Riding Dirty for Christmas (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 8

Eden

T he festival is a sprawling maze of wooden stalls selling everything from hand-knitted scarves to artisanal hot chocolate.

Children dart between crowds clutching candy canes, their laughter mixing with Christmas carols from a nearby choir.

I tug my designer coat tighter—because of course I overdressed for a small-town fair—and eye the festive chaos skeptically.

“I can't believe I let you talk me into this,” I say, but there's no real bite to my words.

I tug my designer coat tighter—because of course I overdressed for a small-town fair—but I can't help smiling a little.

“Okay, I'll give you this one. It's actually kind of cute.”

Jack looks as comfortable as ever in his flannel shirt and well-worn jeans, a knit hat pulled low over his forehead, hands tucked casually in his pockets as snowflakes catch in his dark hair.

The man makes department store clothing look unfairly good.

He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come on, I promise you'll have fun. Even if you have to pretend you hate every minute.”

My stomach does that annoying flutter thing it's been doing since our night at the bar. I blame it on the cold.

Definitely the cold, not the way his smile lights up his face or how his stupid flannel shirt stretches across his shoulders.

I find myself smiling as Jack steers us toward a hot chocolate stand, his hand hovering near the small of my back.

Not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him.

“Wait until you try Mrs. Henderson's cocoa. It's so damn good, you'll never look at another hot chocolate the same way.”

As if on cue, a woman with rosy cheeks spots Jack and waves enthusiastically from behind a counter decorated with candy canes and tinsel.

“Jack! Brought a date to the festival this year?”

The word 'date' hits me like a splash of ice water. I open my mouth to correct her before word spreads and the news embarrasses our parents before we get a chance to explain.

Jack’s hand finally makes contact with my back, and the warmth of his touch short-circuits my protest.

“This is Eden,” he says, his voice carrying a note of something I'm afraid to analyze. “She needs converting to the Christmas spirit.”

Mrs. Henderson's eyes twinkle as she looks between us.

“Well, you've come to the right place, dear.” She begins preparing two cups with practiced efficiency. “On the house for Jack's special friend.”

Special friend? I shoot Jack a look, but he's watching Mrs. Henderson work her magic, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

She hands us both steaming cups topped with fresh whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. The aroma alone makes my mouth water.

“It's my secret recipe,” she says with a wink. “Been in the family for generations.”

The cocoa is divine—rich and velvety with a subtle flavor I can't quite identify.

As I take my first sip, I catch Jack watching me intently, as if my reaction truly matters to him. It's that look, more than the cocoa, that catches me off guard.

“Alright,” I admit, wiping a dab of whipped cream from my upper lip, “I'll give you this one. It's pretty amazing.”

His grin widens. “And we're just getting started.” He takes my empty cup, his fingers grazing mine as he stacks it with his own. “Ready for the next adventure?”

“There are phases to this small-town corruption plan?”

“Multiple,” he confirms, leading me down a path lined with evergreens.

The tree lot is a forest in miniature, rows of pines creating intimate little alcoves. Strings of white lights weave through the branches, and the sharp scent of pine mingles with woodsmoke from a nearby fire pit.

A burly man in a plaid jacket is adjusting a fallen display, muttering under his breath about “accident-prone redheads,” and “death by Christmas tree.”

Despite his grumbling, there's an unmistakable smile tugging at his beard-covered lips.

“Hey Nico,” Jack calls out. “Having trouble with your seasonal help again?”

Nico straightens, his massive frame unfolding like a mountain rising. His rugged face splits into a grin, salt-and-pepper beard barely concealing dimples.

He pats his broad chest with a deep chuckle that rumbles like distant thunder.

“That woman’s going to be the death of me. Knocked over three trees today trying to catch a runaway wreath. Though I have to admit—” He catches himself, clearing his throat. “Never mind.”

Jack hides a knowing smirk as he leads me toward a row of perfect pines. “The bar needs a tree,” he explains, running his hand along a branch. “Unless you think that's too small-town cliché?”

“Everything about this evening is small-town cliché,” I retort, but I can't keep the smile from my voice.

I reach out to touch a particularly full pine. Our hands brush, and for a moment, the world narrows to just that point of contact.

It's like a warm current flows between us, making me acutely aware of his presence.

“This one,” we say simultaneously, then laugh at the coincidence.

“Finally seeing eye to eye, Princess?” His grin is infectious, and I find myself mirroring it.

“Don't get cocky,” I say, but my eyes betray me as they linger on the way his muscles flex under his flannel shirt when he effortlessly hoists the tree onto his shoulder.

I bite my lip, forcing my gaze away. “But I'll give credit where it's due. You have good taste. In trees, at least.”

Behind us, there's a crash and Nico's exasperated “For the love of—” followed by the sound of hurried footsteps crunching through snow.

Jack secures the tree in his truck bed with quick, confident movements, not needing me in the least.

He turns to me, a mischievous spark dancing in his eyes. “Ready for the real challenge?”

That's when I spot the ice skating rink.

Families and couples glide across the ice, their laughter and chatter floating on the crisp air.

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.” He's already leading me toward the rental booth.

Ten minutes later, I'm clinging to the wall like it's the only thing between me and certain death.

Jack extends both hands. “Come on. Let go of the wall.”

“The wall is my friend. The wall doesn't try to kill me with winter sports.”

“The wall is holding you back.” His eyes lock with mine. “You have to let go eventually.”

How very fortune cookie. “Says who?”

“Says the pint-sized traffic jam forming behind you.”

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Sure enough, a group of rosy-cheeked kids is eyeing me impatiently, their expressions a mix of confusion and mild annoyance at the adult blocking their path.

“Fine,” I huff, ignoring the chorus of relieved sighs from my miniature audience.

Everything about this screams bad idea. But I find myself reaching for him anyway, letting him pull me away from the wall's safety.

“You're doing great,” he encourages, skating backward with irritating grace.

“You're lying, but I appreciate the effort. I hated ice skating ever since I was a kid.” I grip his hands tighter as we make a slow turn. “How are you so good at this anyway?”

“Not much else to do in winter.” His thumbs brush over my knuckles. “Although watching you right now might be my new favorite winter activity.”

“I hate you,” I mutter, inching forward.

“No, you don't,” he murmurs as I wobble. “I've got you.”

His steady presence is reassuring, and for a moment, I forget to be nervous. We make slow circles around the rink, Jack's guidance keeping me upright.

We skate until my toes are numb and my cheeks hurt from laughing.

Just as I'm starting to feel confident, my overconfidence betrays me. My skates hit a rough patch of ice, and suddenly the world tilts.

My skates slip, and I crash into Jack with an undignified yelp.

Jack catches me against his chest, and suddenly we're pressed together, his arms around my waist, my hands fisted in his jacket. His breath fans warm against my cheek.

“See?” he says softly. “Told you I wouldn't let you fall.”

“Sorry!”

“Don't apologize.” His arms tighten around me. “I kind of like you right where you are.”

His face is inches from mine. Snowflakes dust his eyelashes and I can smell the chocolate and mint on his breath. His eyes are dark in the twilight, and I can see the moment his gaze drops to my lips.

The world narrows to this—the warmth of his breath, the strength of his hands, the way everything in me wants to close that tiny distance between us.

A group of teenagers whizzes past us, their laughter breaking through our bubble. But Jack doesn't let go.

“We should probably move,” I whisper, making no attempt to do so. “We're creating a traffic hazard.”

“In a minute.” His voice is rough. “I need to say something first.”

My stomach tightens with anticipation. “Jack?—”

“Please.” His thumb traces circles on my hip. “Let me get this out.”

“Eden,” he says softly. “I know this is complicated. I know there are a million reasons why we shouldn't be doing this. But I can't ignore how I feel about you. And I don't think you can either.”

The way he's looking at me—like I'm both precious and thrilling—makes it hard to think straight.

All my carefully constructed arguments about why this can't happen seem to crumble under the weight of his honesty.

“Tell me I'm wrong,” he challenges quietly. “Tell me you don't feel this too.”

I should. I should laugh it off, make a joke about the romantic atmosphere going to his head. I should remind him that soon, we'll be step-siblings. I should do anything except stand here, clutching his jacket, wanting nothing more than to kiss him.

Jack's right. I can't ignore the way my heart races every time he's near. Despite every logical reason not to, I'm falling for him.

And I'm tired of fighting this. Tired of pretending I don't watch him when he's not looking, that I don't dream about that night at the bar, that my heart doesn't skip every time he says my name.

Before I can overthink it, I lift up and plant a kiss on his startled mouth.

His lips are soft against mine, tasting of chocolate and promise. For a moment, the world stops spinning.

Then Jack pulls back, his eyes still holding that intense warmth. He glances at his watch, and I see the urgency flood his expression.

“As much as I'd love to stay here,” he says, his voice low and slightly breathless, “we need to go.”

Reality crashes back. Mom sent a message about wanting to see us again for something important. “Oh god, the dinner. I almost forgot. What time were we supposed to be there?”

“If we hurry, we can get the tree set up at the HideOut before our parents wonder where we are.” His voice is urgent but his thumb traces my bottom lip like he can't quite help himself. “Though God knows I'd rather stay right here.”

We stumble off the ice, our fingers fumbling with laces as we rush to change out of our skates.

“Jack?” I say as we hurry toward his truck, the tree secured in the back.

“Yeah?” He opens the passenger door for me, offering his hand to help me up.

I hesitate, then decide to go for it. “That hot chocolate... I don't think I'll ever look at other drinks the same way again.”

His eyes meet mine, dark with understanding. “Funny how that happens,” he says softly. “One taste of something special, and suddenly nothing else measures up.”

Jack closes my door and jogs around to the driver's side.

The festival lights blur as we pull away. I glance at Jack, his profile strong against the darkening sky, and know with absolute certainty that he's ruined me.

And I've never wanted anything more.