Page 6 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
Sam Lewis had been Promises' cook since before I bought it. Mid-fifties with forearms corded from decades of kitchen work and a shaved head that gleamed under the lights. The photos on the wall from the bar's early days proved he'd once had a full head of hair, despite his claims about being bald since thirty.
"Gotta prep for the lunch rush." He tied his apron, eyeing me with suspicion. "Your mind's a million miles away. Or maybe just across the bar where that newcomer was sitting."
I turned away, counting bottles behind the bar. "Taking inventory."
"Bullshit." The smile in his voice was unmistakable. "That kiss under the mistletoe was something else. Never seen your ears go that red before, not even when those bikers started that fight your first summer."
"It was a dare," I said flatly. "Part of the tradition."
"Sure." Sam turned back toward the kitchen. "And that woman just happened to walk into your bar her first night in town. Coincidence has nothing on good timing."
Eve's wry smile flashed through my mind, the careful way she held herself apart even in a room full of friendly strangers. The flash of vulnerability when our lips met.
"Eve's passing through," I said, more to myself than to Sam. "Hiding from Christmas, sounds like."
"Christmas finds everyone in Promise Ridge," Sam chuckled. "It's practically our main export. Think she'll be back tonight?"
"She said maybe."
"Which means yes."
"We'll see," I said, but found my eyes straying to the clock throughout the day.
THE DISTINCTIVE CREAKof the front door pulled my attention from the counter I was wiping down. Even without looking up, I knew it was her—the same prickling awareness at the back of my neck that had kept me alive during three years in narcotics. When I did raise my eyes, my breath caught.
Eve looked different tonight—softer somehow, with blonde hair loose around her shoulders instead of yesterday's sleek style. She'd scaled back the makeup, though those false lashes still framed green eyes that caught the light. Her designer sweater and jeans had replaced yesterday's outfit, but both still looked out of place in a town where Carhartt qualified as formal wear.
"You came back," I said, aiming for casual as she claimed the same barstool.
"I said I might." Her smile seemed less forced, more genuine. "Besides, my cooking skills max out at microwaving and takeout."
"Lucky for you, Sam makes the best comfort food this side of the Continental Divide." I slid a cocktail napkin her way. "Same drink as last night?"
"Actually, I'll try the Pine Peak Amber again." She shrugged off her coat, draping it over the empty stool beside her. "That beer surprised me."
"We may be small, but we've got standards." I tilted the glass to minimize foam as I poured.
The corner of her mouth quirked up in appreciation.
"How's your day been?" she asked, accepting the frosty mug.
"The usual routine. Inventory, lunch rush, fixing the dishwasher for the third time this month." I leaned against the counter behind me. "You? Getting settled in?"
"If by 'settled in' you mean 'worked on my laptop all day without changing out of pajamas,' then yes."
"The glamorous life of..." My voice trailed off as I realized I'd never asked what she did.
"Social media strategist," she supplied. "I manage online presence for companies. Mostly sustainable fashion brands right now."
That explained her fancy look. "Sounds interesting."
"It can be." A shadow crossed her face, there and gone like cloud cover. "But I'm supposed to be on vacation, so I'm trying to forget about follower counts and engagement metrics."
The bar was filling up around us, Wednesday night regulars nodding my way as they claimed their tables. The fireplace crackled against the chill outside, warming the growing crowd.
Eve glanced toward the bulletin board. "Any new stockings tonight?"
"They change out every few days. People add new ones when inspiration strikes." I watched her eyes scan the colorful display. "Planning to try your luck again?"
