Page 7 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
"I'm not sure I should press it after last night." A flush crept up from the collar of her sweater, the kind I'd seen on witnesses who suddenly remembered more than they'd first admitted.
"What happens in Promises stays in Promises," I assured her. "Unless it's particularly entertaining—then it becomes town legend by morning."
Her laugh briefly rose above the evening chatter.
The door swung open with a gust of frigid air and a group of locals. I moved down the bar to serve them, catching Eve watching my movements in the mirror behind the bottles. When our eyes met, she didn't look away.
As the night deepened, the Stocking Pull tradition started up organically. Bill, a sixty-something retired park ranger, pulled one requiring him to speak in rhymes for ten minutes. He gaveup after three tortured verses and bought a round for his table. Two ski instructors completed their dares with enthusiasm—one chugging a beer while standing on one foot, the other trying to spell “gingerbread” backward.
"Your turn, Deacon!" called Trish, a local real estate agent. "Owner's gotta participate!"
I'd been waiting for this. Every night, I played along once to keep the tradition alive. Tonight, I had additional motivation.
"Fine, fine." I wiped my hands and approached the bulletin board, making a show of considering my options before selecting a green stocking with silver trim. The slip inside read: "Tell the bar your best pickup line."
Groans and laughter erupted around the room.
"This should be good," Eve said, eyes bright with anticipation.
I moved to stand directly across from her, forearms on the bar. "Are you a Christmas tree?" I asked, maintaining serious eye contact.
She raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like a Christmas tree?"
"Because I want to put you in my living room and cover you with my ornaments."
The bar exploded with laughter and mock outrage. Eve's jaw dropped before she dissolved into giggles, covering her face.
"That was atrocious," she managed between laughs.
"The dare didn't specify that it should be agoodpickup line." I couldn't help grinning at her reaction. "Just my best one."
"If that's your best, I'd hate to hear your worst," she shot back, still smiling.
"One free drink earned!" announced Jack Weston from his corner table. The retired firefighter had appointed himself unofficial scorekeeper of the Stocking Pull game years ago. "Keep going, Deacon! Show the newcomer how it's done!"
Never one to disappoint a crowd, I returned to the board and pulled a red and blue stocking. "'Do ten push-ups,'" I read aloud.
"On the bar!" someone shouted.
"Not happening," I fired back. "Health code violations aside, my staff would murder me."
Instead, I moved to an open space near the fireplace, shrugged off my flannel overshirt, and dropped to the floor. My thermal henley pulled taut across my shoulders—a fact I became acutely aware of when I caught Eve watching with interest.
The push-ups came easily—splitting cords of firewood and maintaining the bar's aging infrastructure kept me in better shape than most men my age. I felt Eve's gaze as I moved, and I'd be lying if I claimed not to flex a bit more than necessary.
"Two stockings to assign!" Jack called as I stood. "That's the rule, folks!"
My addition to the Stocking Pull tradition was simple—for each dare I completed, I earned the right to assign a stocking to anyone in the bar. It kept things lively and ensured everyone had a chance to participate, willing or not.
I scanned the room, my eyes landing on Earl Jenkins hunched in the corner booth. The former logger had been coming to Promises almost every night since his wife passed last year, always nursing the same bourbon on ice.
"Earl," I called, crossing to the bulletin board and selecting a blue stocking. "This one's yours."
The older man looked up, bushy white eyebrows furrowed. "Not tonight, Pike."
"Trust me on this one," I said, handing him the stocking.
Earl sighed with the weight of his seventy-some years but pulled out the slip of paper. "'Flash your underwear,'" he read, then broke into a grin that seemed to erase a decade from his weathered face. "Well, if I gotta."
