Page 16 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
His eyes met mine, a question lingering in them. For a heartbeat I thought he might kiss me again. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingers grazing my cheek with deliberate slowness.
"See you tomorrow, Eve."
After he left, the cabin felt strangely hollow despite the cheerful tree in the corner. I stood looking at it—tangible proof that I'd let someone past the walls I'd built around my broken heart.
I ran a hot bubble bath in the clawfoot tub, letting the lavender-scented steam envelop me as I sank into the water. As I soaked, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun that I'd completely forgotten to check my phone. The idea of taking selfies hadn't even occurred to me all day. It felt wonderful to be fully present in the moment—all because of a mountain man I'd just met who was quickly feeling less like a stranger and more like...
I didn't let myself finish that thought.
Later, wrapped in my comfiest pajamas—the ones that would horrify my Instagram followers—I pulled up a pizza delivery app on my phone. Screw the carb counting I'd been doing for months. It was the holidays, as they say. I ordered a large pepperoni with extra cheese and garlic knots, deciding to fully embrace the comfort food indulgence.
While I waited for delivery, I settled on the couch and found a cheesy holiday movie on TV. The predictable plot unfolded—big city career woman visits small town, meets ruggedly handsome local, discovers what really matters. How had I become a walking romcom cliché?
The pizza arrived, and I dug in with shameless enthusiasm, savoring every carb-loaded bite. My gaze kept drifting to the tree, watching the lights twinkle against the darkened window, snow still falling beyond the glass.
On screen, the movie's leading couple shared their first kiss—passionate and consuming, hands tangling in hair, bodies pressed together. Heat bloomed in my chest as the memory of Deacon's lips on mine rushed back. That mistletoe kiss had been brief, constrained by the counting crowd and public setting. But what if we'd been alone? What if there'd been no timer, no audience?
I wondered how it would feel to continue where we'd left off.
My phone buzzed with a text. I grabbed it, pulse quickening, hoping—
Just my boss, checking in about a client deadline.
I set the phone aside and returned my attention to the movie, but my thoughts kept wandering to tomorrow. More Stocking Pull dares. More time with Deacon. More real moments.
For the first time since Hayden had ended our relationship, I felt lighter, as if I'd set down a heavy backpack I'd forgotten I was wearing.
I glanced at the tree one more time before heading to bed, its lights casting dancing shadows on the cabin walls, and I smiled.
Chapter Four
Deacon
I'd checked the clock four times in the last hour.
"You're worse than a kid on Christmas morning," Sam said, catching me glancing at my watch again as I restocked the beer cooler.
"Just keeping track of time."
"Right. That's why you've rearranged the same six bottles three times." He wiped down the prep counter. "She'll be here when she gets here."
I straightened, rolling my shoulders. The lunch rush had been steady but manageable, and now the afternoon lull gave me too much time to think. About yesterday—the market, the tree, how she'd laughed while we strung popcorn and ate more than we strung. How hard it had been to leave her cabin and come back for the closing shift.
"You've got it bad," Sam said, amused.
