Riding Dirty for Christmas (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 11

Eden

I stare into my hot chocolate, watching the marshmallows melt into swirling patterns while “White Christmas” plays softly through the café's speakers.

Across from me, Mom is already halfway through her gingerbread cookie, but hasn't said much beyond greeting me with a too-bright smile.

Something's coming. I can feel it in the way her fingers won't stay still, in the careful way she avoids eye contact. My stomach tightens with anticipation.

“The wedding is postponed,” Mom finally blurts out, dropping the destroyed napkin. “Robert and I talked, and we decided February would be better. Less pressure on everyone.”

My stomach clenches. “Mom, I'm so sorry. This is my fault?—”

“No, sweetheart.” She reaches across the table, covering my hands with hers. “After last night, seeing you and Jack together, how happy you both are... it made us realize we were rushing things. The way Robert's face lit up seeing his son in love—” She squeezes my hands. “When you know, you know. And we know we have forever, so why rush?”

I study our joined hands. Her engagement ring catches the light, sending more sparkles across the table. “You're really okay with waiting?”

“More than okay. We got caught up in the excitement, but this way, we can plan properly. And you and Jack can figure things out without the added stress of a Christmas wedding hanging over your heads.”

I bite my lip, warmth spreading through my chest at the memory of last night. “Being with Jack makes me feel like I can finally breathe.” The words slip out before I can stop them, but Caterina just smiles knowingly.

“I see how you light up when he’s around.” She tilts her head, studying me. “But there's still something holding you back. Your career in the city, maybe? Or something else?”

I fidget with my spoon, watching the remaining marshmallow swirl. “It's not that simple.”

“It never is. But sweetheart, I spent years doing what I thought I was supposed to do, being who I thought I should be.” She leans forward. “Don't wait as long as I did to chase what makes you happy. Whether that's Jack, or your designs, or both.”

I trace the rim of my coffee cup, thinking about happiness and choices. About the people who support them - and those who might not.

“Speaking of not waiting...” Caterina's voice gentles. “Have you told your father about Jack yet?”

I shake my head, my stomach knotting. I haven't figured out how to have that conversation, how to tell him about Jack when he's barely been present in my life these past few years.

“Woman to woman now,” Mom starts, her voice softening. She releases my hands and sits back, wrapping her fingers around her coffee mug. “I need to tell you something about your father.”

My chest tightens. I focus on my hot chocolate, now lukewarm and lacking its earlier appeal. “Mom, we don't have to?—”

“Yes, we do. Because you've been carrying this weight, trying to protect me.” She takes a deep breath. “He didn't move interstate for work, Eden. He left to live with his secretary.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I sit there, processing, as Christmas music continues to play cheerfully in the background, the contrast almost jarring. “His secretary?”

“I didn't tell you because I was ashamed. Embarrassed that I didn't see it coming. That I wasn't enough.” Mom's voice wavers slightly. “But now I realize—being with Robert, seeing real love—your father didn't leave because I wasn't enough. He left because he wasn't brave enough to be honest.”

I think about all the times I defended him, made excuses for his absence. All the times I blamed Mom for not trying harder to make him stay. Shame burns in my chest.

“I'm so sorry, Mom. I've been so worried about you rushing into things with Robert, but really—” My voice catches.

Mom dabs at her eyes with a fresh napkin. “Life has a funny way of showing us where we belong.” She hesitates. “Would you ever consider moving back home?”

The question catches me off guard, but not as much as my answer. “I hadn't thought about it until I came back.” I look around the familiar café, at the Christmas decorations, think about Jack at the bar down the street. “Now it's all I can think about.”

Mom's eyes drift to the table, and she reaches for something. “What's this?”

I look down to find I've been absently sketching on a napkin—a simple dress design with clean lines and delicate details. My cheeks warm as Mom studies it.

Mom smooths out the napkin, tracing the design with her finger. “This is beautiful, sweetheart. So different from your usual work.”

She's right. No trendy cuts or flashy details—just clean lines and subtle elegance. The kind of piece I used to dream about creating before sales figures and trend reports took over my life.

“You know,” Mom says, that knowing look back in her eyes, “I see how you light up when you talk about design. The real design, not just following trends. It reminds me of how you glow when Jack walks into a room.”

I fidget with my spoon. “Mom...”

“I mean it. When you're with him, you're... yourself. The way you used to be before—” She stops, but I know what she means. Before Dad left. Before I built my walls. “And the way you sketch now, it's different too. More honest somehow.”

She's not wrong. Ever since I came home, ideas have been flowing easier. Simpler designs, yes, but also more authentic. Like I'm finally creating what I want instead of what I think I should.

I glance at my watch, surprised to see it's almost time to meet Jack at the bar. He's expecting me to help with inventory, though we both know it's just an excuse to spend time together.

“Go on,” Mom says, pushing the napkin sketch back toward me. “Just... promise me you'll think about what makes you happy. Really happy.”

I gather my things, tucking the sketch into my purse. “I will.” I pause, then lean down to hug her. “Thanks, Mom. For everything.”

The bells above the café door jingle as I step out into the crisp December air, my mind already drifting to The HideOut. To Jack. To possibilities I hadn't let myself consider until now.

The HideOut's windows glow with Christmas lights when I arrive, their reflection wavering in the early evening darkness.

Through the glass, I spot Jack behind the bar, wiping glasses with the kind of focused concentration he usually reserves for inventory spreadsheets. My heart does that annoying flutter thing it's been doing lately whenever I see him.

The door creaks familiarly as I push it open, and Jack looks up. His smile hits me right in the chest—warm, genuine, a little crooked.

He's hung more Christmas lights since yesterday, though they're slightly askew in that endearing way that suggests he tried his best.

“Your decorating skills are still terrible,” I say by way of greeting, sliding onto my usual stool.

“Keeps the interior design critics humble.” He sets a mug of hot chocolate in front of me—with marshmallows, just like Mom's—and I realize he must have seen me coming. “How was lunch?”

I wrap my hands around the warm mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers. “Interesting. The wedding's postponed.”

Jack pauses mid-wipe. “You okay?”

“Yeah, actually. Really okay.” I pull out the napkin sketch from my purse, smoothing it on the bar top. “Mom and I talked. About everything.”

He sets down the glass he's holding, giving me his full attention. The bar's quiet tonight—just a couple of regulars in the corner booth—and in the soft glow of his crooked Christmas lights, it feels like we're in our own little world.

Jack leans forward, studying the sketch. His fingers brush mine as he traces the design. “This is different from your usual stuff.”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Mom said the same thing.”

“Different good?”

“I think so.” I add a few more lines to the sketch, the pencil moving almost on its own. “It's what I used to dream about designing, before I got caught up in chasing trends and sales figures.”

He's quiet for a moment, just watching me draw. “You know what I see when I look at this?”

“My complete departure from marketable fashion?”

“Eden.” His voice has that gentle firmness that always makes me look up. “I see you. Not the city designer trying to keep up with fast fashion. Just you.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest. “That's terrifying.”

“Why?”

“Because...” I struggle to find the words. “Because what if 'just me' isn't enough? What if I walk away from everything I've built in the city and it turns out I can't make it work here?”

“Here?” His eyes lock with mine, and I realize what I've just implied.

“I mean—hypothetically. If someone were to, maybe, consider opening a small boutique. In a small town. With questionable Christmas decorations.”

Jack straightens, a slow smile spreading across his face. He holds up one finger in a 'wait' gesture and walks to the window. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

I join him at the window, my shoulder brushing against his arm. He points to the empty storefront next door, its windows dark except for the reflection of his crooked Christmas lights.

“Lease is reasonable,” he says casually. “Owner's been asking if I want to expand the bar, but...” He glances down at my sketch. “I think it might make a better boutique.”

I stare at the empty storefront, mental calculations running through my head. Tourist season starts in spring. The Christmas sweater collection I designed sold well enough to pad my savings. And with the lower cost of living here compared to the city...

“It needs a bit of work, but I know a guy who's pretty good at renovations.”

“Your dad,” I say softly, remembering Robert's construction company.

“And the space between here and there?” He gestures to the narrow alley. “Perfect spot for a connecting door. You know, if someone wanted easy access to decent coffee and questionable Christmas decorations while they work.”

In my mind, I can see it—large windows with seasonal displays, racks of carefully curated pieces, a cozy fitting room area. Simple, elegant designs that don't chase trends. A place where I could create what I love, not what the market demands.

I pull out the napkin sketch again, adding quick notes in the margins. The silhouette would work perfectly for a spring collection. And if I started small, built slowly…

Jack's hand finds mine, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. The gesture is so natural now, so comfortable, it barely registers until he speaks. “I see those wheels turning.”

My stomach twists as I look at my sketches, and back at the empty storefront. “Marcus is going to lose it when I tell him I'm leaving after spring collection.” I fold the napkin carefully, tucking it away.

Jack's quiet for a moment, but his hand finds mine, steady and warm. “You've got the talent, the client list, the vision. The fashion world's gone digital - you can design for yourself and work from anywhere.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.” He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Besides, gives me time to work on my Christmas decorating skills.”

I laugh against his chest, ignoring the hollow feeling in my stomach. “You're going to need it. Next weekend?”

“Next weekend,” he confirms. “I'll even let you reorganize my string lights.”

We stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, watching his crooked Christmas lights reflect off the empty storefront windows. I try to convince myself this is enough, that we can have it all—my career, our relationship, this fragile balance we're building.

I just wish my napkin sketch didn't feel so heavy in my purse.