Page 12 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
We wandered through the market, stopping to admire hand-carved wooden ornaments with intricate snowflake patterns, locally made candles in mason jars that smelled of fir and vanilla, and knitted scarves in every imaginable shade. At one stall selling handmade jewelry, I lingered over a delicate silver bracelet with a small pine tree charm.
"You should get it," Deacon suggested, appearing at my shoulder. "Souvenir of your mountain escape."
"I don't need—"
"Not about need." His voice dropped slightly. "Sometimes it's just about wanting."
The double meaning hung between us, and I looked up to find his eyes on me, unexpectedly intense.
I bought the bracelet.
At a confectionery stall, we sampled maple candies that dissolved on my tongue, leaving behind hints of butter and smoke. The woman selling them turned out to be Sam's wife, Deacon explained—the cook from the bar. She pressed an extra piece into my hand with a smile that sent heat to my cheeks.
"Everyone seems to know you," I observed as we moved on.
"Small town. Two years is practically a lifetime here."
"And do you always bring newcomers to the market?"
The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Only the ones who pull the 'kiss a stranger' stocking."
The memory of that kiss made my pulse skip despite the cold. I quickly changed the subject. "What's that over there?"
The booth I'd pointed to was decorated with oversized candy canes and a sign reading "Letters to Santa."
"Ah," Deacon said, steering me toward it. "Annual tradition here. Everyone writes a letter."
"Isn't that for kids?"
"Look around."
People of all ages were scribbling at wooden writing stations, folding their notes, and dropping them into an enormous red mailbox that stood taller than me.
"What happens to them?" I asked.
"Most get burned in a ceremony on Christmas Eve—sends the wishes to the North Pole, supposedly. Some get anonymously fulfilled if they're practical enough."
"That's... actually kind of sweet."
"Secret wishes have power," he said, his voice lower, more serious than before. "Sometimes saying what you want, even on a piece of paper nobody reads, makes it more real."
I hadn't thought of it that way. "Is that why you participate?"
"Every year since I moved here." His smile returned. "Made last year's wish come true, too."
"Which was?"
"Can't tell you. But this year's is more ambitious." He nudged me toward an empty writing station. "Your turn."
"Oh, I don't think—"
"Everyone does it. I insist."
Reluctantly, I picked up the pen and stared at the festive stationery. What did I even want for Christmas? My engagement back? No—that relationship had been dead long before Hayden officially ended it. My perfectly composed online life? That felt hollow now too.
Finally, I wrote four simple words: "Something real this Christmas." I folded it quickly before Deacon could see, dropped it into the slot, and turned to find him watching me with a soft expression.
"What did you wish for?" I asked as we moved away.
