Page 27 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
"I..." The word came out strangled.
Mabel laughed, oblivious to my panic. "That means you buy a round for the house, honey! Them's the rules!"
But I couldn't move. The bar felt too small, too crowded, every face waiting for me to perform. To be entertaining. To bare my soul like it was content for consumption.
"Eve?" Deacon's voice cut through the roaring in my ears. "You okay?"
No. I wasn't okay. I was the opposite of okay.
I ran.
Pushed through the crowd, ignoring him calling my name, and burst into the cold night. My hands shook so badly I could barely unlock my car, but then I was driving, tears blurring the dark mountain road.
INSIDE THE CABIN, Islammed the door and slid down it to the floor. The walls I'd built over years of carefully curated perfection—the ones that had crumbled so easily around Deacon—slammed back into place, protecting me from the terrifying vulnerability of actual truth.
I'd run from honesty. Again.
Just like I'd run from admitting my relationship with Hayden was dead. Just like I'd run from Boulder instead of facing my failed engagement. Just like I'd spent years running from anything that didn't fit my camera-ready, pretty, posed life.
The tree lights blinked in the corner, mocking me. We'd hung those lights together, laughing when Deacon tangled me up in them by accident. We'd made that ridiculous popcorn garland, eating more than we strung. We'd turned this empty rental spaceinto something warm. Something that had begun to feel like a home.
And I'd just thrown it all away because I was too chickenshit to tell the truth.
I cried then—messy, snotty tears that had nothing to do with looking pretty. I cried for the year I'd wasted with Hayden, maintaining appearances while our relationship died. I cried for the version of myself I'd lost somewhere between genuine and filtered image. I cried because I was terrified that whatever I had with Deacon was too good, too fast, too much to be sustainable.
The Christmas tree blurred through my tears, and I cried harder. That handmade snowflake ornament we'd bought together. The lopsided star he'd called "charmingly imperfect." The whole beautiful, messy truth of it.
Eventually the tears stopped. I peeled myself off the floor, changed into soft pajamas, and collapsed onto the couch. My phone showed missed calls and texts from Deacon, each more worried than the last.
I couldn't face them. Not yet.
MORNING LIGHT WOKEme, still on the couch. My face felt crusty, my head pounded, and I looked like absolute hell.
Coffee. I needed coffee before I could think about anything else.
I'd just started the pot when gravel crunched outside. Through the window, I watched Deacon's truck pull up, and my heart slammed against my ribs.
Part of me wanted to hide. The other part—the part that was so tired of running—knew I couldn't avoid this.
His knock was gentle. "Eve? I know you're in there. Your car's here."
I opened the door. His face fell at whatever he saw in mine.
"Can I come in?"
I stepped aside, unable to find words.
He stood in the living room, hands shoved in his pockets, looking more uncertain than I'd ever seen him. "You didn't complete your dare. You owe the bar a round."
Despite everything, my mouth almost twitched. "That's why you're here? To collect?"
"No." He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up. "I'm here because you bolted out of my bar like the building was on fire, and I've been worried sick."
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." His voice stayed soft but firm. "Talk to me, Eve. What happened?"
The dam broke.
