Page 17 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

“We've checked the taps,” Carol calls out, nodding approvingly. “Eden's got the prep sorted.”

I wipe down the bar for the hundredth time tonight, trying to focus on anything except Eden's perfume when she brushes past me. It hits differently now I know how it lingers on skin. How it mingles with sweat and—fuck.

Focus.

“Soon-to-be stepsister's fitting right in,” Carol grins, stacking clean glasses. “Like she's been here forever.”

The word 'stepsister' lands like a punch to the gut. As if I need another reminder of how complicated this has become.

Not only did she ghost me after that night, but now she's completely off-limits.

I'd never hurt Robert like that, no matter how much I want?—

“We need to get our stories straight,” Eden says under her breath while reaching for a glass. “What happened the other night, never happened.”

I step back, creating space between us. I grab a fresh bag of ice, wrestling with the tight plastic. “What happened the other night?—”

“Never happened.” Eden's fingers brush mine as she grabs a bottle of vodka, her other hand working quickly with a sharp knife through a pile of limes.

“Look, we can't out ourselves. It's ridiculous. If they find out, it will cause complications and problems. This thing between us was never a thing anyway, and now it's definitely not going to be a thing. I mean, for God's sake, we're going to be family. I suggest we keep things professional.”

“Professional then.” I nod, watching her precise movements as she slices. A lime rolls off the counter. “Though you might want to stop staring at my arms then.”

A hint of pink touches her cheeks as she brandishes the knife. “I was not?—”

“You were.” I finally give up wrestling with the ice bag and throw it onto the floor. The crack of breaking ice under my boots echoes my frustration.

“Fine.” The knife comes down with a sharp thwack. “No staring. No touching. No mentions of... that night.”

The space behind the bar shrinks each time Eden's hip bumps mine as she squeezes past.

I stomp the ice bag again, crushing more chunks under my heel while she attacks another lime.

The tension crackles between us like static electricity, making everything feel charged and dangerous. We need to clear the air before this wedding makes everything even more complicated.

As if reading my thoughts, Eden's movements slow.

“About the wedding—” She pauses, voice lower. “Don't you think it's all moving a bit fast?”

“Dad's level-headed,” I say, grinding ice beneath my boot. “When he knows, he knows. And they're good together. Your mom grounds him.”

Eden's knife stills. “The more I know, the less I understand,” she mutters.

Carol passes behind us, grinning. “Look at you two, bickering like real siblings already.”

We both freeze. Eden's knife clatters onto the cutting board, and I kick what's left of the ice bag under the counter, the word 'siblings' hanging between us like a barrier.

The front door slams open, letting in a blast of cold air and loud voices.

“We’ll finish this later.” I gesture toward the door where my regulars crowd in, shaking snow from their boots.

She nods, professional mask sliding back into place. But I catch her watching me in the mirror behind the bar, that same heat in her eyes from the storage room.

I grab fresh glasses and start pulling draft beers, trying to ignore how natural she looks in my space.

How right she feels here. How wrong this all is.

I slide her another complicated order ticket. “Manhattan, extra dry, with a twist. And they want it perfect.”

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