Page 42 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

Jack leans forward, studying the sketch. His fingers brush mine as he traces the design. “This is different from your usual stuff.”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Mom said the same thing.”

“Different good?”

“I think so.” I add a few more lines to the sketch, the pencil moving almost on its own. “It's what I used to dream about designing, before I got caught up in chasing trends and sales figures.”

He's quiet for a moment, just watching me draw. “You know what I see when I look at this?”

“My complete departure from marketable fashion?”

“Eden.” His voice has that gentle firmness that always makes me look up. “I see you. Not the city designer trying to keep up with fast fashion. Just you.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest. “That's terrifying.”

“Why?”

“Because...” I struggle to find the words. “Because what if 'just me' isn't enough? What if I walk away from everything I've built in the city and it turns out I can't make it work here?”

“Here?” His eyes lock with mine, and I realize what I've just implied.

“I mean—hypothetically. If someone were to, maybe, consider opening a small boutique. In a small town. With questionable Christmas decorations.”

Jack straightens, a slow smile spreading across his face. He holds up one finger in a 'wait' gesture and walks to the window. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

I join him at the window, my shoulder brushing against his arm. He points to the empty storefront next door, its windows dark except for the reflection of his crooked Christmas lights.

“Lease is reasonable,” he says casually. “Owner's been asking if I want to expand the bar, but...” He glances down at my sketch. “I think it might make a better boutique.”

I stare at the empty storefront, mental calculations running through my head. Tourist season starts in spring. The Christmas sweater collection I designed sold well enough to pad my savings. And with the lower cost of living here compared to the city...

“It needs a bit of work, but I know a guy who's pretty good at renovations.”

“Your dad,” I say softly, remembering Robert's construction company.

“And the space between here and there?” He gestures to the narrow alley. “Perfect spot for a connecting door. You know, if someone wanted easy access to decent coffee and questionable Christmas decorations while they work.”

In my mind, I can see it—large windows with seasonal displays, racks of carefully curated pieces, a cozy fitting room area. Simple, elegant designs that don't chase trends. A place where I could create what I love, not what the market demands.

I pull out the napkin sketch again, adding quick notes in the margins. The silhouette would work perfectly for a spring collection. And if I started small, built slowly…

Jack's hand finds mine, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. The gesture is so natural now, so comfortable, it barely registers until he speaks. “I see those wheels turning.”

My stomach twists as I look at my sketches, and back at the empty storefront. “Marcus is going to lose it when I tell him I'm leaving after spring collection.” I fold the napkin carefully, tucking it away.

Jack's quiet for a moment, but his hand finds mine, steady and warm. “You've got the talent, the client list, the vision. The fashion world's gone digital - you can design for yourself and work from anywhere.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.” He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Besides, gives me time to work on my Christmas decorating skills.”

I laugh against his chest, ignoring the hollow feeling in my stomach. “You're going to need it. Next weekend?”

“Next weekend,” he confirms. “I'll even let you reorganize my string lights.”

We stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, watching his crooked Christmas lights reflect off the empty storefront windows. I try to convince myself this is enough, that we can have it all—my career, our relationship, this fragile balance we're building.

I just wish my napkin sketch didn't feel so heavy in my purse.

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