Page 13 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
He tapped his temple. "Can't tell you. Won't come true."
"You actually believe that?"
A playful spark lit his expression. "I believe in hedging my bets. Besides, a little mystery keeps things interesting."
We continued through the market, stopping next at a tent filled with tables where people hunched over partially constructed gingerbread houses. A harried-looking woman with flour on her cheek brightened when she spotted us.
"Deacon! Perfect timing. We need two more participants for the couples competition!"
"Oh, we're not—" I began.
"We'd be delighted," Deacon cut in, grinning at my alarmed expression. "Eve's an artist."
"I am not!"
"Social media strategist," he explained to the woman. "Visual genius."
"Wonderful!" She ushered us to a table with pre-built gingerbread house shells and an array of candies, icing, and decorations. "You have twenty minutes. Most creative design wins bragging rights and Snowdrift Confections' traditional German holiday cookie assortment."
Before I could protest further, a timer was set and Deacon was handing me a piping bag filled with white icing.
"I thought we were just walking around the market," I muttered, squeezing the bag experimentally.
"Where's your competitive spirit?" He tested the stability of a wall panel. "Unless you're afraid of losing..."
The challenge in his tone sparked my determination. "Oh, it's on, mountain man."
We threw ourselves into the task, elbowing each other for the best candies, trading mock-serious critiques of technique.
"Your roof is crooked," I pointed out, reaching across to secure a gingerbread panel.
"Your path looks like it was paved by drunk elves," he countered, stealing the gumdrop I'd been reaching for.
I snorted when my attempt at an icicle decoration turned out distinctly phallic.
"Perhaps a different approach," Deacon suggested, biting back a grin as I hastily scraped it off.
"Shut up and pass the gumdrops."
"Yes, ma'am."
My skin tingled where our hands brushed. When Deacon leaned close to add a detail to my side of the house, the warmthof him radiated through my sweater, and his nearness made my concentration crumble faster than our gingerbread walls.
We didn't win—that honor went to an actual professional baker and her husband—but our lopsided creation with its candy cane fence and gumdrop pathway earned honorable mention for "Most Enthusiastic Use of Sugar."
"We were robbed," Deacon declared as we left the tent, snow beginning to fall more heavily around us.
"Total scam," I agreed, grinning.
We ducked into the Timber & Spoon for lunch. The cozy establishment with its red vinyl booths and waitresses who called everyone "hon" felt almost familiar now. Over steaming bowls of French onion soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, our conversation flowed easily, moving from favorite movies to travel disasters to my career path.
"I majored in communications," I said, dipping my sandwich into the rich broth. "Landed an internship with a struggling sustainable fashion startup—amazing products, zero online presence."
"So you worked your magic?"
"Built them a following from scratch. Now I manage several fashion brands' social media accounts."
"Must be rewarding."
