Page 26 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

I didn’t wash off Jack’s scent. It’s my secret, and I’m keeping it. The adrenaline still coursing through me needs an outlet.

Rolling off the bed, I pace back and forth across the floorboards. Adrenaline hums through my veins, reminiscent of late-night exam cramming sessions.

Five steps to the window, pivot, seven steps back, avoiding the squeaky spots out of habit.

My eyes land on the photo album on my dresser. I pull it out, flipping to a page with Mom and me at my college graduation.

Her smile radiates pure joy - a smile I don’t remember seeing often with Dad. But it’s the same smile she wears around Robert now. The realization sits uncomfortably in my chest.

Jack’s words from our conversation about the wedding echo in my mind. How awkward it was, discussing something so loaded and difficult. We’re on opposite sides, yet in the same boat.

“Oh Christ,” I mutter, a new worry surfacing. “I haven’t spoken to Dad. Is it too late to send him a message?”

But what would I even say? I don’t want to answer his questions. It’s all so awkward, such a mess. “Forget it,” I decide, pushing the thought away.

Feeling trapped, I rummage through my overnight bag until I find my sketchbook and pencils.

A flurry of snow hits the window, drawing my attention. I grab my sketchbook and settle into the window seat, cocooning myself in a soft blanket and extra pillows.

Wrapped in my favorite fluffy PJs, I feel snug and warm, surrounded by pencils, charcoals, and my thoughts.

The cat, sensing my distress, jumps up to curl beside me. My fingers trail through its soft fur as I open the sketchbook.

For months, my designs have felt hollow - safe, commercial pieces that sell but say nothing. The creative spark that used to drive me has been buried under spreadsheets and profit margins.

The blank page stares up at me. My pencil hovers, then flies across the paper. Rough lines become flowing fabric, structured bodices soften into romantic silhouettes.

A fitted bodice melts into a draped skirt. Architectural seaming adds edge to feminine details.

More ideas crowd in. My hand can barely keep up as I flip to a fresh page, then another. Dresses, jackets, flowing pants that would make any woman feel powerful.

Each design feels more authentically me than anything I’ve created in months.

As I sketch, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. Here, in this familiar space with pencil in hand, I can almost forget the complications waiting for me come morning. Almost.

My phone buzzes. Jack’s name lights up the screen.

I pause, graphite smudged across my fingers. The clock reads 2:37 AM.

Jack: Still awake?

Me: Need to wind down. You?

Jack: Working on some plans for the bar. What’s keeping you up?

My fingers hover over the sketchbook. These designs feel raw, personal - like pieces of my soul spilled onto paper. I’ve never shown anyone my initial sketches before.

Me: Working on some designs for my fashion line.

Jack: At 3 AM?

Me: Rough ideas. The best ideas come at night.

Jack: Can I see?

I snap a photo of the dress design spread across my lap, hesitate, then hit send before I can second-guess myself.

His response comes instantly.

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