Page 19 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
"And a free drink," Trish added.
"Only if you complete the dare," I reminded her.
"Oh, I'm completing it." She locked eyes with the ski instructor. "Hope you're ready to get beat by a woman old enough to be your mother."
"I was raised to respect my elders," he shot back.
"Respect this." She clasped his hand.
Jack counted them down. "Three, two, one—go!"
Their arms trembled, locked in place. The ski instructor's bicep bulged, but the realtor held firm, jaw set, refusing to budge.
"Come on, Trish!" someone shouted.
"Don't embarrass us!" another regular called.
For a solid thirty seconds, neither gained ground. Then, slowly, the ski instructor's superior muscle mass won out. Trish's arm dropped an inch. Then another.
"No, no, no—" She gritted her teeth, face reddening with effort, but it was over. Her knuckles hit the table with a thud.
The man’s friends cheered. Trish slumped back, shaking out her arm.
"Damn," she said, smiling good-naturedly. "I almost had you."
"Sure you did." He helped her up. "Good match."
"Round for the house!" Trish announced, pulling out her wallet. "And you—" she pointed at her former rival, "—your next beer's on me for not being a smug asshole about it."
I started pouring while the crowd dispersed, pleased with the entertainment.
Eve's food arrived, and she dove in with enthusiasm. After her first bite of the short ribs, she actually moaned. I cleared my throat, tried to focus on anything but what that noise did to me.
"Oh my God."
"Right?"
"This is ridiculous." She took another bite, closing her eyes.
"I'll take the compliment on behalf of the chef" I said, "even if you're just being nice."
She looked up at me, eyes bright. "You know, you haven't pulled a stocking tonight. Isn't it your turn?"
The crowd had been half-listening. At her words, they erupted.
"Deacon! Deacon! Deacon!"
I held up my hands. "All right, all right. You people are relentless."
I moved to the board, letting my fingers hover over the options before selecting a silver stocking with green trim. Inside: "Show a hidden talent."
"Card tricks count?" I asked the room.
"Only if you're good!" someone shouted back.
"Fair enough."
I grabbed the deck we kept behind the bar and launched into the routine I'd learned from a fellow detective years ago—nothing fancy, just solid sleight-of-hand. Making cards appear and disappear, guessing what people had drawn from the deck, the basics.
