Chapter Four
Deacon
I'd checked the clock four times in the last hour.
"You're worse than a kid on Christmas morning," Sam said, catching me glancing at my watch again as I restocked the beer cooler.
"Just keeping track of time."
"Right. That's why you've rearranged the same six bottles three times." He wiped down the prep counter. "She'll be here when she gets here."
I straightened, rolling my shoulders. The lunch rush had been steady but manageable, and now the afternoon lull gave me too much time to think.
About yesterday—the market, the tree, how she'd laughed while we strung popcorn and ate more than we strung.
How hard it had been to leave her cabin and come back for the closing shift.
"You've got it bad," Sam said, amused.
"Shut up and check on the short ribs."
"Already did. They're perfect. Unlike your poker face." He disappeared into the kitchen, laughing.
My phone buzzed. A text from Eve: Running a bit late. Traffic on the mountain road. Be there by 7.
I typed back: No rush. Your stool will be waiting.
Her response came immediately: My stool? Pretty presumptuous, mountain man.
I grinned. You sat in the same spot both times you came in. It's basically engraved with your name.
Fair point. See you soon.
The afternoon crawled. I prepped garnishes, helped Sam with inventory, changed a keg. By the time the dinner crowd started filtering in, I was practically vibrating with anticipation.
When Eve walked through the door at seven-fifteen, nothing else mattered.
She'd dressed down again—black leggings that hugged every curve, an oversized fuzzy green sweater that made her eyes look even brighter, hair in soft waves around her face. Minimal makeup, no false lashes—thank god. Just Eve.
Our eyes met across the room, and she broke into a wide smile.
"Hey," she said, claiming her seat.
"Hey yourself." I grabbed a glass, already reaching for the Pine Peak Amber tap. "Productive day at the cabin?"
"Actually got some work done—brainstormed promotional ideas for your Christmas Eve bash. Then rewarded myself with a terrible movie marathon and an entire bag of peppermint bark from the market." She gestured at herself. "Living the dream."
"Sounds perfect to me."
"How about you? Busy?"
"Steady. Lots of skiers fueling up before hitting the slopes." I leaned against the counter. "Your tree still standing, or did it stage a rebellion?"
She laughed. "Still standing. Though I woke up to find half the popcorn garland on the floor. I think I didn't tie it tight enough."
"Amateur mistake."
"Says the man who ate most of our supplies."
"Quality control is important."
Mischief in her eyes. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Before I could respond, her stomach growled audibly. She covered her face, laughing.
"Okay, so peppermint bark wasn't a complete meal. Shocking. What's good tonight?"
"Sam's special—braised short ribs with garlic mashed potatoes. I had it during my break. I think you’d definitely enjoy it."
"Deal,” she nodded. “This town really does serve up great food."
"When you’ve survived on gas station hot dogs during stakeouts, you learn to appreciate good cooking." I put in her order. "Besides, Sam's a genius. He could work anywhere, but he stays here. Says the pace suits him."
"Everyone here seems to have a story like that."
"Most people who choose to stick around say Promise Ridge just feels right to them," I said with a shrug.
She held my gaze. "And what about you? Figured out you want to stick around here?"
"Getting there." I wanted to say more—that meeting her felt like part of that figuring out—but Jack Weston's voice boomed across the room.
"All right, folks! Who's brave enough to kick things off tonight?"
The bar buzzed with energy as Earl Jenkins stood, heading for the bulletin board with surprising spring in his step.
He selected a blue stocking, pulled out the slip, and groaned. "'Sing karaoke to your favorite Christmas song.'"
Cheers and catcalls erupted.
"Well, hell," Earl muttered, but he was smiling. "If I'm doing this, I'm going all in."
Someone fired up the karaoke machine. Earl scrolled through the song list with exaggerated care.
"'Jingle Bell Rock,'" he announced. "Nancy's favorite."
The opening notes filled the bar. Earl grabbed the microphone like it might try to escape.
"Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock!" he belted out. His voice cracked on "rock," shooting up an octave before plummeting back down.
Eve was already laughing.
"Jingle bells chime in jingle bell time—" Earl squinted at the screen, lost his place, and made up new lyrics on the spot. "Dancing and prancing in jingle bell... square!"
"It's 'Jingle Bell Square!'" someone yelled.
"That's what I said!" Earl shot back, never breaking stride.
He butchered every note, invented half the lyrics, and at one point just hummed for a solid ten seconds because he'd completely forgotten the words. When he hit the final "rock" with theatrical gusto—at least two octaves off-key—the bar erupted.
"Free drink!" Earl announced, taking a bow so deep I worried he might not come back up. "And I'll have you all know Nancy said I had a beautiful singing voice!"
"Nancy was a saint!" Trish called out.
"Damn right she was!" Earl laughed, collecting his bourbon from me with a wink.
Eve was wiping tears from her eyes. "That was incredible."
"A year ago, Earl wouldn't even come in here,” I commented. “Now look at him.”
"What changed?"
"Decided life's too short to sit at home alone." I watched the man rejoin his table, laughing with the other regulars. "It’s great to see him showing up, being part of something. I think the Stocking Pull has helped break him out of his shell."
"It must be wonderful to have a community like this.” I caught the hint of wistfulness in her voice as she nursed her beer.
The evening picked up momentum. Trish strode to the bulletin board next, selecting a green and gold stocking with the confidence of someone who'd never met a dare she couldn't handle.
She read the slip and cracked her knuckles. "'Arm wrestle someone and win.'"
Her eyes scanned the room, landing on a ski instructor built like he bench-pressed mountains for fun. "You. College boy. Let's go."
He looked up from his beer, amused. "You sure about that?"
"Terrified," Trish said flatly. "Table. Now."
They squared off while Jack cleared space and the crowd gathered around, already taking sides.
"You know the rules," Jack announced. "Best of one. Winner gets bragging rights."
"And a free drink," Trish added.
"Only if you complete the dare," I reminded her.
"Oh, I'm completing it." She locked eyes with the ski instructor. "Hope you're ready to get beat by a woman old enough to be your mother."
"I was raised to respect my elders," he shot back.
"Respect this." She clasped his hand.
Jack counted them down. "Three, two, one—go!"
Their arms trembled, locked in place. The ski instructor's bicep bulged, but the realtor held firm, jaw set, refusing to budge.
"Come on, Trish!" someone shouted.
"Don't embarrass us!" another regular called.
For a solid thirty seconds, neither gained ground. Then, slowly, the ski instructor's superior muscle mass won out. Trish's arm dropped an inch. Then another.
"No, no, no—" She gritted her teeth, face reddening with effort, but it was over. Her knuckles hit the table with a thud.
The man’s friends cheered. Trish slumped back, shaking out her arm.
"Damn," she said, smiling good-naturedly. "I almost had you."
"Sure you did." He helped her up. "Good match."
"Round for the house!" Trish announced, pulling out her wallet. "And you—" she pointed at her former rival, "—your next beer's on me for not being a smug asshole about it."
I started pouring while the crowd dispersed, pleased with the entertainment.
Eve's food arrived, and she dove in with enthusiasm. After her first bite of the short ribs, she actually moaned. I cleared my throat, tried to focus on anything but what that noise did to me.
"Oh my God."
"Right?"
"This is ridiculous." She took another bite, closing her eyes.
"I'll take the compliment on behalf of the chef" I said, "even if you're just being nice."
She looked up at me, eyes bright. "You know, you haven't pulled a stocking tonight. Isn't it your turn?"
The crowd had been half-listening. At her words, they erupted.
"Deacon! Deacon! Deacon!"
I held up my hands. "All right, all right. You people are relentless."
I moved to the board, letting my fingers hover over the options before selecting a silver stocking with green trim. Inside: "Show a hidden talent."
"Card tricks count?" I asked the room.
"Only if you're good!" someone shouted back.
"Fair enough."
I grabbed the deck we kept behind the bar and launched into the routine I'd learned from a fellow detective years ago—nothing fancy, just solid sleight-of-hand. Making cards appear and disappear, guessing what people had drawn from the deck, the basics.
But I played it up, hamming it up for Eve specifically. When I made the queen of hearts appear from behind her ear, her delighted laugh made the whole performance worth it.
"How did you—"
"Magician never reveals his secrets." I finished with a flourish, fanning the deck across the bar top.
The crowd applauded, and Jack called out: "One stocking earned! Choose wisely, Pike!"
I didn't hesitate. Selected a white stocking with red ribbon from the board, then crossed to Eve and slapped it on the counter beside her plate.
"Your turn, baby."
She took it. Her cheeks flushed as she read the slip. "'Choose a partner and dance with no music playing.'"
The background music cut off immediately—my sound guy smiling from his post by the speakers.
Eve glanced around the bar, still fairly crowded despite it being fifteen minutes to closing. Then she looked back at me, eyes challenging.
"Well," she said, standing, "since you're the one who gave me this dare, big man, I'm choosing you."
My heart kicked. "That right?"
"Unless you're scared."