Epilogue
Eve
One year later...
The bar looked exactly the same—twinkling lights, pine garlands, poinsettias everywhere—but everything felt different. Better. Because this time, I belonged here.
I slid onto my usual barstool, the one Deacon had jokingly engraved with a tiny brass plate reading "Eve's" last spring.
Mabel was already holding court at the other end, her hair now a candy-apple red.
The Hawthornes occupied their regular table, kids running wild.
Earl sat with his new girlfriend—a woman about his age who had also lost her spouse several years back—both wearing matching snowman sweaters.
And behind the bar, Deacon caught my eye and smiled—the same smile that had made my stomach flip that first night, the same one that still did every morning when I woke up beside him.
"Fancy meeting you here," he said, sliding me a Pine Peak Amber without asking.
"I hear the owner's pretty cute." I grinned. "Thought I'd check him out."
"Lucky guy." He leaned across the bar to kiss me, earning a few catcalls from regulars who'd watched our relationship unfold over the past year.
Twelve months. Twelve months since I'd taken the leap and stayed. Since I'd sublet my Boulder apartment, moved my life into Deacon's place above the bar, and discovered that working remotely from a tiny mountain town was infinitely better than commuting to an office I'd hated.
Twelve months of waking up next to my very own mountain man. Of learning his coffee order and the way he hummed off-key in the shower. Of Sunday mornings at the farmers market and Wednesday trivia nights right here. Of becoming part of Promise Ridge instead of just visiting it.
"Ready for the championship?" I asked, nodding toward the bulletin board practically sagging under the weight of stockings.
"Always." His eyes held mine. "Though I've got a special one saved for later."
"Oh?"
He winked and moved down the bar to serve other customers, leaving me curious.
The Stocking Pull championship kicked off right at seven.
This year, Trish completed a dare to serenade her ex-husband with "I Will Survive"—they'd reconciled six months ago and were apparently better the second time around.
Jack did the splits and pulled a hamstring but refused to quit.
Even Mabel's husband, Harvey, got in on the action, attempting to juggle three dinner rolls and dropping all of them with glee.
Through it all, I cheered and laughed and felt absurdly, wonderfully happy. This community had become my family. This bar, my second home. This life, more authentic than anything I'd ever staged for Instagram.
Around nine, Deacon rang the bell for attention.
"Before we close out the game," he said, "I've got one more stocking to hand out."
He walked straight to me, and my heart started pounding.
"Eve Cameron," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "this one's for you."
The stocking he handed me was white silk with my name embroidered in gold thread. My hands shook as I opened it.
No slip of paper inside.
Just a ring.
A perfect, simple diamond that caught the twinkling lights and threw rainbows across the bar.
I looked up at Deacon, tears already spilling over.
"A year ago," he said, dropping to one knee right there in front of everyone, "you made my Christmas wish come true. You stayed. You took a chance on us. You built a life here with me, and it's been the best year of my life."
The bar had gone completely silent.
"So I'm asking you to make one more wish come true." He took my trembling hand. "Marry me, Eve. Make this permanent. Make this forever."
"Yes," I said, the word coming out choked with happy tears. "Yes, yes, yes."
He slid the ring onto my finger and stood, pulling me into his arms for a kiss that made the whole place erupt in cheers. When we finally broke apart, I was laughing and crying at the same time.
"This is what real feels like," I whispered against his lips.
"Yeah," he said, grinning. "It is."
Sam appeared with fresh bottle of champagne, and everyone toasted us. Earl's girlfriend cried happy tears. The Hawthorne kids started chanting "Wedding! Wedding!" until Josie shushed them.
Later, after the crowd thinned and the last customers headed home, Deacon pulled me under the mistletoe still hanging by the bar—the same spot where we'd had our first kiss.
"Merry Christmas, future Mrs. Pike," he said.
"Merry Christmas, future husband." I pulled him close. "Best Christmas ever."
“And it’s only beginning,” he said, wrapping his strong arms around my waist and pressing his lips to my forehead.
Outside, snow fell soft and silent over Promise Ridge. Inside, I kissed the man I'd marry.
Sometimes the best stories start with running away from something. But the very best ones?
They start when you're finally brave enough to stay.