Chapter Two
Deacon
The coffee maker gurgled to life as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, dragging a hand across my stubbled jaw. Five-thirty AM—same as every morning since I'd bought this place. Some habits from my detective days were impossible to shake.
The empty dining room greeted me with predawn stillness, my boots scuffing against the worn wooden floors I'd refinished last spring.
Morning light hadn't yet broken over the mountains, but I knew the view by heart—pristine white slopes, evergreens dusted with snow, the kind of scene tourists drove hours to capture.
The kind of tranquility I'd needed after Denver.
Promises looked different without the crowd and clinking glasses—emptier and more mine. I flipped on the lowest setting of lights. The bulletin board behind the bar caught my eye—the mini stockings swaying in the heating vent's breeze.
One red stocking in particular.
My fingers brushed my lips without permission. That kiss last night.
Eve. Even her name felt good on my tongue, though I hadn't said it aloud since she introduced herself as Eve Cameron when she arrived. The memory of her body against mine followed instantly, the softness of her mouth. Five seconds had never lasted so long. Or ended so quickly.
"You're early." Sam's voice cut through my thoughts from the doorway.
"Says the man who insisted we needed to prep double the green chiles today," I replied, filling my mug with dark roast.
Sam Lewis had been Promises' cook since before I bought it.
Mid-fifties with forearms corded from decades of kitchen work and a shaved head that gleamed under the lights.
The photos on the wall from the bar's early days proved he'd once had a full head of hair, despite his claims about being bald since thirty.
"Gotta prep for the lunch rush." He tied his apron, eyeing me with suspicion. "Your mind's a million miles away. Or maybe just across the bar where that newcomer was sitting."
I turned away, counting bottles behind the bar. "Taking inventory."
"Bullshit." The smile in his voice was unmistakable. "That kiss under the mistletoe was something else. Never seen your ears go that red before, not even when those bikers started that fight your first summer."
"It was a dare," I said flatly. "Part of the tradition."
"Sure." Sam turned back toward the kitchen. "And that woman just happened to walk into your bar her first night in town. Coincidence has nothing on good timing."
Eve's wry smile flashed through my mind, the careful way she held herself apart even in a room full of friendly strangers. The flash of vulnerability when our lips met.
"Eve's passing through," I said, more to myself than to Sam. "Hiding from Christmas, sounds like."
"Christmas finds everyone in Promise Ridge," Sam chuckled. "It's practically our main export. Think she'll be back tonight?"
"She said maybe."
"Which means yes."
"We'll see," I said, but found my eyes straying to the clock throughout the day.
THE DISTINCTIVE CREAK of the front door pulled my attention from the counter I was wiping down. Even without looking up, I knew it was her—the same prickling awareness at the back of my neck that had kept me alive during three years in narcotics. When I did raise my eyes, my breath caught.
Eve looked different tonight—softer somehow, with blonde hair loose around her shoulders instead of yesterday's sleek style.
She'd scaled back the makeup, though those false lashes still framed green eyes that caught the light.
Her designer sweater and jeans had replaced yesterday's outfit, but both still looked out of place in a town where Carhartt qualified as formal wear.
"You came back," I said, aiming for casual as she claimed the same barstool.
"I said I might." Her smile seemed less forced, more genuine. "Besides, my cooking skills max out at microwaving and takeout."
"Lucky for you, Sam makes the best comfort food this side of the Continental Divide." I slid a cocktail napkin her way. "Same drink as last night?"
"Actually, I'll try the Pine Peak Amber again." She shrugged off her coat, draping it over the empty stool beside her. "That beer surprised me."
"We may be small, but we've got standards." I tilted the glass to minimize foam as I poured.
The corner of her mouth quirked up in appreciation.
"How's your day been?" she asked, accepting the frosty mug.
"The usual routine. Inventory, lunch rush, fixing the dishwasher for the third time this month." I leaned against the counter behind me. "You? Getting settled in?"
"If by 'settled in' you mean 'worked on my laptop all day without changing out of pajamas,' then yes."
"The glamorous life of..." My voice trailed off as I realized I'd never asked what she did.
"Social media strategist," she supplied. "I manage online presence for companies. Mostly sustainable fashion brands right now."
That explained her fancy look. "Sounds interesting."
"It can be." A shadow crossed her face, there and gone like cloud cover. "But I'm supposed to be on vacation, so I'm trying to forget about follower counts and engagement metrics."
The bar was filling up around us, Wednesday night regulars nodding my way as they claimed their tables. The fireplace crackled against the chill outside, warming the growing crowd.
Eve glanced toward the bulletin board. "Any new stockings tonight?"
"They change out every few days. People add new ones when inspiration strikes." I watched her eyes scan the colorful display. "Planning to try your luck again?"
"I'm not sure I should press it after last night." A flush crept up from the collar of her sweater, the kind I'd seen on witnesses who suddenly remembered more than they'd first admitted.
"What happens in Promises stays in Promises," I assured her. "Unless it's particularly entertaining—then it becomes town legend by morning."
Her laugh briefly rose above the evening chatter.
The door swung open with a gust of frigid air and a group of locals. I moved down the bar to serve them, catching Eve watching my movements in the mirror behind the bottles. When our eyes met, she didn't look away.
As the night deepened, the Stocking Pull tradition started up organically.
Bill, a sixty-something retired park ranger, pulled one requiring him to speak in rhymes for ten minutes.
He gave up after three tortured verses and bought a round for his table.
Two ski instructors completed their dares with enthusiasm—one chugging a beer while standing on one foot, the other trying to spell “gingerbread” backward.
"Your turn, Deacon!" called Trish, a local real estate agent. "Owner's gotta participate!"
I'd been waiting for this. Every night, I played along once to keep the tradition alive. Tonight, I had additional motivation.
"Fine, fine." I wiped my hands and approached the bulletin board, making a show of considering my options before selecting a green stocking with silver trim. The slip inside read: "Tell the bar your best pickup line."
Groans and laughter erupted around the room.
"This should be good," Eve said, eyes bright with anticipation.
I moved to stand directly across from her, forearms on the bar. "Are you a Christmas tree?" I asked, maintaining serious eye contact.
She raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like a Christmas tree?"
"Because I want to put you in my living room and cover you with my ornaments."
The bar exploded with laughter and mock outrage. Eve's jaw dropped before she dissolved into giggles, covering her face.
"That was atrocious," she managed between laughs.
"The dare didn't specify that it should be a good pickup line." I couldn't help grinning at her reaction. "Just my best one."
"If that's your best, I'd hate to hear your worst," she shot back, still smiling.
"One free drink earned!" announced Jack Weston from his corner table. The retired firefighter had appointed himself unofficial scorekeeper of the Stocking Pull game years ago. "Keep going, Deacon! Show the newcomer how it's done!"
Never one to disappoint a crowd, I returned to the board and pulled a red and blue stocking. "'Do ten push-ups,'" I read aloud.
"On the bar!" someone shouted.
"Not happening," I fired back. "Health code violations aside, my staff would murder me."
Instead, I moved to an open space near the fireplace, shrugged off my flannel overshirt, and dropped to the floor. My thermal henley pulled taut across my shoulders—a fact I became acutely aware of when I caught Eve watching with interest.
The push-ups came easily—splitting cords of firewood and maintaining the bar's aging infrastructure kept me in better shape than most men my age. I felt Eve's gaze as I moved, and I'd be lying if I claimed not to flex a bit more than necessary.
"Two stockings to assign!" Jack called as I stood. "That's the rule, folks!"
My addition to the Stocking Pull tradition was simple—for each dare I completed, I earned the right to assign a stocking to anyone in the bar. It kept things lively and ensured everyone had a chance to participate, willing or not.
I scanned the room, my eyes landing on Earl Jenkins hunched in the corner booth. The former logger had been coming to Promises almost every night since his wife passed last year, always nursing the same bourbon on ice.
"Earl," I called, crossing to the bulletin board and selecting a blue stocking. "This one's yours."
The older man looked up, bushy white eyebrows furrowed. "Not tonight, Pike."
"Trust me on this one," I said, handing him the stocking.
Earl sighed with the weight of his seventy-some years but pulled out the slip of paper. "'Flash your underwear,'" he read, then broke into a grin that seemed to erase a decade from his weathered face. "Well, if I gotta."
He stood with surprising agility for his age and yanked up his pant leg to reveal knee-length thermal underwear with moose printed all over them. The crowd roared with appreciation.