Page 28 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
"My biggest failure?" Words tumbled out faster than I could stop them. "Where do I start? My engagement ended because Hayden and I hadn't had sex in six months. Six months of posting couple photos while we barely spoke at home. Six months of him sleeping in the guest room while I told Instagram how blessed I was."
I paced the small living room, unable to stop now that I'd started.
"I built my whole career on projecting this ideal life that was completely hollow. I was so good at lying that I convinced myself it was true. And then I came here to hide from Christmas, from my life, from having to face that everything I built was fake."
My voice cracked. "Then I met you, and it felt—God, it felt so right—but how can it be? We've known each other four days. Four days. I shouldn't be feeling this way about you. I shouldn't want to stay in your bed every morning or count the hours until I see you again. I shouldn't be imagining what it would be like to just... not leave."
I finally looked at him. "So maybe my biggest failure is that I don't know how to trust what I feel anymore. Maybe I'm just really good at performing, and I can't tell the difference between something real and another pretty lie."
Silence filled the cabin. I braced for him to agree, to tell me I was right to doubt this.
"You want to know about trusting your instincts?" His voice was low and raw. "I was undercover for three years. Deep undercover—the kind where you forget who you really are because your life depends on staying in character. I had good instincts. They kept me alive when other cops died."
He moved closer but didn't touch me. "Until they didn't. I ignored the feeling that something was off about a meet. Told myself I was being paranoid. Walked into an ambush and took two bullets."
I watched his jaw tighten, eyes going distant.
"As I told you before, one grazed my arm. The other hit my lower back, damaged nerves in my spine. Six months of physical therapy to walk without dragging my leg. Six months learning to trust my body again." His eyes met mine. "But the worst part wasn't the physical recovery. It was knowing I'd ignored my gut, and it nearly killed me. How do you trust yourself after that?"
"How did you?" I whispered.
"Promise Ridge." A small smile crossed his face. "This town, these people—they gave me room to rebuild. To figure out who I was without the job, without expectations. To remember that sometimes your instincts are right even when they're telling you something scary."
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell coffee and pine. "My instincts are screaming about you, Eve. Telling me this matters, that four days can mean more than four years if they're honest. That falling fast doesn't mean falling wrong."
His hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. "But I can't force you to trust yourself—to trust whatever this new thing is between us. I can't convince you this is worth it if you're not ready to believe."
I leaned into his touch, my heart aching. "I want to believe it."
"Then believe it." His voice gentled but stayed certain. "Stop performing. Stop running. Just be here with me."
"What if I don't know how?"
"Then we figure it out together." He kissed my forehead. "But I need you to decide. I'm all in—have been since that mistletoe kiss. But I won't push you into something you're not ready for."
I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of the choice. Stay in this terrifying, wonderful free-fall, or run back to my safe, controlled life in Boulder.
"I need space," I heard myself say. "Just... time to think."
Pain flashed across his face before he masked it. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah." He stepped back, and I immediately wanted to pull him close. "I respect that. But Eve—the Christmas Eve bash is tonight. You already did amazing work promoting it. I understand if you don't want more with me, but I hope you'll still come."
He moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the knob. "Come for Promise Ridge. Come for Christmas. Come for Mabel and Sam and Earl and everyone who's made you laugh this week." His eyes found mine one last time. "Even if you can't come for me."
The door closed softly, and I watched through the window as his truck disappeared.
The cabin felt emptier than it had that first day. I sank onto the couch, pulling out my phone. My Instagram app stared back at me—I hadn't looked at my personal feed once.
I opened it now. My last personal post was from two months ago—Hayden and me at some charity gala, both looking at the camera with dead eyes. The caption talked about gratitude and love and partnership.
Three thousand likes. Hundreds of comments about how we looked together.
Every word a lie.
I glanced up at the little Christmas tree in the corner. At the lopsided star. At the silly popcorn garland.
