Page 6 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

“Another whiskey sour? Or are you branching out?”

Her red lips curve into a smirk. “Depends. Do you know how to make anything more complicated?”

“You're lucky I didn't hand you a light beer.” I cross my arms, trying to look stern despite the smile threatening to break through.

“Such hospitality. No wonder this place is packed.” She traces the rim of her empty glass. “Though I suppose that's what happens when you're the only bar in town.”

“We've got competition. The gas station sells six-packs.”

“Good to know the HideOut maintains its stellar standards.”

Her smirk softens into a genuine smile making her look more beautiful. Damn it. I don't need to be noticing things like that.

I should walk away. Focus on restocking the beer cooler or wiping down tables.

Instead, I reach for a fresh glass, fingers brushing hers as I take the empty one. That brief contact sends a current through my skin.

“Let me introduce you to The HideOut's finest creation.”

“Are you going to serve me some local moonshine that'll make me go blind?”

I smile, warming to the way she matches my rhythm, barb for barb. “Only on Tuesdays. You're safe tonight.”

I start mixing – bourbon, fresh cranberry juice, a splash of spiced simple syrup I made this morning. Her eyes track my movements, analytical, like she's taking mental notes.

“Impressive technique,” she comments drily. “Did you learn that at bartending school?”

“YouTube, actually,” I deadpan, garnishing the drink with a sprig of fresh rosemary and a few cranberries. “Plus a correspondence course from Prison Mixology 101.”

That gets me a real laugh – quick, surprised, like she wasn't expecting to find anything amusing here. The sound travels straight to my chest, settling somewhere dangerous.

“Here,” I slide the drink across the bar. “Tell me what you think.”

She takes a careful sip, eyes widening slightly. “This is... actually good.”

“Try not to sound so shocked.” I rest my forearms on the bar, drawn into her space despite myself. “We small-town folk occasionally manage to surprise.”

I've been tending bar long enough to read people. The way they carry themselves, how they hold their drink, why they choose the corner seat at the bar.

Eden's got 'escape artist' written all over her, from her designer boots to the way she keeps watching the door. But she's still here, three drinks in, and I can't help wondering why.

“So,” I say, keeping my tone casual while wiping down the counter, not ready to walk away. “Tommy mentioned high school. You grew up here?”

She traces the rim of her empty glass. “True.”

“And now you're back for...” I let the question hang.

She stares into her glass. “Family obligation. Short visit.”

“Ah yes, troublesome family.” I nod sagely. “Let me guess – overbearing parents? Nosy aunts?”

“Something like that.” Her guard is up, but curiosity flickers in her eyes. “You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Ah, I got spared all of that. I only met my dad a couple years ago. We're on good terms now, but?—”

A crash from the kitchen interrupts as Ryan drops what sounds like every pan we own. I glance toward the noise, catching Eden's startled expression.

“Well,” I say, lowering my voice, “if you need an escape from the madness, I know all the best hiding spots in town.”

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