Page 12 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

As I slide into the backseat, I catch one last glimpse of him through the window. He looks solid, reliable—everything I should want and everything I can't have right now.

Not with my mother's wedding to derail and my career hanging by a thread.

I give the driver Mom's address and watch The HideOut disappear into the snowy night. My fingers brush over the receipt with his number, and I catch myself smiling.

Maybe coming home for Christmas won't be completely terrible after all.

Chapter 4

Eden

“Awhole 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.”

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