Chapter Five
Eve
Idrove back to the cabin with Deacon's goodbye kiss still warm on my lips. Through the windshield, morning sun turned the snow-covered pines into something out of a postcard, and I couldn't stop smiling.
Inside, I dropped onto the couch and stared at the tree we'd decorated together. The white lights twinkled, the handmade ornaments from the holiday market caught the morning light, and that lopsided star on top made my chest feel too full.
I'd known this man four days, and my brain was already imagining what it would be like to wake up beside him every morning instead of just once.
"Slow down," I muttered, but I couldn't stop grinning like an idiot.
My laptop sat on the coffee table where I'd left it yesterday, and I opened it.
Time to actually deliver on my promise to help promote the Christmas Eve party at Promises, Promises.
I'd offered because it felt good to use my skills for something that mattered, something that wasn't just about selling products or pushing brand partnerships.
I pulled up the bar & grill’s pathetic excuse for a social media presence. The Facebook page hadn't been updated since June, and the Instagram account had exactly twelve posts—all blurry photos of food that looked like they'd been taken on a flip phone.
"Oh, Deacon," I said to the empty cabin. "We need to have a talk about your digital strategy."
I got to work, and the familiar rhythm felt good.
Not the exhausting performance of my personal accounts, but the creative satisfaction of building something.
I designed graphics using free stock images—snow-covered mountains, rustic wooden tables with craft beer, twinkling lights. Simple but eye-catching.
For the Facebook event, I wrote: "Join Promise Ridge's Annual Christmas Eve Bash at Promises, Promises Bar & Grill! Live music, holiday cocktails, and the legendary Stocking Pull Championship. Winner gets free drinks for an entire year. December 24th, 6 PM. All are welcome!"
Instagram needed something punchier. I mocked up a story graphic with pine branches framing text: "Think you're brave enough for the Stocking Pull? Pull a dare, complete the challenge, win the prize. Christmas Eve at Promises, Promises—where we keep our promises even if you break yours. ????"
I scheduled posts across platforms, created shareable graphics for the local Facebook groups, even designed a simple flyer that could be printed and posted around town.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, adrenaline building with each post I queued up.
This wasn't work—this was fun. Creating buzz for something I actually believed in instead of another sponsored post about the newest sneaker trend or figure-flattering yoga pants.
The realization crept up on me slowly. I'd been working on this promotion, checking the posts, engaging with comments from excited locals.
But I hadn't once thought about posting a selfie.
Hadn't staged a single moment. Hadn't worried about whether my outfit was Instagram-worthy or if the lighting was good enough.
When was the last time I'd been this present? This focused on the moment instead of how to capture it?
With Hayden, practically everything had been designed for public consumption right from the beginning.
Our first date—sixteen photos before we selected the right one to post to our respective accounts.
Our engagement announcement—twelve takes to get the lighting just right on my ring.
Even our kisses had been posed, him pressing his lips to my temple while I gazed adoringly at the camera.
Last night with Deacon, I hadn't thought about camera angles once. I'd just felt everything—his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the delicious weight of him between my thighs. Nothing fake. Just us.
My phone buzzed. A text from Deacon: This is incredible. You're a wizard. See you tonight?
I smiled. Wouldn't miss it.
Good. I've got a stocking with your name on it.
My stomach tightened as I remembered exactly what he'd done to me last night. Promises, promises.
Always keep mine, baby.
I spent the rest of the afternoon fine-tuning the promotional campaign, watching the engagement roll in from people excited about the bash.
Mrs. Kovacs from the general store commented with about fifteen exclamation points.
Local business owners shared the event. Even people I didn't know were tagging friends, making plans.
This was the part of social media I'd fallen in love with originally—bringing people together, creating community. Somewhere along the way, I'd lost that in the pursuit of followers and sponsored content. But here in Promise Ridge, I was remembering why I'd chosen this career in the first place.
By the time I headed to the bar that evening, the event page had over a hundred responses. Not bad for a town this size.
THE PLACE BUZZED WITH its usual nightly energy. I'd dressed in a simple burgundy sweaterdress paired with tights and casual boots, leaving my hair loose and only enough makeup to feel comfortable.
His face lit up the moment I walked in. He met me halfway across the room, and I didn't wait—I reached up to kiss him, not caring who saw.
He pulled me close, deepening the kiss just enough to make me forget we had an audience. Someone whistled, and he grinned against my lips.
"Missed you," he murmured.
"You saw me this morning."
"Still missed you." He took my hand and led me to the bar. "Hungry?"
"Always. What's Sam made tonight?"
"Pot roast that'll make you weep with joy." He was already pouring my drink. "Potatoes, carrots, the works."
He wasn't exaggerating. Twenty minutes later I was practically humming over tender beef that melted on my tongue, root vegetables soaked in rich gravy, and bread so fresh it was still warm.
"You like watching me eat?" I asked, catching him staring.
"I like watching you relax and enjoy yourself." His eyes held mine. "Anything that makes you happy."
"Dangerous territory, mountain man."
"Who, me?" He leaned closer across the bar. "I'm innocent."
"The hell you are." I took a deliberate sip of beer, watching his eyes darken. "I remember what you did last night."
"Want me to do it again?"
"Yes," I said. "But maybe later."
His sharp intake of breath made me smile. "You're killing me, Eve."
"Good."
The bar filled as the evening wore on, the crackling fireplace mixing with laughter and the clink of glasses.
Jack Weston pulled a stocking requiring him to text his ex-wife "Merry Christmas.
" He did it with surprising grace, admitting she wasn't a bad person—they just weren't right for each other.
When his phone chimed a minute later with her response—Merry Christmas, Jack. Hope you're well.—everyone clapped.
Trish challenged another muscular ski instructor to arm wrestling and actually won this time. Her victory dance involved what had to be the worst twerking attempt in recorded history, which only made everyone cheer louder.
The warmth settled over me like a blanket. This was what I'd been missing in my old life—people who celebrated small moments without needing to document them. Joy that existed whether or not anyone posted about it.
"Your turn, Eve!" Mabel's voice cut through my thoughts. "Can't let the night pass without pulling at least one stocking!"
I stood and approached the bulletin board, letting my fingers hover over the colorful array before grabbing a red velvet stocking with gold ribbon.
The paper inside felt heavier than it should as I unfolded it.
"Tell the truth about your biggest failure," I read aloud.
The room quieted. This wasn't like the silly dares—this cut deeper. I looked at the expectant faces around me, at Deacon whose expression had shifted into something gentler, more concerned.
My throat closed.
Biggest failure. My engagement ending? Building a career on manufactured images? Becoming so fake I'd forgotten what honest felt like? Or was it falling for Deacon this fast when I should know better?
"I..." The word came out strangled.
Mabel laughed, oblivious to my panic. "That means you buy a round for the house, honey! Them's the rules!"
But I couldn't move. The bar felt too small, too crowded, every face waiting for me to perform. To be entertaining. To bare my soul like it was content for consumption.
"Eve?" Deacon's voice cut through the roaring in my ears. "You okay?"
No. I wasn't okay. I was the opposite of okay.
I ran.
Pushed through the crowd, ignoring him calling my name, and burst into the cold night. My hands shook so badly I could barely unlock my car, but then I was driving, tears blurring the dark mountain road.
INSIDE THE CABIN, I slammed the door and slid down it to the floor. The walls I'd built over years of carefully curated perfection—the ones that had crumbled so easily around Deacon—slammed back into place, protecting me from the terrifying vulnerability of actual truth.
I'd run from honesty. Again.
Just like I'd run from admitting my relationship with Hayden was dead. Just like I'd run from Boulder instead of facing my failed engagement. Just like I'd spent years running from anything that didn't fit my camera-ready, pretty, posed life.
The tree lights blinked in the corner, mocking me.
We'd hung those lights together, laughing when Deacon tangled me up in them by accident.
We'd made that ridiculous popcorn garland, eating more than we strung.
We'd turned this empty rental space into something warm.
Something that had begun to feel like a home.
And I'd just thrown it all away because I was too chickenshit to tell the truth.