Page 30 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

I send an eye-rolling emoji.

This man. Honestly.

Me: And you need me there while you’re picking up a tree because...?

Jack: Someone’s gotta hold the ladder while I tie it to my truck.

I trace my finger over the sketch of Jack’s profile. The mental image of his muscles straining under that flannel shirt is distracting.

The typing bubbles appear immediately.

Jack: Is that yes?

I press my forehead against the cool window, staring at the sketches scattered across the window seat.

Soon, I’ll be returning to deadlines, client meetings, and commercial compromises.

This can’t last. In two weeks, I’ll be back in the city. He’ll be my stepbrother.

Jack: I promise the Ferris wheel probably won’t collapse.

Me: Probably?

Jack: Like 85% sure. Maybe 82% after last year’s incident.

A laugh bursts out before I can stop it - loud and unguarded. I clamp my hand over my mouth. Mom’s white noise machine continues its steady rhythm.

I press my forehead against the cool window glass.

“Jack,” I type, then pause.

What can I say? That I want him too? That I can’t stop thinking about him? That I wish things were different?

Before I can finish my thought, there’s a new message.

Jack: I know it’s probably a bad idea. But I can’t help it, Eden. I want you.

A smile tugs at my lips.

Me: Good night, Jack.

Jack: Sweet dreams, Princess. See you tomorrow.

I stare at the words, unable to look away. He wants me. Jack wants me.

And God help me, I want him too.

Chapter 8

Eden

The festival is a sprawling maze of wooden stalls selling everything from hand-knitted scarves to artisanal hot chocolate.

Children dart between crowds clutching candy canes, their laughter mixing with Christmas carols from a nearby choir.

I tug my designer coat tighter—because of course I overdressed for a small-town fair—and eye the festive chaos skeptically.

“I can't believe I let you talk me into this,” I say, but there's no real bite to my words.

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