Page 46 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

My hand flies to my suit jacket's inner pocket, relief washing over me when I remember the ring is safely hidden in my desk drawer at the bar. Instead, I find a small cream envelope I definitely didn't put there.

“What's this?” Eden asks, peering over my shoulder as I open it.

Inside is an old photograph of The HideOut from when it first opened, next to a recent one of Eden's boutique on opening day. Someone – Dad, probably – has written across the bottom: “Like father, like son. Here's to new beginnings.”

“Dad?” I look at him, surprised.

He shrugs, trying to appear casual despite his obvious pleasure. “Just wanted you both to see how far we've all come. And how much further we can go.”

Eden's eyes well up as she traces the edges of the photographs. “I should go check on those marshmallows,” she whispers, but not before I catch her wiping away a tear.

“I'll help with the marshmallows,” I say, following Eden into the hallway. She stops abruptly, turning to press her face against my chest.

“Your tie's going to be a mess,” she mumbles into my shirt.

“Worth it.” I stroke her back, careful of the half-done dress. “You okay?”

She pulls back, laughing softly. “Yeah. Just... remember when I came home determined to stop all this? And now look at us.”

“Best failed intervention ever.”

“Shut up.” But she's smiling, that brilliant smile that first caught my attention across the bar. “Come on. Those marshmallows aren't going to inspect themselves.”

The reception hall is a vision of winter-to-spring transition, just as Eden promised it would be. White roses and silver ribbons echo the church decorations, but she's added touches of pale pink and green, subtle hints of the season to come. The hot chocolate station stands in the corner, an elegant setup that somehow manages to look both sophisticated and cozy.

“See?” Eden gestures to the perfectly cut marshmallow squares. “Tony found your recipe card.”

“Our recipe,” I correct her. “You're the one who insisted on the sea salt addition.”

“Which makes it perfect.” She steals one of the marshmallows, popping it into her mouth with a satisfied smile. “Just like that night at the fair.”

I watch her adjust a flower arrangement, totally in her element. The boutique might be new, but this – this ability to make everything around her more beautiful – that's pure Eden. Has been since the day she stormed into my bar with her city clothes and sharp tongue.

“What?” She catches me staring.

“Nothing.” Everything. “Just thinking about how glad I am you came home to stop this wedding.”

Music drifts in from the church – the organist must be practicing. Eden's eyes soften at the melody, and I can't help but imagine another day, another ceremony. Soon. The ring in my desk drawer suddenly feels like it's burning a hole through the whole building.

“Eden? It's time!” One of the bridesmaids calls from the doorway. “Your mom's asking for you.”

Eden stretches up on her tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “See you up there?”

“I'll be the one next to the nervous guy in the tuxedo.”

“And I'll be the one not crying.” She backs away, grinning. “Much.”

I watch her go, already missing her warmth. Then I head back to help Dad with his boutonnière, knowing that in less thanan hour, our families will be officially joined. Though if I'm honest, they already are – have been since that first night at The HideOut, when a city girl walked into my bar and changed everything.

The church bells begin to chime.

The ceremony is everything Caterina dreamed of. She floats down the aisle to Dad, both of them grinning like teenagers. Eden stands beside her mother, dabbing her eyes despite her earlier claims about not crying. When she catches my eye during the vows, her smile is so bright it makes my chest ache.

At the reception, the hot chocolate station is a hit. Even Eden's fashion-forward college friends are asking for seconds, adding splashes of Baileys from The HideOut's signature collection. Dad and Caterina share their first dance, and I watch Eden sway to the music, her eyes following their movements with a softness I've never seen before.

“May I?” I hold out my hand as the next song starts.

She comes willingly into my arms. “Who taught you to dance?”

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