Page 26 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
This was the part of social media I'd fallen in love with originally—bringing people together, creating community. Somewhere along the way, I'd lost that in the pursuit of followers and sponsored content. But here in Promise Ridge, I was remembering why I'd chosen this career in the first place.
By the time I headed to the bar that evening, the event page had over a hundred responses. Not bad for a town this size.
THE PLACE BUZZED WITHits usual nightly energy. I'd dressed in a simple burgundy sweaterdress paired with tights and casual boots, leaving my hair loose and only enough makeup to feel comfortable.
His face lit up the moment I walked in. He met me halfway across the room, and I didn't wait—I reached up to kiss him, not caring who saw.
He pulled me close, deepening the kiss just enough to make me forget we had an audience. Someone whistled, and he grinned against my lips.
"Missed you," he murmured.
"You saw me this morning."
"Still missed you." He took my hand and led me to the bar. "Hungry?"
"Always. What's Sam made tonight?"
"Pot roast that'll make you weep with joy." He was already pouring my drink. "Potatoes, carrots, the works."
He wasn't exaggerating. Twenty minutes later I was practically humming over tender beef that melted on my tongue, root vegetables soaked in rich gravy, and bread so fresh it was still warm.
"You like watching me eat?" I asked, catching him staring.
"I like watching you relax and enjoy yourself." His eyes held mine. "Anything that makes you happy."
"Dangerous territory, mountain man."
"Who, me?" He leaned closer across the bar. "I'm innocent."
"The hell you are." I took a deliberate sip of beer, watching his eyes darken. "I remember what you did last night."
"Want me to do it again?"
"Yes," I said. "But maybe later."
His sharp intake of breath made me smile. "You're killing me, Eve."
"Good."
The bar filled as the evening wore on, the crackling fireplace mixing with laughter and the clink of glasses. Jack Weston pulled a stocking requiring him to text his ex-wife "Merry Christmas." He did it with surprising grace, admitting she wasn't a bad person—they just weren't right for each other. When his phone chimed a minute later with her response—Merry Christmas, Jack. Hope you're well.—everyone clapped.
Trish challenged another muscular ski instructor to arm wrestling and actually won this time. Her victory dance involved what had to be the worst twerking attempt in recorded history, which only made everyone cheer louder.
The warmth settled over me like a blanket. This was what I'd been missing in my old life—people who celebrated small moments without needing to document them. Joy that existed whether or not anyone posted about it.
"Your turn, Eve!" Mabel's voice cut through my thoughts. "Can't let the night pass without pulling at least one stocking!"
I stood and approached the bulletin board, letting my fingers hover over the colorful array before grabbing a red velvet stocking with gold ribbon.
The paper inside felt heavier than it should as I unfolded it.
"Tell the truth about your biggest failure," I read aloud.
The room quieted. This wasn't like the silly dares—this cut deeper. I looked at the expectant faces around me, at Deacon whose expression had shifted into something gentler, more concerned.
My throat closed.
Biggest failure. My engagement ending? Building a career on manufactured images? Becoming so fake I'd forgotten whathonest felt like? Or was it falling for Deacon this fast when I should know better?
