Page 41 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

My chest tightens. I focus on my hot chocolate, now lukewarm and lacking its earlier appeal. “Mom, we don't have to?—”

“Yes, we do. Because you've been carrying this weight, trying to protect me.” She takes a deep breath. “He didn't move interstate for work, Eden. He left to live with his secretary.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I sit there, processing, as Christmas music continues to play cheerfully in the background, the contrast almost jarring. “His secretary?”

“I didn't tell you because I was ashamed. Embarrassed that I didn't see it coming. That I wasn't enough.” Mom's voice wavers slightly. “But now I realize—being with Robert, seeing real love—your father didn't leave because I wasn't enough. He left because he wasn't brave enough to be honest.”

I think about all the times I defended him, made excuses for his absence. All the times I blamed Mom for not trying harder to make him stay. Shame burns in my chest.

“I'm so sorry, Mom. I've been so worried about you rushing into things with Robert, but really—” My voice catches.

Mom dabs at her eyes with a fresh napkin. “Life has a funny way of showing us where we belong.” She hesitates. “Would you ever consider moving back home?”

The question catches me off guard, but not as much as my answer. “I hadn't thought about it until I came back.” I look around the familiar café, at the Christmas decorations, thinkabout Jack at the bar down the street. “Now it's all I can think about.”

Mom's eyes drift to the table, and she reaches for something. “What's this?”

I look down to find I've been absently sketching on a napkin—a simple dress design with clean lines and delicate details. My cheeks warm as Mom studies it.

Mom smooths out the napkin, tracing the design with her finger. “This is beautiful, sweetheart. So different from your usual work.”

She's right. No trendy cuts or flashy details—just clean lines and subtle elegance. The kind of piece I used to dream about creating before sales figures and trend reports took over my life.

“You know,” Mom says, that knowing look back in her eyes, “I see how you light up when you talk about design. The real design, not just following trends. It reminds me of how you glow when Jack walks into a room.”

I fidget with my spoon. “Mom...”

“I mean it. When you're with him, you're... yourself. The way you used to be before—” She stops, but I know what she means. Before Dad left. Before I built my walls. “And the way you sketch now, it's different too. More honest somehow.”

She's not wrong. Ever since I came home, ideas have been flowing easier. Simpler designs, yes, but also more authentic. Like I'm finally creating what I want instead of what I think I should.

I glance at my watch, surprised to see it's almost time to meet Jack at the bar. He's expecting me to help with inventory, though we both know it's just an excuse to spend time together.

“Go on,” Mom says, pushing the napkin sketch back toward me. “Just... promise me you'll think about what makes you happy. Really happy.”

I gather my things, tucking the sketch into my purse. “I will.” I pause, then lean down to hug her. “Thanks, Mom. For everything.”

The bells above the café door jingle as I step out into the crisp December air, my mind already drifting to The HideOut. To Jack. To possibilities I hadn't let myself consider until now.

The HideOut's windows glow with Christmas lights when I arrive, their reflection wavering in the early evening darkness.

Through the glass, I spot Jack behind the bar, wiping glasses with the kind of focused concentration he usually reserves for inventory spreadsheets. My heart does that annoying flutter thing it's been doing lately whenever I see him.

The door creaks familiarly as I push it open, and Jack looks up. His smile hits me right in the chest—warm, genuine, a little crooked.

He's hung more Christmas lights since yesterday, though they're slightly askew in that endearing way that suggests he tried his best.

“Your decorating skills are still terrible,” I say by way of greeting, sliding onto my usual stool.

“Keeps the interior design critics humble.” He sets a mug of hot chocolate in front of me—with marshmallows, just like Mom's—and I realize he must have seen me coming. “How was lunch?”

I wrap my hands around the warm mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers. “Interesting. The wedding's postponed.”

Jack pauses mid-wipe. “You okay?”

“Yeah, actually. Really okay.” I pull out the napkin sketch from my purse, smoothing it on the bar top. “Mom and I talked. About everything.”

He sets down the glass he's holding, giving me his full attention. The bar's quiet tonight—just a couple of regulars in the corner booth—and in the soft glow of his crooked Christmas lights, it feels like we're in our own little world.

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