Page 30 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
If she gave me the chance.
"Deacon!" Trish waved from across the room. "When are we starting this thing?"
I checked my watch. Seven-thirty. The bash had been going strong for ninety minutes, and still no Eve.
She wasn't coming.
My chest ached, but I smiled anyway. "Let's give it another few minutes for stragglers."
That's when the door opened and she walked in.
My heart stopped. She wore a black cocktail dress that hit just above her knee, the kind that would look plain on anyone else but on her looked stunning. The neckline showed just enough skin to make my mouth go dry, and when she turned to hang up her coat, I caught a glimpse of her legs in sheer black stockings and heels that made them look impossibly long.
Our eyes met across the crowded bar. She gave a small, uncertain smile before looking away.
Professional. Distant. Here because she'd committed to helping promote this event, not because she wanted to see me.
It stung, but I forced myself to stay behind the bar—where I belonged.
THE STOCKING PULL CHAMPIONSHIPkicked off with Earl's grandson pulling a dare to sing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" in an opera voice. The kid had no training but gave it his all, making everyone laugh and earning his first point.
I explained the rules to newcomers: "Most dares completed by midnight gets free drinks—kids free desserts—for an entire year. Pull as many as you want, but if you refuse one, you're out of the running."
The competition was fierce. Jack performed a surprisingly graceful interpretive dance to "The Nutcracker Suite." Trish correctly spelled “Tannenbaum” backward. Mabel chugged a beer while standing on one leg and then immediately pulled another stocking requiring her to tell her most embarrassing moment—which involved Harvey, a Thanksgiving turkey, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding with the town sheriff.
The kitchen outdid itself—prime rib and baked ham were the menu’s featured entrees, accompanied by sides of roasted seasonal vegetables and Sam's famous twice-baked potatoes that people drove from two towns over to eat. Pumpkin and apple pies cooled on every surface for later. Families claimed tables, greeting friends and neighbors warmly before eagerly digging into their meals. Champagne flutes clinked as people toasted the holiday.
Through it all, Eve sat at the end of the bar nursing a glass of white wine. When I tried to catch her eye, she looked away. Kept glancing at me then staring at her shoes—those heels that were driving me insane. Several regulars asked if she was competing, but she politely declined each time with a tight smile. When a husband completed a dare requiring him to tell his wife—along with everyone present—why he'd marry her all over again, I saw Eve dab at the corners of her eyes with her mangled napkin.
The dancing started around nine. I'd queued up the classics—Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra. Couples took to the small dance floor we'd cleared, swaying to "White Christmas" and "The Christmas Song."
Eve watched them with an expression that broke my heart. Longing mixed with sadness, like she was witnessing somethingbeautiful from the outside, unable to step through the magical snow globe.
When she signaled for her server and pulled out her credit card, panic shot through me.
She was leaving.
I had maybe five minutes before I chanced losing her for good. Before she could drive back to that cabin, pack her bags, and return to Boulder before I knew what happened. Before whatever we'd started ended before it really began.
Sam appeared at my elbow. "Now or never, boss."
He was right.
Eve had been brave enough to come here tonight despite her fear. The least I could do was match her courage and tell her the truth.
I grabbed a stocking—one I'd made specifically—and rang the bell behind the bar.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" My voice carried over the music. "We're closing out the Stocking Pull championship, but there's one more dare left. And this one's mine."
The room quieted. All eyes turned to me as I crossed the room, weaving through tables, looking only at Eve.
I stopped in front of her. She looked up, eyes wide, napkin clutched in her trembling hands.
I pulled the slip from the stocking and read aloud: "Santa's still listening—what is your Christmas wish?"
The bar fell silent.
"My wish," I said, loud enough to carry but meant only for her, "is for a chance at true love. To trust my instincts again and take the leap of faith that the best things in life usually require."
