Page 1 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
Chapter One
Eve
The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the snow as I navigated the narrow mountain road leading to Promise Ridge. Each swipe cleared just enough for me to glimpse the towering pines and pristine white landscape before another flurry obscured my view.
"You're almost there," I told myself for the dozenth time, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Few more miles to your escape plan."
December 20th—just days before what should have been my wedding day—and here I was, fleeing to a remote mountain town where nobody knew my name or my humiliation. Where nobody would shoot me those pitying glances that whispered,poor Eve, she thought she had it all figured out.
I'd booked the cabin on impulse the night Hayden sat me down at our dining room table—the one we'd registered for together, with the matching place settings still in their boxes—and told me he couldn't go through with the wedding.
"I'm not in love with you anymore, Eve. Haven't been for a while. And I can't keep pretending."
His words still burned, partly because they marked the end of our five-year relationship, but mostly because deep down, I'd known. No affair, no dramatic betrayal—just the slow death of feelings I'd been too busy to notice. He'd ended things less thana month before Christmas—before our planned Christmas Day wedding. For the past year, I'd crafted the perfect engagement on Instagram while our actual relationship withered behind the filters. The irony wasn't lost on me—social media strategist extraordinaire, staging the perfect love story online while ignoring its collapse in real life.
The GPS chimed, snapping me from my thoughts. "You have arrived at your destination."
I slowed the car, squinting through the windshield at a small wooden sign half-buried in snow:Pinecrest Cabin. The narrow driveway curved through the trees, revealing a log cabin nestled against the backdrop of snow-dusted mountains.
It was smaller than the listing photos suggested, but charming in that deliberate mountain-getaway way vacation rentals cultivate. A covered porch wrapped around the front, and smoke spiraled from the stone chimney—a promising sight after the four-hour drive from Boulder.
I parked, grabbed my suitcase from the trunk, and trudged through ankle-deep snow to the porch. The lockbox code worked on the first try, and I pushed open the heavy wooden door, greeted by a rush of fireplace-scented air that chased the chill from my bones.
Inside, the cabin offered exactly what I needed—clean, cozy, and completely devoid of Christmas decorations. No twinkling lights, no stockings hung with care, no relentless reminders of the season I was trying to escape. Only neutral furnishings, a stone fireplace already stacked with logs, and large windows framing the snowy landscape outside.
I dropped my bags and explored. The living area flowed into an open kitchen with modern appliances. A short hallway led to a bedroom with a queen-sized bed dressed in plaid flannel, and a bathroom featuring a claw-foot tub that made me sigh withlonging. Upstairs, a loft space housed a small desk and a reading nook.
Perfect hideaway until the holiday season passed.
I checked my phone—spotty reception, as expected. The rental listing had advertised Wi-Fi, though, which would at least allow me to check in with work. Not that I planned to do much; I'd banked enough vacation days for a small sabbatical, and my boss had practically shoved me out the door after hearing about Hayden.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since a pitiful drive-thru breakfast hours ago. The kitchen beckoned, but my groceries sat untouched in bags. The thought of cooking a meal for one in a strange kitchen suddenly felt like climbing a mountain without gear.
The property manager had left a welcome folder on the counter. I flipped through it, scanning local recommendations—hiking trails, scenic overlooks, and a short list of dining options. One entry caught my eye:Promises, Promises Bar & Grill. "We keep ours, you break yours." Best food in Promise Ridge. Try the green chile burger.
"Well, Eve," I said to the empty cabin, "looks like you're going out after all."
PROMISE RIDGE RESEMBLEDa Christmas card come to life, especially dusted with fresh powder. Main Street consisted of a handful of businesses with wooden facades and twinkling white lights tracing their rooflines. Even with my anti-holiday mission, I couldn't deny the postcard charm as I parked and headed toward the weathered sign of Promises, Promises Bar & Grill.
The golden glow from inside beckoned, and when I pulled open the heavy door, a blast of toasty air hit me along with the scent of good food and the buzz of lively conversation. Thespace felt lived-in but inviting—exposed beams, stone fireplace crackling at one end, and wooden tables filled with locals who, I couldn't help but notice, all paused mid-conversation to check out the newcomer.
Great. Public scrutiny on day one. Exactly what my bruised ego needed.
I squared my shoulders and made for the bar, choosing an empty stool at the far end. Beside me, a group in matching ski instructor jackets swapped stories over craft beers. At the other end, an elderly couple shared a plate of fries, comfortable in the wordless rhythm of people who've run out of new things to say decades ago.
Behind the bar stood a man who belonged on the cover of "Mountain Living" magazine. Broad-shouldered with forearms that spoke of actual labor, dark hair curling against the collar of his flannel shirt, and a neatly trimmed beard framing a jaw that could cut glass. When he turned my way, startling blue eyes met mine, crinkling slightly at the corners.
"Welcome to Promises," he said, voice low and resonant. "First time in Promise Ridge?"
I nodded. "Is it that obvious?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Small town. Fresh faces stand out." He placed a cocktail napkin in front of me. "What can I get you?"
"I heard the green chile burger is the thing to order."
"Good intel. Drink?"
"Whatever local beer pairs best."
