Chapter Six
Deacon
The bar looked like Santa's workshop had exploded in the best possible way.
My bartenders and I had spent the afternoon stringing colorful lights across every beam, hanging fresh pine garlands that filled the air with evergreen, and positioning poinsettias on every available surface.
The bulletin board practically groaned under the weight of Christmas stockings—we'd added at least thirty new ones for tonight's championship.
I adjusted a crooked strand of lights for the third time, knowing damn well it was fine.
"You've straightened that same section four times," Sam said from the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on his apron. "She's either coming or she's not. Messing with the decorations won't change it."
"I'm not—" I stopped, because he was right. "Shouldn't you be prepping food?"
"Prime rib's in the oven, twice-baked potatoes are ready to go, and I've got three pies cooling." He leaned against the doorframe. "Which gives me just enough time to tell you that you've been like a caged animal all day. What the hell happened?"
Yesterday. When Eve had asked for space and I'd walked away respecting her wishes even though every instinct screamed at me to fight harder. When I'd driven back to the bar and threw myself into prep work to avoid thinking about how empty my apartment felt without her in it.
"She needed time to think," I said.
"About?"
"Us. Whether this is real or just her rebounding." I grabbed a towel and wiped down the already-clean bar. "Whether falling for someone in less than a week makes sense."
Sam was quiet for a moment. "And you let her go."
"What else was I supposed to do? Force her to feel something she's not ready for?"
"No. But you could fight for her." He met my eyes. "Question is—are you going to?"
Before I could answer, the door opened and the first guests arrived.
Earl Jenkins and his grandson, both wearing matching ugly Christmas sweaters featuring a T-rex in a Santa hat.
Then Mabel and Harvey, she in a dress that sparkled with actual battery-powered lights.
The Hawthornes with their small army of kids, all wearing reindeer antler headbands.
Within an hour, the bar was packed. People had shown up in their version of fancy—pressed flannel shirts, holiday sweaters, sequined tops paired with jeans, Santa hats and elf ears.
My staff moved through the crowd with trays of champagne, and the kitchen was churning out plates of food.
The smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread mixed with pine and cinnamon.
I worked the bar, pouring drinks and greeting regulars while my eyes kept drifting to the door. The promotional posts Eve had created had worked—we'd never had this many people for Christmas Eve. I should be thrilled.
Instead, I kept watching for blonde hair and green eyes.
My Santa booth wish from last week echoed in my head. I'd written it down without overthinking: The courage to love again. At the time, I'd thought it was about healing from Lydia, from the shooting, from the years of keeping everyone at arm's length.
Now I understood. That wish was about Eve. About being brave enough to open my heart to someone who might break it, but who might also be exactly what I'd been waiting for.
If she gave me the chance.
"Deacon!" Trish waved from across the room. "When are we starting this thing?"
I checked my watch. Seven-thirty. The bash had been going strong for ninety minutes, and still no Eve.
She wasn't coming.
My chest ached, but I smiled anyway. "Let's give it another few minutes for stragglers."
That's when the door opened and she walked in.
My heart stopped. She wore a black cocktail dress that hit just above her knee, the kind that would look plain on anyone else but on her looked stunning.
The neckline showed just enough skin to make my mouth go dry, and when she turned to hang up her coat, I caught a glimpse of her legs in sheer black stockings and heels that made them look impossibly long.
Our eyes met across the crowded bar. She gave a small, uncertain smile before looking away.
Professional. Distant. Here because she'd committed to helping promote this event, not because she wanted to see me.
It stung, but I forced myself to stay behind the bar—where I belonged.
THE STOCKING PULL CHAMPIONSHIP kicked off with Earl's grandson pulling a dare to sing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" in an opera voice. The kid had no training but gave it his all, making everyone laugh and earning his first point.
I explained the rules to newcomers: "Most dares completed by midnight gets free drinks—kids free desserts—for an entire year. Pull as many as you want, but if you refuse one, you're out of the running."
The competition was fierce. Jack performed a surprisingly graceful interpretive dance to "The Nutcracker Suite.
" Trish correctly spelled “Tannenbaum” backward.
Mabel chugged a beer while standing on one leg and then immediately pulled another stocking requiring her to tell her most embarrassing moment—which involved Harvey, a Thanksgiving turkey, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding with the town sheriff.
The kitchen outdid itself—prime rib and baked ham were the menu’s featured entrees, accompanied by sides of roasted seasonal vegetables and Sam's famous twice-baked potatoes that people drove from two towns over to eat.
Pumpkin and apple pies cooled on every surface for later.
Families claimed tables, greeting friends and neighbors warmly before eagerly digging into their meals.
Champagne flutes clinked as people toasted the holiday.
Through it all, Eve sat at the end of the bar nursing a glass of white wine.
When I tried to catch her eye, she looked away.
Kept glancing at me then staring at her shoes—those heels that were driving me insane.
Several regulars asked if she was competing, but she politely declined each time with a tight smile.
When a husband completed a dare requiring him to tell his wife—along with everyone present—why he'd marry her all over again, I saw Eve dab at the corners of her eyes with her mangled napkin.
The dancing started around nine. I'd queued up the classics—Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra. Couples took to the small dance floor we'd cleared, swaying to "White Christmas" and "The Christmas Song."
Eve watched them with an expression that broke my heart. Longing mixed with sadness, like she was witnessing something beautiful from the outside, unable to step through the magical snow globe.
When she signaled for her server and pulled out her credit card, panic shot through me.
She was leaving.
I had maybe five minutes before I chanced losing her for good. Before she could drive back to that cabin, pack her bags, and return to Boulder before I knew what happened. Before whatever we'd started ended before it really began.
Sam appeared at my elbow. "Now or never, boss."
He was right.
Eve had been brave enough to come here tonight despite her fear. The least I could do was match her courage and tell her the truth.
I grabbed a stocking—one I'd made specifically—and rang the bell behind the bar.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" My voice carried over the music. "We're closing out the Stocking Pull championship, but there's one more dare left. And this one's mine."
The room quieted. All eyes turned to me as I crossed the room, weaving through tables, looking only at Eve.
I stopped in front of her. She looked up, eyes wide, napkin clutched in her trembling hands.
I pulled the slip from the stocking and read aloud: "Santa's still listening—what is your Christmas wish?"
The bar fell silent.
"My wish," I said, loud enough to carry but meant only for her, "is for a chance at true love. To trust my instincts again and take the leap of faith that the best things in life usually require."
Eve's eyes filled with tears.
"If it's not too late,” I said, setting the stocking aside and taking her hands in mine, “you’re the person I want to wake up to on Christmas morning. And if I'm really lucky, every morning after that."
A tear spilled down her cheek.
"I know it's fast. I know it's crazy. I know you have every reason to doubt this." I squeezed her hands. "But I'm not asking for forever tonight. I'm just asking for a chance. To see where this goes. To give us a shot."
Surprised murmurs rippled through the crowd, but I didn't care about anything except the woman in front of me.
"So I'm asking you, Eve Cameron—will you make my Christmas wish come true?"
She stared at me, tears streaming freely now. The entire place held its breath.
"I wrote a wish too," she whispered. "At that Santa booth."
"What was it?"
"To believe in miracles again." She laughed through her tears. "I thought I meant some generic holiday magic. But I meant this. You. Us."
Relief washed through me, nearly buckling my knees.
"I'm terrified," she said. "This is the fastest I've ever fallen for someone. The most honest thing I've ever felt. And that scares me."
"Me too."
"But I'm tired of running from the truth. Tired of faking a life instead of living one." She stood, her hands framing my face. "So yes. Yes to Christmas. Yes to giving this a chance. Yes to the hope of us."
I kissed her before she finished the sentence, kissed her like she was oxygen and I'd been drowning. She kissed me back with the same intensity, her fingers threading through my hair, her body pressed against mine.
The bar erupted. Cheers and applause and whistles filled the air. I spotted Mabel dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve, and even Harvey looked misty. Someone started a chant of "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" even though we already were.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, I rested my forehead against hers. "Merry Christmas, Eve."
"Merry Christmas, Deacon."
Mabel's voice boomed across the bar. "Well, I'd say that dare's completed!"