Page 32 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

Nico straightens, his massive frame unfolding like a mountain rising. His rugged face splits into a grin, salt-and-pepper beard barely concealing dimples.

He pats his broad chest with a deep chuckle that rumbles like distant thunder.

“That woman’s going to be the death of me. Knocked over three trees today trying to catch a runaway wreath. Though I have to admit—” He catches himself, clearing his throat. “Never mind.”

Jack hides a knowing smirk as he leads me toward a row of perfect pines. “The bar needs a tree,” he explains, running his hand along a branch. “Unless you think that's too small-town cliché?”

“Everything about this evening is small-town cliché,” I retort, but I can't keep the smile from my voice.

I reach out to touch a particularly full pine. Our hands brush, and for a moment, the world narrows to just that point of contact.

It's like a warm current flows between us, making me acutely aware of his presence.

“This one,” we say simultaneously, then laugh at the coincidence.

“Finally seeing eye to eye, Princess?” His grin is infectious, and I find myself mirroring it.

“Don't get cocky,” I say, but my eyes betray me as they linger on the way his muscles flex under his flannel shirt when he effortlessly hoists the tree onto his shoulder.

I bite my lip, forcing my gaze away. “But I'll give credit where it's due. You have good taste. In trees, at least.”

Behind us, there's a crash and Nico's exasperated “For the love of—” followed by the sound of hurried footsteps crunching through snow.

Jack secures the tree in his truck bed with quick, confident movements, not needing me in the least.

He turns to me, a mischievous spark dancing in his eyes. “Ready for the real challenge?”

That's when I spot the ice skating rink.

Families and couples glide across the ice, their laughter and chatter floating on the crisp air.

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.” He's already leading me toward the rental booth.

Ten minutes later, I'm clinging to the wall like it's the only thing between me and certain death.

Jack extends both hands. “Come on. Let go of the wall.”

“The wall is my friend. The wall doesn't try to kill me with winter sports.”

“The wall is holding you back.” His eyes lock with mine. “You have to let go eventually.”

How very fortune cookie.“Says who?”

“Says the pint-sized traffic jam forming behind you.”

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Sure enough, a group of rosy-cheeked kids is eyeing me impatiently, their expressions a mix of confusion and mild annoyance at the adult blocking their path.

“Fine,” I huff, ignoring the chorus of relieved sighs from my miniature audience.

Everything about this screams bad idea. But I find myself reaching for him anyway, letting him pull me away from the wall's safety.

“You're doing great,” he encourages, skating backward with irritating grace.

“You're lying, but I appreciate the effort. I hated ice skating ever since I was a kid.” I grip his hands tighter as we make a slow turn. “How are you so good at this anyway?”

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