Page 1 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

Chapter 1

Eden

Idrag 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?”

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