Page 31 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

I tug my designer coat tighter—because of course I overdressed for a small-town fair—but I can't help smiling a little.

“Okay, I'll give you this one. It's actually kind of cute.”

Jack looks as comfortable as ever in his flannel shirt and well-worn jeans, a knit hat pulled low over his forehead, hands tucked casually in his pockets as snowflakes catch in his dark hair.

The man makes department store clothing look unfairly good.

He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come on, I promise you'll have fun. Even if you have to pretend you hate every minute.”

My stomach does that annoying flutter thing it's been doing since our night at the bar. I blame it on the cold.

Definitely the cold, not the way his smile lights up his face or how his stupid flannel shirt stretches across his shoulders.

I find myself smiling as Jack steers us toward a hot chocolate stand, his hand hovering near the small of my back.

Not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him.

“Wait until you try Mrs. Henderson's cocoa. It's so damn good, you'll never look at another hot chocolate the same way.”

As if on cue, a woman with rosy cheeks spots Jack and waves enthusiastically from behind a counter decorated with candy canes and tinsel.

“Jack! Brought a date to the festival this year?”

The word 'date' hits me like a splash of ice water. I open my mouth to correct her before word spreads and the news embarrasses our parents before we get a chance to explain.

Jack’s hand finally makes contact with my back, and the warmth of his touch short-circuits my protest.

“This is Eden,” he says, his voice carrying a note of something I'm afraid to analyze. “She needs converting to the Christmas spirit.”

Mrs. Henderson's eyes twinkle as she looks between us.

“Well, you've come to the right place, dear.” She begins preparing two cups with practiced efficiency. “On the house for Jack's special friend.”

Special friend? I shoot Jack a look, but he's watching Mrs. Henderson work her magic, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

She hands us both steaming cups topped with fresh whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. The aroma alone makes my mouth water.

“It's my secret recipe,” she says with a wink. “Been in the family for generations.”

The cocoa is divine—rich and velvety with a subtle flavor I can't quite identify.

As I take my first sip, I catch Jack watching me intently, as if my reaction truly matters to him. It's that look, more than the cocoa, that catches me off guard.

“Alright,” I admit, wiping a dab of whipped cream from my upper lip, “I'll give you this one. It's pretty amazing.”

His grin widens. “And we're just getting started.” He takes my empty cup, his fingers grazing mine as he stacks it with his own. “Ready for the next adventure?”

“There are phases to this small-town corruption plan?”

“Multiple,” he confirms, leading me down a path lined with evergreens.

The tree lot is a forest in miniature, rows of pines creating intimate little alcoves. Strings of white lights weave through thebranches, and the sharp scent of pine mingles with woodsmoke from a nearby fire pit.

A burly man in a plaid jacket is adjusting a fallen display, muttering under his breath about “accident-prone redheads,” and “death by Christmas tree.”

Despite his grumbling, there's an unmistakable smile tugging at his beard-covered lips.

“Hey Nico,” Jack calls out. “Having trouble with your seasonal help again?”

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