Page 15 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

“So, Eden,” he drawls, leaning forward slightly. “Your mom tells me you're quite the fashion designer. Any exciting projects in the works?”

I straighten my spine, refusing to back down.

“A new menswear line, actually. Lots of flannel.” My eyes drift to his shirt, the same style he'd been wearing when he'd backed me against that wall. “Very rustic chic.”

He chuckles, the low sound sending a shiver straight to my core. “Sounds right up my alley. Maybe you could show me your designs sometime.”

I grip my knife tighter, the metal cool against my suddenly hot skin. The weight of unspoken memories hangs between us—his hands exploring my “designs” with devastating thoroughness.

“Jack, honey,” Mom interrupts, “you'll have to show Eden around town. There have been so many changes she hasn't seen yet.”

I focus on my plate, hyper-aware of Jack's presence beside me. His cologne—subtle, masculine—is the same from that night, triggering memories I don't need right now.

“I'd be happy to give her a... thorough tour.” His voice drops on the word 'thorough,’ causing me to choke on my wine.

“Eden? Are you alright?” Mom fusses, reaching across the table.

“Fine,” I manage, dabbing at my chin with my napkin. “Just... went down the wrong way.”

“You should be careful with that wine,” Jack says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice without looking at him. “Wouldn't want you getting into any trouble.”

The word 'trouble' catches in my chest like a fishhook. Two nights ago, trouble wore a leather jacket and tasted like whiskey.

“Yeah, thanks.” I reach for my water glass, desperate for something to do with my hands that doesn't involve grabbing my stepbrother by his perfectly fitted shirt.

Jack has the audacity to wink. Under the table, his foot brushes against mine—deliberate, teasing.

I jerk away instinctively, my knee hitting the table. The water glass tips, sending a small flood across the pristine tablecloth.

“Oh!” Mom jumps up, reaching for napkins.

“I've got it,” Jack and I say simultaneously, both reaching for the spill.

“I'm just so happy you two are getting along,” Mom beams. “Isn't it wonderful, Robert? The kids already seem so comfortable with each other.”

Our hands collide over the soaked tablecloth. Our eyes lock, and I see the same impossible truth reflected in his gaze: we are so screwed.

“Merry Christmas to me,” he murmurs, so quietly only I can hear.

Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

“More wine?” Robert offers, reaching for the bottle.

“Please,” Jack and I say in unison. Our eyes meet again, and that magnetic pull tugs at my core. Two nights ago, that pull had led to?—

“Eden, sweetheart,” Mom's voice cuts through my dangerous train of thought. “You haven't touched your food. Is something wrong with the roast?”

Besides the fact that I'm sitting across from the man who rocked my world, who's now going to be my stepbrother?

“Everything's perfect, Mom.” My voice only shakes a little.

“Perfect,” Jack echoes, his foot brushing mine under the table. This time, I don't pull away. I can't. “Just like a Christmas miracle.”

Mom beams at us over her wine glass.

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of loaded glances and careful distances.

Mom and Robert trade loving looks while Jack and I perform our dance of pretending to be strangers. Every accidental touch and shared glance carries the weight of our secret.

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