Page 3 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

I shake my head at the awful photo—too much eyeshadow and my hair straightened within an inch of its life.

Tossing the ID onto my nightstand, I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling like all those nights I laid here planning my escape from small-town life.

“You know what? Screw it.” I sit up, grabbing my purse and checking my reflection.

The city-sleek outfit I'd worn on the plane—designer jeans, cashmere sweater, leather boots—suddenly feels like armor. “Mom is living her best Eat, Pray, Love life. Why should she have all the fun?”

I can't magically finish my collection. I can't stop my mother from making potentially life-ruining decisions. But I can do what generations of small-town women have done before me.

I snatch my keys from the hook by the door. “I'm going to sit at a bar, order an overpriced cocktail, and complain to anyone who'll listen.”

The Uber pulls up to The HideOut. The old factory-turned-bar still has its industrial edge, but someone's added rustic charm to soften the steel and concrete. I hand the driver a five-star rating before stepping out into the crisp winter air.

“What's the worst that could happen?” I mutter, adjusting my leather jacket. “It's not like I'll meet someone who'll make this disaster worse... Right?”

I yank open the door to The HideOut and step inside. The sticky floors and neon beer signs where Larry used to look the other way during our senior year sneaking-in attempts have vanished.

Instead, rustic industrial charm oozes from every corner—the kind that would make any big-city hipster drool. Someone poured their heart into this renovation, though seeing my hometown polish itself up while I was gone stirs up feelings I'd rather not examine.

I scan the room, bracing for familiar faces. No Katie from chemistry class with her endless mall selfies. No Mark Stevens, who peaked in high school. Thank god.

Then my eyes lock onto the bartender, and electricity zips through my stomach.

He commands the space behind the bar, his flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms that flex as he wipes down the counter.

Stubble shadows his jaw, and his sharp eyes sweep the room with the kind of wariness that screams he's seen it all and remains unimpressed.

A grump.

Perfect.

A bartender who looks like he'd rather wrestle a bear than make small talk. If I have to suffer through this hometown disaster, I might as well have a view. And that’s why I slide onto the leather stool directly in front of him.

He glances up—a flash of blue eyes and that stubbled jaw—then grabs a glass without a word.

No easy smile, no welcoming nod—just a furrowed brow and resigned tilt to his mouth, like he's already written off the night and it's barely started.

I should order my drink and focus on my problems. The ones I came here to solve. The ones that don't include the way his forearms ripple as he pours whatever top-shelf whiskey.

The last thing I need right now is trouble.

But when the corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, more like a challenge—I realize trouble might be exactly what I came looking for.

Chapter 2

Jack

“Wiping down the sticky bar top for the hundredth time tonight, I curse under my breath about Ryan calling in ‘sick’ again.

Fourth Wednesday in a row. For any other bar, middle of the week would be dead, but The HideOut’s different.”

The regulars pack the place wall-to-wall tonight, bodies pressed against the worn wood paneling I installed last spring.

The wait for drinks keeps growing longer, but no one seems to mind. They know I'll get to them eventually.

That's the thing about being the only bar in town—you learn to take care of your people, even if you do it with a scowl.

“Hey Jack, you planning to get to our order this century?” Carl waves his empty glass from the end of the bar, his voice carrying over the classic rock. “Been waiting for those wings for twenty minutes here.”

---