Page 34 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
"Thank you."
We sat there together as Christmas morning stretched out, soft and perfect. No schedules, no obligations, nowhere else to be. Just us, taking a chance on something that felt more real than anything either of us had known in years.
Outside, the world was blanketed in snow. Inside, the fire crackled, the tree glowed, and Eve's warmth pressed against my side felt like home.
"Merry Christmas," I said again, because I couldn't say it enough.
"Merry Christmas." She squeezed my hand. "Here's to new beginnings."
"To new beginnings," I agreed. "And to whatever comes next."
"As long as it's from the heart."
"Always."
We stayed like that for hours, talking about nothing and everything, making plans and changing them, laughing and kissing and just being together. The future was uncertain—she might stay, she might go, we might make it or we might not.
But today? Today was about miracles and hope and the joy of choosing love even when it's scary.
Today was Christmas. And I had everything I wanted.
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.
