Page 29 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
Totally imperfect. Totally real and already full of happy memories.
The question wasn't whether what I felt for Deacon was moving too fast. The question was whether I was brave enough to let it be exactly what it was—messy and scary and more honest than anything I'd felt in years.
I just had to decide if I could stop running long enough to find out.
Chapter Six
Deacon
The bar looked like Santa's workshop had exploded in the best possible way. My bartenders and I had spent the afternoon stringing colorful lights across every beam, hanging fresh pine garlands that filled the air with evergreen, and positioning poinsettias on every available surface. The bulletin board practically groaned under the weight of Christmas stockings—we'd added at least thirty new ones for tonight's championship.
I adjusted a crooked strand of lights for the third time, knowing damn well it was fine.
"You've straightened that same section four times," Sam said from the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on his apron. "She's either coming or she's not. Messing with the decorations won't change it."
"I'm not—" I stopped, because he was right. "Shouldn't you be prepping food?"
"Prime rib's in the oven, twice-baked potatoes are ready to go, and I've got three pies cooling." He leaned against the doorframe. "Which gives me just enough time to tell you that you've been like a caged animal all day. What the hell happened?"
Yesterday. When Eve had asked for space and I'd walked away respecting her wishes even though every instinct screamedat me to fight harder. When I'd driven back to the bar and threw myself into prep work to avoid thinking about how empty my apartment felt without her in it.
"She needed time to think," I said.
"About?"
"Us. Whether this is real or just her rebounding." I grabbed a towel and wiped down the already-clean bar. "Whether falling for someone in less than a week makes sense."
Sam was quiet for a moment. "And you let her go."
"What else was I supposed to do? Force her to feel something she's not ready for?"
"No. But you could fight for her." He met my eyes. "Question is—are you going to?"
Before I could answer, the door opened and the first guests arrived. Earl Jenkins and his grandson, both wearing matching ugly Christmas sweaters featuring a T-rex in a Santa hat. Then Mabel and Harvey, she in a dress that sparkled with actual battery-powered lights. The Hawthornes with their small army of kids, all wearing reindeer antler headbands.
Within an hour, the bar was packed. People had shown up in their version of fancy—pressed flannel shirts, holiday sweaters, sequined tops paired with jeans, Santa hats and elf ears. My staff moved through the crowd with trays of champagne, and the kitchen was churning out plates of food. The smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread mixed with pine and cinnamon.
I worked the bar, pouring drinks and greeting regulars while my eyes kept drifting to the door. The promotional posts Eve had created had worked—we'd never had this many people for Christmas Eve. I should be thrilled.
Instead, I kept watching for blonde hair and green eyes.
My Santa booth wish from last week echoed in my head. I'd written it down without overthinking:The courage to love again.At the time, I'd thought it was about healing from Lydia,from the shooting, from the years of keeping everyone at arm's length.
Now I understood. That wish was about Eve. About being brave enough to open my heart to someone who might break it, but who might also be exactly what I'd been waiting for.
