Chapter Three
Eve
My laptop screen glared back at me, cursor blinking on an empty draft. I'd been sitting at the cabin's kitchen island for three hours, attempting to schedule social media posts for my clients. Not a single caption written, no content planned, nothing accomplished.
Instead of working, I'd caught myself scrolling through Instagram, checking my clients' metrics, and staring out the window at the snow-covered pines. My notifications had gone silent since I'd muted most apps upon arriving. The silence felt both strange and welcome.
"Focus, Eve," I muttered, rubbing my eyes.
I hadn't lost my ability to craft the perfect post—I'd lost interest. After years of staging every moment for maximum engagement, the idea of returning to that world felt exhausting. Yet it was my livelihood, one I'd built from nothing.
The wall clock jolted me from my thoughts. Eleven fifteen. Deacon would be here in forty-five minutes.
"Shit," I hissed, abandoning my laptop and racing for the shower.
Under the hot spray, I found myself unexpectedly eager for noon to arrive.
Our interactions over the past two nights kept replaying in my mind—from that surprising mistletoe kiss to last night's easy conversation about the upcoming holiday bash.
The warmth in his expression when I'd shared my mortifying carol disaster story.
How he'd laughed with me, not at me. Then his casual invitation to show me around today, which I'd accepted without hesitation.
Hair wrapped in a towel, I stood before the bathroom mirror, makeup bag untouched on the counter. My usual routine would take thirty minutes minimum—primer, foundation, contour, highlight, brows, shadow, liner, lashes, lips. The works.
My hand hovered over my foundation, then paused. Who was I trying to impress? Not my followers—I hadn't posted since Hayden had called off our wedding. Not the locals with their practical winter wardrobes.
I thought of how at ease Deacon seemed in his own skin. The confidence that came from knowing exactly who he was and not apologizing for it. Maybe I could try that, just for today.
"Screw it," I decided, pushing the foundation aside.
I kept it minimal—tinted moisturizer, a touch of blush, a swipe of mascara. My natural lashes seemed pathetically short after months of extensions, but they were mine. I let my hair air-dry into its natural waves instead of fighting them into submission with my straightener.
The woman in the mirror looked younger. Softer. More like the Eve I'd been before follower counts and engagement metrics took over. A stranger with familiar eyes.
For clothes, I bypassed the Instagram-worthy outfits I'd packed by habit. Instead, I pulled out my softest jeans and an oversized cream sweater I loved but rarely wore in public—too casual for my brand. Warm socks and boots completed the look.
When tires crunched on snow outside, my stomach tightened. I grabbed my coat and scarf, suddenly jittery as a teenager before a first date.
His truck was exactly what I'd expected—rugged, slightly muddy, with a dent in the passenger door that hinted at an untold story. Deacon sat behind the wheel, and when he spotted me on the porch, his smile brightened his entire face.
"Morning," he called, climbing out to meet me. Today he wore dark jeans and a blue flannel that intensified the color of his eyes, a charcoal beanie covering his dark hair.
"Morning," I replied, suddenly shy.
His gaze moved over me, taking in the casual outfit and makeup-light face. His expression softened with appreciation before he gestured toward the truck.
"Ready for your tour?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
He opened the passenger door for me. As I slid in, the scent of cedar and fresh coffee filled the cab.
"Nice place," he commented, backing down the driveway and nodding toward the cabin. "Though I couldn't help but notice you're missing something critical."
"What's that?"
"A tree." His smile deepened at the corners. "That's practically illegal at Christmas around here."
I stiffened slightly. "I'm not exactly feeling festive this year."
"Fair enough." He navigated the icy switchbacks with the confidence of someone who'd driven these roads a thousand times. "Though I should warn you—you won't escape the holiday spirit today. It's like a seasonal ambush everywhere you look."
I couldn't help but smile, despite myself. "I noticed. Every building looks like Santa had an explosive spree."
"And that's just the exteriors. Wait till you see the market."
We drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the scenery a winter wonderland passing by my window.
"So," he said finally, "not big on Christmas this year?"
I considered deflecting, but something about his straightforward manner made me answer honestly. "I used to be. This year's... different."
He nodded, not pushing. "Sometimes seasons are like that."
His simple acceptance felt refreshing after weeks of pitying looks.
"I thought maybe we could hit the market, grab lunch at the Timber & Spoon," he continued, "and if you're up for it, there might be a tree with your name on it at Fred's lot."
"I don't need a tree."
"Everyone needs a tree."
"I'm only here for a few days."
"All the more reason to make it count." He glanced my way, warmth in his expression. "Just a small one. Tasteful trimmings only, I promise."
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. "You're relentless."
"It's been mentioned." His smile was contagious. "Look, I get it. Whatever you're escaping, Christmas probably reminds you of it. But maybe reclaiming some traditions on your terms might help? Just a thought."
I blinked, surprised by how accurately he'd read me. I studied his profile as he drove, wondering what ghosts had driven him from Denver to this tiny mountain town.
"Fine," I relented. "A small tree. Minimal embellishment. But I'm not posting it on social media."
"Deal."
The town square had transformed into a holiday wonderland.
White tents with red and green banners lined the perimeter, each sheltering local vendors from the light snow.
Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, and seasonal scents filled the air—gingerbread, mulled wine, fresh pine, and the sweet tang of cranberry.
"Wow," I breathed as we parked.
"Told you. Yuletide ambush." Deacon came around to my side, offering his hand to help me navigate the slippery path. "Best to surrender now."
His hand was warm and rough, engulfing mine completely. I couldn't remember the last time someone had held my hand—really held it, not just for a posed photo. Hayden and I had stopped such casual touches months ago.
The market bustled with life—locals greeting each other by name, children darting between stalls, the hum of cheerful conversation layered over holiday music from hidden speakers. Deacon kept my hand in his, guiding me through the crowd with occasional introductions.
"First stop," he announced, steering me toward a tent releasing wisps of fragrant steam, "sustenance."
The elderly man behind the counter beamed at Deacon. "Well if it isn't our resident lawman-turned-barkeep! The usual?"
"Two, please, Walt."
Walt turned to a copper pot bubbling on a portable burner, ladling steaming liquid into two paper cups. He handed them over with a wink in my direction. "On the house for you and your lady friend."
Before I could correct him, Deacon handed over cash. "Not on your life. Retirement fund needs all the help it can get."
I accepted the cup, which contained spiced apple cider that warmed me from the inside out. Each sip delivered layers of cinnamon and clove with a hint of orange zest.
"Walt's secret recipe," Deacon explained. "Best cider in Colorado, hands down."
Walt tapped the side of his nose. "Trade secret."
We wandered through the market, stopping to admire hand-carved wooden ornaments with intricate snowflake patterns, locally made candles in mason jars that smelled of fir and vanilla, and knitted scarves in every imaginable shade.
At one stall selling handmade jewelry, I lingered over a delicate silver bracelet with a small pine tree charm.
"You should get it," Deacon suggested, appearing at my shoulder. "Souvenir of your mountain escape."
"I don't need—"
"Not about need." His voice dropped slightly. "Sometimes it's just about wanting."
The double meaning hung between us, and I looked up to find his eyes on me, unexpectedly intense.
I bought the bracelet.
At a confectionery stall, we sampled maple candies that dissolved on my tongue, leaving behind hints of butter and smoke. The woman selling them turned out to be Sam's wife, Deacon explained—the cook from the bar. She pressed an extra piece into my hand with a smile that sent heat to my cheeks.
"Everyone seems to know you," I observed as we moved on.
"Small town. Two years is practically a lifetime here."
"And do you always bring newcomers to the market?"
The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Only the ones who pull the 'kiss a stranger' stocking."
The memory of that kiss made my pulse skip despite the cold. I quickly changed the subject. "What's that over there?"
The booth I'd pointed to was decorated with oversized candy canes and a sign reading "Letters to Santa."
"Ah," Deacon said, steering me toward it. "Annual tradition here. Everyone writes a letter."
"Isn't that for kids?"
"Look around."
People of all ages were scribbling at wooden writing stations, folding their notes, and dropping them into an enormous red mailbox that stood taller than me.
"What happens to them?" I asked.
"Most get burned in a ceremony on Christmas Eve—sends the wishes to the North Pole, supposedly. Some get anonymously fulfilled if they're practical enough."
"That's... actually kind of sweet."
"Secret wishes have power," he said, his voice lower, more serious than before. "Sometimes saying what you want, even on a piece of paper nobody reads, makes it more real."
I hadn't thought of it that way. "Is that why you participate?"