Page 2 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

“Sarah and Janet showed up at my door with plane tickets and the cutest 'Bride Tribe' t-shirts! Can you believe it?”

Sarah and Janet. Her new “spiritual sisters” from yoga. Perfect.

My stomach drops as I grip the phone tighter. “Mom, I have deadlines, clients—I came here to see you and talk about this wedding.”

“I should have called earlier but it was all so last-minute and exciting! A proper bachelorette weekend! Isn't it fabulous?”

“Mom, you're letting these new friends drag you around the country while your contractor boyfriend leaves muddy boots around the place. The floors you used to vacuum twice a day!”

“Robert owns his own construction company, thank you very much.” Her voice takes on a dreamy quality. “And he's teaching me that a little mess is just part of living authentically.”

“Authentically?” I stop in front of the work boots, fighting the urge to line them up properly. “What about the authentic you who color-coded her closet and wouldn't let us eat in the living room?”

“That was the old me, sweetie. The controlled me. Robert helps me embrace spontaneity.”

“Spontaneity is trying a new restaurant, not marrying someone after three months! Have you even thought about prenups? Asset protection? What if?—”

“Eden,” Mom cuts in with a tinkling laugh that sounds nothing like her. “Robert is different. He's everything I've dreamed of!Oh, and I'll be back Thursday night. We'll all have dinner together—you, me, Robert, and his son.”

“Thursday? That's two whole days away?—”

“I have to go, sweetie! We'll FaceTime! Oops, gotta run—we're heading to see Thunder Down Under tonight! Can you believe it? Your conservative mother at a male strip show!”

“Mom, wait—” The words come out as a squeak.

“Love you, sweetie! Don't worry so much. Everything's perfect!”

The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, trying to process my responsible, predictable mother running off to Sin City.

That's why I requested two weeks off instead of only Christmas weekend. Something's not adding up, and I need to figure out what's going on with Mom.

My phone buzzes again - another urgent message from my boss, Marcus, about the spring collection deadlines. But for once, I ignore it. Sure, being lead designer was my dream job, but lately? Those dreams feel more like handcuffs.

Right now, my mother needs me. Whatever midlife crisis she's having, I'm not letting her face it alone.

I storm up the stairs, each step fueling my frustration. As I reach the landing, my childhood bedroom door creaks open to reveal a time capsule of teenage Eden—complete with fashion magazine collages and design sketches still tacked to the cork board.

The sight of my early sketches, full of dreams about making it in the cut throat fashion industry, twists the knife deeper.

I pace the length of the room, three steps one way, three steps back, my boots clicking against the hardwood.

Mom got this house in the divorce settlement, along with enough money to live comfortably for years. But comfortable isn't enough anymore, apparently.

She's been burning through cash like it's kindling—yoga retreats, crystal workshops, and now this whirlwind romance.

Three months. She's known him for three months!

“This isn't a Hallmark movie.” I yank open my suitcase, tossing clothes onto the bed with more force than necessary. My blazer hits the dresser with a soft thud. A silk blouse follows.

I catch myself mid-throw, thinking about how cynical I've become. Maybe that's what happens when you spend too long in the city, surrounded by people who see dollar signs before they see hearts.

Small towns aren't immune to opportunists. That settlement money must look mighty appealing.

I slam a drawer shut, then drop to my knees to shove the empty suitcase under the bed. It catches on something.

“Oh, come on!” I reach beneath the bed frame, fingers searching for the obstruction. Instead of dust bunnies, I spot my old fake ID.

Victoria Marshall, age 22.

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