Chapter One #2
Mabel snorted. "Honey, you picked the wrong town if you're looking to escape Christmas.
Promise Ridge goes all out - it's practically our claim to fame.
" She waved a hand toward the festive decorations filling every corner of the bar.
"But since you're here, you might as well enjoy it.
Now, I absolutely insist you participate in our local tradition. Consider it your official baptism."
Before I could object, Mabel was bellowing over the din. "Hey, everyone! Fresh meat needs to pull her first stocking!"
The restaurant fell silent as every head turned our way. My face burned hotter than the fireplace across the room, but escape seemed impossible in the face of Mabel's well-intentioned public hazing.
Deacon leaned in, his voice pitched for my ears only. "Most dares are pretty tame. Promise."
"Most?" I whispered back.
"Except that time Flint Hawthorne had to streak down Main Street," he deadpanned. "But it was summer, so frostbite wasn't an issue."
I couldn't tell if he was joking, and had no chance to ask. Mabel had maneuvered me off my barstool toward the bulletin board with the skill of a border collie herding a stubborn sheep.
"Go on," she urged, eyes twinkling. "Pick your fate."
The crowd watched expectantly, patrons calling out contradictory advice: "Go for the red one with the white trim!" "No, no, blue ones are always easiest!" "Pick the one with the bell—it's lucky!"
My eyes swept across dozens of tiny stockings, each barely larger than my palm. Some traditional red and white, others in plaids, stripes, or glittering fabrics. All handmade with varying skill levels, from elementary school craft project to professional seamstress.
"Fine," I muttered, reaching for a plain red one in the middle.
I unpinned it and peered inside, extracting a folded slip of paper. The bar quieted to a hush as I unfolded it.
"'Kiss a stranger under the mistletoe—minimum five seconds,'" I read aloud, heat rising to my face as the crowd erupted in whistles and cheers.
Mabel cackled with delight. "Classic! Mistletoe's hanging all over. Take your pick of the single fellows, honey."
I surveyed my options. A cluster of ski patrol guys in the corner—all at least a decade younger than me. Two older men who could be someone's grandfathers. A family with kids who were absolutely off the table.
And then there was Deacon, watching with undisguised amusement, arms crossed over his chest.
"The least awkward choice," I decided, turning to him. "If you're willing?"
His eyebrows arched slightly, but he nodded. "House rules. Dares must be honored."
Someone pointed to a sprig of mistletoe dangling from a wooden beam near the bar. Deacon stepped beneath it, and I followed, acutely aware of every eye watching us.
"You don't have to—" he began.
"Let's get this over with," I said quickly.
The bar patrons began counting down as I stepped closer. I expected to stretch up on tiptoes, but he bent down, meeting me halfway. Our lips connected just as the crowd shouted "Five!"
I'd planned on a quick peck. A mere formality.
But the moment our lips touched, electricity shot through me.
His mouth was surprisingly soft against mine, his beard tickling my skin.
Cedar and whiskey filled my senses, and my knees actually wobbled—a reaction I'd thought only happened in the cheesy romance novels I secretly devoured.
"Four!" the crowd chanted.
He kept his hands strictly at his sides, but leaned in ever so slightly, and my body responded on its own, swaying toward him.
"Three!"
My eyes fluttered shut, and I caught myself almost lifting my hands to his shoulders.
"Two!"
His lips moved against mine, the barest pressure change that sent my pulse racing.
"One! Woooooooo!"
We broke apart to whistles and applause. Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I couldn't quite meet Deacon's gaze as we stepped away from each other.
"That earned you a free drink," he said, his voice rougher than before. "What'll it be?"
"Something stronger than beer," I managed.
He nodded and returned behind the bar while I retreated to my stool. The patrons gradually drifted back to their conversations, though I caught curious glances and whispers aimed my way.
Mabel materialized again at my elbow, looking like she'd just won the lottery. "Now that's an entrance to remember. I haven't seen Deacon knocked off balance since Josie Hawthorne's SUV took out his front bumper."
"I wasn't trying to throw anyone off balance," I said, still feeling the ghost of his lips on mine. "Just following the rules."
"Mmm-hmm." She patted my hand with surprising gentleness. "Between you and me, you picked the only worthwhile option in the room."
My food arrived alongside a tumbler of golden, bubbly liquid that Deacon slid across the bar. "One green chile burger and a Jack and Ginger on the house.'"
"Thanks," I said, focusing intently on my plate. The burger looked mouthwatering—roasted green chiles and melted cheese oozing over a perfectly seared patty, accompanied by a pile of hand-cut fries.
"I'll leave you to your dinner," Mabel announced, hopping off her stool and draining her glass in a single gulp.
She set the empty mug on the wooden counter with a satisfied thump.
"Better check that Harvey hasn't turned our bathroom into a sauna with that hairdryer.
But I expect to see you at the store tomorrow. Holiday decor, half-price!"
She bustled out as quickly as she'd arrived, leaving me alone with my burger and my confusion over what had just happened.
Deacon wiped down the bar, glancing my way. "Mabel's got a good heart under all that bluster."
"And a talent for public humiliation," I added.
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through my chest. "Town's unofficial welcoming committee."
"And matchmaker?" I ventured.
"That too." Deacon stacked clean glasses. "She's paraded every single woman under fifty past this bar since I took over."
I bit into my burger and nearly whimpered. The chiles delivered the perfect kick against the richness of the beef and cheese. "This burger is ridiculous."
"Chef's secret—we roast those chiles ourselves every harvest." Pride tinged his voice. "People drive from three towns over for them."
I took another bite, savoring it alongside a sip of my cocktail that blazed a trail down my throat. "You mentioned you've owned this place for a few years?"
"Yep, bought it two years ago when Spence decided to retire to Arizona."
"And before that?"
A shadow flickered across his face. "Denver PD. Detective division."
That explained the observant eyes, the careful way he scanned the room. I noticed now how he positioned himself with a clear view of the door—a habit that probably saved lives in his former career.
"Big leap from city detective to mountain tavern owner."
"Needed different scenery." His clipped tone signaled that topic was closed. A glass shattered somewhere in the kitchen, and I caught the almost imperceptible tensing of his shoulders before he forced them to relax.
I didn't push. Whatever had driven him from Denver wasn't my business, especially when I had my own baggage to avoid unpacking.
"So what's the verdict?" I asked. "Did I pass my initiation?"
His shoulders relaxed. "You're in. That kiss definitely qualified." One corner of his mouth lifted. "Though most first-timers go for the quick peck and call it good."
Heat crept up my neck. "The crowd was counting. Seemed rude not to commit."
"Committed is one word for it." His eyes held mine for a beat before he grabbed a towel and moved down the bar.
I finished my meal, acutely aware of him even when he was helping other customers. When I pulled out my wallet, he waved me off.
"First meal's on the house. Welcome to Promise Ridge."
"I already got the free drink."
"Consider it an investment." He held my gaze. "Hoping you'll come back."
My stomach did a flip, and it had nothing to do with the greasy goodness I’d just consumed.
"Maybe," I heard myself say.
"Wednesday's usually busier. More dares." He paused. "Come back tomorrow."
"We'll see," I said, which we both knew meant yes.
THE COLD HIT ME THE moment I stepped outside. I stood by my car for a moment, breath fogging in the frigid air, trying to process what had just happened.
I'd come here to hide. Instead, I'd kissed a stranger under mistletoe and made plans—sort of—to see him again tomorrow.
Back at the cabin, I went through my nighttime routine on autopilot. It wasn't until I was washing my face that I caught my reflection. Without the false lashes and heavy makeup, I looked like myself again. Not the version I carefully curated for public consumption. Just Eve.
When was the last time anyone had looked at me—really looked—and not at my follower count or filtered image?
I climbed into bed and pulled the flannel comforter up to my chin. Through the window, moonlight painted the snow-covered landscape in shades of silver.
My last thought before sleep wasn't about Hayden or the wedding that should have been happening in five days.
It was about blue eyes and that half-smile. About tomorrow night and whether Deacon would look at me that way again. About a bar full of people who'd made a stranger feel welcome.
I'd driven up this mountain to hide from life and lick my wounds in peace.
But lying there in the dark, something had shifted. Maybe there was still hope for something merry this Christmas after all.