Page 8 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

“I need to check inventory in the storeroom,” I say carefully. “Could use an extra pair of hands.”

The tension lingers between us, thick and electric. We both know this isn't about inventory.

Eden bites her lip, tilting her head like she's considering my question. It takes all my willpower not to lean across the bar and kiss her right there.

“I draw the line at manual labor.” She smirks. “But I'll supervise your technique.”

As the last customers filter out, I can’t help thinking that this night is not over. And judging by the way Eden's watching me, she's thinking the same thing.

This night is becoming something I never planned. And for once in my life, I'm perfectly fine with not having a plan.

Chapter 3

Eden

My phone buzzes for the third time since I walked into The HideOut. My supplier in Milan's name flashes across the screen.

At midnight here, it's already morning in Italy, and there's probably another crisis with the silk delivery for the spring line. I silence the phone and slide it face-down on the bar.

My mother's somewhere in Vegas right now, probably shopping for a wedding dress that costs more than most people's cars.

I came home to stop that wedding, not to get distracted by the ridiculously attractive bartender.

Yet here I am, watching him move behind the bar with a grace that shouldn't be possible for someone his size.

I learned his name was Jack somewhere between my second whiskey sour and his rescue from Tommy Miller. The way he'd stepped in, all quiet authority and subtle strength, had sparked something in me I wasn't expecting.

Now I can't stop watching him - the way his flannel shirt stretches across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to revealstrong forearms, a gray henley underneath that's seen better days but somehow looks perfect on him.

The rational part of my brain - the part that landed me a junior designer position at twenty-five and my own line by twenty-eight - is screaming that this is a bad idea.

The same voice reminds me I have a conference call with buyers in Paris at 9 AM and an empty house waiting for my mother's return from her impulsive Vegas adventure.

But the way he moves with such confidence behind that bar... I've spent my career studying how clothes fit the human form. This man could make a potato sack look like couture.

“Last call was ten minutes ago,” he says, wiping down the bar with practiced efficiency.

I'm not sure what compels me to stay. Maybe it's the way his grin tilts just a little crooked when he teases, or how his voice has that deep, rumbling quality that makes my stomach flip.

Or maybe it's the fact that, for the first time since landing in this town, I don't feel like I'm holding my breath, constantly strategizing about Mom's wedding or fielding crisis calls from work.

“Trying to get rid of me?”

He pauses, stormy eyes meeting mine. “I live upstairs. Could offer you a nightcap.”

I laugh, sliding off my barstool, grateful I chose my favorite Jimmy Choos despite knowing I'd be navigating small-town ice patches. “Smooth. Does that line always work for you?”

“You'd be the first to find out.” The intensity in his gaze makes my pulse jump. “I don't usually do this.”

“What? Invite women to your apartment?” I step closer, drawn into his space.

His cologne is subtle - a hint of pine and something uniquely him. There's something solid about him, something real that makes me want to step closer. “Are you seeing someone?”

“No.” His voice drops. “You?”

“Me neither.” I move closer, the admission making this feel more real. “And for the record, I don't usually do this either.”

What am I even doing here? I'm supposed to be back at Mom's place, plotting ways to stop this wedding, not locking eyes with the hottest man I've met in years.

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