Page 14 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

No.

No way.

I stand awkwardly, my legs unsteady. What's the protocol here? Do I shake his hand like we're strangers?

Hug him like family?

“Princess.” Jack’s voice is carefully neutral, but his eyes say something entirely different.

He steps forward, hand extended, every inch the polite almost-family-member. As if his hands hadn't been all over me forty-eight hours ago.

“Funny running into you here. Phones still broken in the city?”

Heat floods my face as I think of his number, hastily scrawled on a cocktail napkin, now crumpled at the bottom of my purse.

I force myself to shake his hand, trying to ignore how my body remembers exactly what those calloused fingers feel like against bare skin.

“You two know each other?” Mom's delighted tone makes my stomach clench.

“We met briefly,” Jack says smoothly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles before releasing my hand. “At the HideOut.”

My cheeks burn remembering our “brief” encounter. Flashbacks of heated kisses and roaming hands threaten to short-circuit my brain.

“Oh, you met while I was in Vegas?” Mom beams. “I told Robert it was just the kind of place you'd love, Eden. Jack preserved all those gorgeous original features. The exposed brick, those stunning wooden beams?—”

“Wait—you own the bar?” I blurt, staring at Jack.

My mind flashes back to that night—him wiping down the counter, pouring drinks, that towel slung over his shoulder as he'd leaned in close to hear my order.

“I thought you were–” I trail off, realizing how that sounds.

“Just what did you think I was, Princess?” His voice drops low, eyes glinting. “The help? I was short-staffed when we met, although I do enjoy getting my hands….dirtywhen needed.”

The deliberate pause before “dirty” sends heat crawling up my neck.

“Jack, honey, sit across from Eden,” Mom directs, still playing happy hostess. Because, of course, she does. “I want my children to get to know each other.”

My stepbrother slides into the chair, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth—the same lips that two nights ago were doing things that are definitely not appropriate to think about at your mother's dinner table.

“We're just so thrilled to be joining our families,” Mom gushes, reaching for Robert's hand.

He catches it, his thumb tracing circles on her palm in a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. It's the same way Jack had held my hand when?—

No. Not going there.

Definitely not going there.

I grab my wine glass, gulping rather than sipping. Across the table, Jack's eyes track the movement, lingering on my throat.

This is going to be the longest dinner of my life.

“To our new family!” Mom raises her glass in a toast.

“Like our own Hallmark movie,” I manage.

Jack's laugh erupts as a poorly disguised cough, his eyes meeting mine with that infuriating devil-may-care glint.

Desperate for a distraction, I reach for the bread basket. At the same moment, Jack's hand stretches out, our fingers colliding over a crusty roll. I snatch my hand back like its on fire.

---