Page 43 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

Chapter 12

Eden

My potted cactus hits the bottom of the cardboard box with a dull thud. Three years of trying to keep the stupid thing alive in my corner office, and all it did was mock me with its stubborn refusal to thrive.

The pencil holder follows—rainbow metallic, because apparently I thought that screamed 'professional woman.' A handful of planners, each one color-coded and filled with meetings I never wanted to attend.

Post-it notes in every shade imaginable. And the stickers. Oh god, so many stickers. Who was I kidding with all these “Girl Boss” motivational labels?

“That's fucked,” I mutter, slumping onto my bed. Used tissues litter my designer duvet, casualties of the past hour's breakdown in my boss's office. My very ex-boss's office.

The look on her face when I finally snapped during the spring collection meeting—somewhere between horror and fascination, like watching a car crash in slow motion.

I should feel terrified. I just torched my career in spectacular fashion. Instead, all I feel is... light. Like I can finally breathe.

The buzzer startles me out of my spiral. I drag myself to the intercom, fully prepared to tell whatever delivery person to leave the package downstairs.

After all the crying I’ve done my makeup's probably halfway to my chin, and I'm still wearing my “power suit”—although the jacket's crumpled on the floor somewhere between the door and my impromptu packing session.

“Princess?” Jack's voice crackles through the speaker.

My heart stops. “Jack?”

Ninety seconds later—not that I counted each footstep running down four flights—I throw open my apartment door. He's there, overnight bag slung over his shoulder, looking deliciously rumpled from travel.

“What are you doing here? You weren't due until next week.” My voice catches. God, he's a sight for sore eyes.

He drops his bag, eyes scanning my face with concern. “I wanted to surprise you.” His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away a mascara streak I missed. “I couldn't stay away. One week felt like—” He stops, taking in the chaos behind me. “Have you been crying?”

I laugh wetly. “Maybe a little. Or a lot. Define crying.”

“Eden.” His eyes drift from my tear-stained face to the explosion of office supplies behind me, then back to me.

The concern in his eyes tugs at something deep in my chest. “I've got some news.”

“What a coincidence.” I haven't moved from the doorway, my knuckles white on the handle. “So do I.”

“Hang on. I need to get this out before I lose my nerve.”

He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, and my heart melts a little. This is my Jack—the confident bar owner who can handle drunk patrons and budget spreadsheets without breaking a sweat—actually nervous.

“I hired a manager for the HideOut. He's starting next week, taking over the night shifts and?—”

I freeze. The bar is his life, his legacy. Every vintage poster, every carefully crafted cocktail recipe, every regular who comes in feeling like family - it's all pure Jack. And he's willing to step back from all of it?

“I've been thinking about it since that night we talked about the boutique,” he continues, words rushing out now. “I don't want to do weekends anymore. Don't want to plan our lives around train schedules or count the hours between visits.”

“What are you saying?” My voice catches, hope and fear tangling in my throat.

“I'm saying I'm moving to the city. If you want me to.” His eyes search mine, vulnerable yet determined. “We can figure out the bar details later, but you—you're what matters.”

”Oh, Jack.” I throw myself into his arms, peppering his face with kisses. His stubble scratches my lips, and he smells like coffee and that leather jacket he always wears, and he's here, willing to upend his whole life for me. But I can't let him - not when I've got news of my own.

“Princess, princess—you're choking me.” He laughs, but his arms tighten around me anyway.

“You don't need to do that.” I pull back, laughing through tears as I glance at the cardboard box behind me. My sad little cactus sits atop a mountain of color-coded planners and enough organizational supplies to stock a small Office Depot. “I quit my job. I'm moving home.”

His hands freeze on my waist. “You what?”

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