Chapter Three #2
"Every year since I moved here." His smile returned. "Made last year's wish come true, too."
"Which was?"
"Can't tell you. But this year's is more ambitious." He nudged me toward an empty writing station. "Your turn."
"Oh, I don't think—"
"Everyone does it. I insist."
Reluctantly, I picked up the pen and stared at the festive stationery. What did I even want for Christmas? My engagement back? No—that relationship had been dead long before Hayden officially ended it. My perfectly composed online life? That felt hollow now too.
Finally, I wrote four simple words: "Something real this Christmas." I folded it quickly before Deacon could see, dropped it into the slot, and turned to find him watching me with a soft expression.
"What did you wish for?" I asked as we moved away.
He tapped his temple. "Can't tell you. Won't come true."
"You actually believe that?"
A playful spark lit his expression. "I believe in hedging my bets. Besides, a little mystery keeps things interesting."
We continued through the market, stopping next at a tent filled with tables where people hunched over partially constructed gingerbread houses. A harried-looking woman with flour on her cheek brightened when she spotted us.
"Deacon! Perfect timing. We need two more participants for the couples competition!"
"Oh, we're not—" I began.
"We'd be delighted," Deacon cut in, grinning at my alarmed expression. "Eve's an artist."
"I am not!"
"Social media strategist," he explained to the woman. "Visual genius."
"Wonderful!" She ushered us to a table with pre-built gingerbread house shells and an array of candies, icing, and decorations. "You have twenty minutes. Most creative design wins bragging rights and Snowdrift Confections' traditional German holiday cookie assortment."
Before I could protest further, a timer was set and Deacon was handing me a piping bag filled with white icing.
"I thought we were just walking around the market," I muttered, squeezing the bag experimentally.
"Where's your competitive spirit?" He tested the stability of a wall panel. "Unless you're afraid of losing..."
The challenge in his tone sparked my determination. "Oh, it's on, mountain man."
We threw ourselves into the task, elbowing each other for the best candies, trading mock-serious critiques of technique.
"Your roof is crooked," I pointed out, reaching across to secure a gingerbread panel.
"Your path looks like it was paved by drunk elves," he countered, stealing the gumdrop I'd been reaching for.
I snorted when my attempt at an icicle decoration turned out distinctly phallic.
"Perhaps a different approach," Deacon suggested, biting back a grin as I hastily scraped it off.
"Shut up and pass the gumdrops."
"Yes, ma'am."
My skin tingled where our hands brushed. When Deacon leaned close to add a detail to my side of the house, the warmth of him radiated through my sweater, and his nearness made my concentration crumble faster than our gingerbread walls.
We didn't win—that honor went to an actual professional baker and her husband—but our lopsided creation with its candy cane fence and gumdrop pathway earned honorable mention for "Most Enthusiastic Use of Sugar."
"We were robbed," Deacon declared as we left the tent, snow beginning to fall more heavily around us.
"Total scam," I agreed, grinning.
We ducked into the Timber & Spoon for lunch.
The cozy establishment with its red vinyl booths and waitresses who called everyone "hon" felt almost familiar now.
Over steaming bowls of French onion soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, our conversation flowed easily, moving from favorite movies to travel disasters to my career path.
"I majored in communications," I said, dipping my sandwich into the rich broth. "Landed an internship with a struggling sustainable fashion startup—amazing products, zero online presence."
"So you worked your magic?"
"Built them a following from scratch. Now I manage several fashion brands' social media accounts."
"Must be rewarding."
I hesitated, suddenly aware I was talking to someone who'd left a career saving lives. "Sometimes. But lately, it feels... I don't know. Like I'm crafting perfection no one can actually live up to."
"Including yourself?"
His comment hit home. "Especially myself."
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. "There's a gap between what we show and who we are."
"What about you?" I asked, eager to shift attention away from me. "How does a Denver detective end up owning a bar in a town with one stoplight?"
A shadow crossed his face. "Not a short story."
"I've got time."
He went quiet, tracing a pattern in the condensation on his water glass. "I was working undercover. Drug trafficking case. My cover got blown."
I waited, sensing there was more.
"I took two bullets. One grazed my arm, but the other..." His hand moved unconsciously to his lower back. "Spinal cord damage. Not permanent, but enough that returning to active duty wasn't an option. And a desk job..." He trailed off with a slight shake of his head.
"I'm so sorry."
He shrugged, but I caught the shadows of memory darkening his eyes.
"Six months in rehab learning to walk properly again.
Had plenty of time to reconsider my priorities.
This town had always been my escape—hiked up here whenever I could get away.
When I heard Spence was selling the bar, it felt like the universe offering a detour. "
"That explains the limp," I said softly, having noticed the slight unevenness in his gait.
"Only acts up in cold weather or when I'm tired." His smile returned, chasing the darkness from his expression. "Small price for a second chance."
My perception of him shifted—the quiet strength, the resilience, the way he'd rebuilt his life after trauma.
"Ready for tree hunting?" he asked, signaling for the check.
Outside, snow was falling in earnest, transforming the market tents and town square into a snow globe scene. We made our way to Fred's Christmas Tree lot, where Deacon insisted on finding me the right tree.
"What about this one?" I pointed to a modest fir.
Deacon circled it critically. "Too scraggly on the north side."
I moved to another. "This one seems nice."
"If you want a tree that's balding worse than Walt." He gestured to a fuller specimen.
"Too tall for the cabin," I countered.
"Good point." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "This whole section is too large."
"It doesn't need to be perfect," I protested after the seventh rejection, stamping my feet against the cold. "It's just for a few days."
Deacon turned to me, snow catching in his dark hair and beard. "That's exactly why it should be just right. Make those days count."
A flutter moved through me that had nothing to do with the cold. When was the last time anyone had cared this much about my happiness? Not for show, not for likes, just... for me?
We finally settled on a five-foot Fraser fir that Deacon declared "had character." Fred secured it to the roof of Deacon's truck while we picked out a simple tree stand and a string of white lights.
At the cabin, getting the tree inside became a slapstick comedy.
First, Deacon misjudged the door width, jamming the tree halfway through.
Then, once inside, we discovered the living room ceiling was lower than we'd estimated, forcing us to relocate to a different corner than planned.
Finally, the stand proved treacherously complicated, requiring us both to lie on the floor, shoulders pressed together as we wrestled with screws and bolts.
"Hold it straight!" Deacon commanded from beneath the tree.
"I am holding it straight!"
"It's leaning!"
"Your definition of straight needs work."
He emerged from under the branches, pine needles stuck in his hair, looking delightfully rumpled. "Are you questioning my spatial awareness?"
"I'm questioning whether this tree is worth the effort." But I was laughing, and so was he, our voices mingling in the cozy cabin space.
Once secured, the tree stood proudly in the corner by the window—just the right size for the cabin, its fresh pine scent mixing with woodsmoke from the fireplace.
Deacon strung the lights while I unpacked the few items we'd picked up at the market—a hand-carved wooden snowflake, a glass pinecone that caught the light, a small silver star for the top.
"Still missing the homemade touch," Deacon declared, surveying our work.
"I'm not exactly crafty."
"Lucky for you, I come prepared." He disappeared to his truck, returning with a package of popcorn and thread. "Classic popcorn garland. No respectable tree is complete without it."
We sat on the couch, the fireplace crackling beside us, stringing popcorn. At least, that was the plan. In reality, more popcorn ended up in our mouths than on the string.
"You're eating the supplies," I accused, watching him pop another kernel between his lips.
"Quality control." He winked. "Vital to the process."
"Is that what you call it?" I tossed a piece at him, which he caught in his mouth with surprising accuracy.
"Ten points!" he announced, raising his arms in victory.
"Show-off." I tried the same move and missed completely, the popcorn bouncing off my nose.
"You've clearly never played competitive popcorn basketball." He demonstrated proper tossing technique. "It's all in the wrist."
"Is that an actual sport in your bar?"
"Only after midnight." His eyes lit with amusement. "You'd be surprised what becomes a sport when the Stocking Pull dares get creative."
We managed to complete about two feet of garland between snacking and laughing, enough to drape across one section of the tree.
"Not bad for amateurs," he said, stepping back to admire our work.
"Only took us three times longer than it should have."
"Time well spent."
The afternoon had somehow melted into early evening. Outside, snow continued falling, blanketing the world in pristine white. Inside, the fire's warm glow mixed with the twinkling tree lights, creating a bubble that felt removed from reality.
Deacon's phone chimed, breaking the spell. He checked it and sighed. "I need to head back. Closing shift tonight."
Disappointment settled in my chest. "Your employees covered for you today?"
"Yeah, but Sam's kid is sick, so I'm filling in." He stood, stretching, and I found my eyes drawn to the sliver of skin that showed when his shirt rode up. "You should get some rest tonight. But come by tomorrow—we've got more stockings with your name on them."
"Is that so?" I gathered the remaining popcorn, trying not to sound too eager.
"Absolutely." He moved to the door, shrugging into his coat. "Plus we should start planning the social media strategy for the Christmas Eve bash."
"Tomorrow, then."
At the door, he paused, looking back at the tree. "Not bad for a couple of amateurs."
"It's just right," I said softly.
His eyes met mine, a question lingering in them. For a heartbeat I thought he might kiss me again. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingers grazing my cheek with deliberate slowness.
"See you tomorrow, Eve."
After he left, the cabin felt strangely hollow despite the cheerful tree in the corner. I stood looking at it—tangible proof that I'd let someone past the walls I'd built around my broken heart.
I ran a hot bubble bath in the clawfoot tub, letting the lavender-scented steam envelop me as I sank into the water.
As I soaked, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun that I'd completely forgotten to check my phone.
The idea of taking selfies hadn't even occurred to me all day.
It felt wonderful to be fully present in the moment—all because of a mountain man I'd just met who was quickly feeling less like a stranger and more like. ..
I didn't let myself finish that thought.
Later, wrapped in my comfiest pajamas—the ones that would horrify my Instagram followers—I pulled up a pizza delivery app on my phone.
Screw the carb counting I'd been doing for months.
It was the holidays, as they say. I ordered a large pepperoni with extra cheese and garlic knots, deciding to fully embrace the comfort food indulgence.
While I waited for delivery, I settled on the couch and found a cheesy holiday movie on TV. The predictable plot unfolded—big city career woman visits small town, meets ruggedly handsome local, discovers what really matters. How had I become a walking romcom cliché?
The pizza arrived, and I dug in with shameless enthusiasm, savoring every carb-loaded bite. My gaze kept drifting to the tree, watching the lights twinkle against the darkened window, snow still falling beyond the glass.
On screen, the movie's leading couple shared their first kiss—passionate and consuming, hands tangling in hair, bodies pressed together.
Heat bloomed in my chest as the memory of Deacon's lips on mine rushed back.
That mistletoe kiss had been brief, constrained by the counting crowd and public setting.
But what if we'd been alone? What if there'd been no timer, no audience?
I wondered how it would feel to continue where we'd left off.
My phone buzzed with a text. I grabbed it, pulse quickening, hoping—
Just my boss, checking in about a client deadline.
I set the phone aside and returned my attention to the movie, but my thoughts kept wandering to tomorrow. More Stocking Pull dares. More time with Deacon. More real moments.
For the first time since Hayden had ended our relationship, I felt lighter, as if I'd set down a heavy backpack I'd forgotten I was wearing.
I glanced at the tree one more time before heading to bed, its lights casting dancing shadows on the cabin walls, and I smiled.