Page 7 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

She takes another sip, letting the glass linger against her lower lip. “Careful,” she says, leaning closer. “A girl might get the wrong idea.”

The way she looks at me over the rim of her glass makes my pulse jump. “Or the right one.”

Something flickers in her eyes—maybe fear—before she masks it with a smile. “Pretty presumptuous comment for a man who's known me all of a few hours.”

“Part of the job description,” I say, softening my observation with a smile. “We're like therapists, just with better props.”

I reach beneath the bar, producing a plate of gingerbread cookies, their frosting antlers slightly lopsided. “Meet our world-famous Tipsy Reindeer.”

“Cookies?” She eyes them warily, as if they might bite her instead of the other way around.

“Mrs. Henderson's secret recipe,” I say, nudging the plate closer. “The frosting's spiked with bourbon. Don't tell the health department.”

“Oh my god, you're ridiculous,” she says, as she takes a cookie, careful not to get frosting on her blouse.

What is it about this woman that's got me so off-balance?

I've served hundreds of customers, dealt with every type of person who walks through these doors. But none of them have captured my attention like she has in the span of one night.

A group of college kids crowds the bar, waving cash and shouting drink orders. I hold up a hand to acknowledge them. “Give me a minute.”

Eden waves me off. “Go. Your adoring public awaits.”

Her smile is dangerous. And promising.

I feel her eyes on me as I walk away, and I put a little extra swagger in my step. The next hour passes in a blur of orders and small talk, but I'm hyper-aware of her presence at all times.

She's watching me too, pretending not to, but I catch her gaze more than once.

I keep finding excuses to return to her end, staying longer each time. Two hours and several drinks later, the crowd thins as midnight approaches.

Most customers have cleared out, leaving behind empty glasses and scattered peanut shells.

“Last call!” I announce to the remaining stragglers.

The kitchen staff clocks out, their voices fading as the back door swings shut. Eden remains at her seat, watching me work.

I move through my closing routine slower than usual, stretching out these last moments. She'll leave town as soon as whatever family drama brought her here resolves itself.

Exactly the kind of complication I don't need in my life right now. And yet here I am, walking straight into trouble with my eyes wide open. Damn it. I'm getting soft.

When I make it back to her end of the bar, I notice the glaze in her eyes. Instead of pouring her another, I slide her a glass of water.

“Are you cutting me off?”

“Looking out for your best interests.” I lean against the bar. “Besides, I'd hate for you to forget our conversation in the morning.”

Her fingers brush mine as she accepts the water, and that simple touch sends electricity through my skin.

“Presumptuous of you to think I'd want to remember it,” she fires back, but there's no heat in it.

The light hearted banter feels risky, like standing too close to a flame; knowing you should step away but can't resist.

“Last call was ten minutes ago,” I say, not looking up.

“Trying to get rid of me?”

Something in her tone makes me pause. The sharp edges of her earlier confidence have softened, replaced by something vulnerable.

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