gotten myself into?” I mutter, pressing my forehead against the cold glass.

Through the window, I watch them leave—Robert down the icy steps, Jack swinging onto his motorcycle. My mother's delighted laughter drifts up as Jack revs the engine.

Tomorrow night can't come soon enough. Or maybe it's coming way too fast.

I'm either going to prove I can resist temptation and play happy families—or spontaneously combust trying.