Page 3 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
"Most?" I whispered back.
"Except that time Flint Hawthorne had to streak down Main Street," he deadpanned. "But it was summer, so frostbite wasn't an issue."
I couldn't tell if he was joking, and had no chance to ask. Mabel had maneuvered me off my barstool toward the bulletin board with the skill of a border collie herding a stubborn sheep.
"Go on," she urged, eyes twinkling. "Pick your fate."
The crowd watched expectantly, patrons calling out contradictory advice: "Go for the red one with the white trim!" "No, no, blue ones are always easiest!" "Pick the one with the bell—it's lucky!"
My eyes swept across dozens of tiny stockings, each barely larger than my palm. Some traditional red and white, others in plaids, stripes, or glittering fabrics. All handmade with varying skill levels, from elementary school craft project to professional seamstress.
"Fine," I muttered, reaching for a plain red one in the middle.
I unpinned it and peered inside, extracting a folded slip of paper. The bar quieted to a hush as I unfolded it.
"'Kiss a stranger under the mistletoe—minimum five seconds,'" I read aloud, heat rising to my face as the crowd erupted in whistles and cheers.
Mabel cackled with delight. "Classic! Mistletoe's hanging all over. Take your pick of the single fellows, honey."
I surveyed my options. A cluster of ski patrol guys in the corner—all at least a decade younger than me. Two older men who could be someone's grandfathers. A family with kids who were absolutely off the table.
And then there was Deacon, watching with undisguised amusement, arms crossed over his chest.
"The least awkward choice," I decided, turning to him. "If you're willing?"
His eyebrows arched slightly, but he nodded. "House rules. Dares must be honored."
Someone pointed to a sprig of mistletoe dangling from a wooden beam near the bar. Deacon stepped beneath it, and I followed, acutely aware of every eye watching us.
"You don't have to—" he began.
"Let's get this over with," I said quickly.
The bar patrons began counting down as I stepped closer. I expected to stretch up on tiptoes, but he bent down, meeting me halfway. Our lips connected just as the crowd shouted "Five!"
I'd planned on a quick peck. A mere formality. But the moment our lips touched, electricity shot through me. His mouth was surprisingly soft against mine, his beard tickling my skin. Cedar and whiskey filled my senses, and my knees actually wobbled—a reaction I'd thought only happened in the cheesy romance novels I secretly devoured.
"Four!" the crowd chanted.
He kept his hands strictly at his sides, but leaned in ever so slightly, and my body responded on its own, swaying toward him.
"Three!"
My eyes fluttered shut, and I caught myself almost lifting my hands to his shoulders.
"Two!"
His lips moved against mine, the barest pressure change that sent my pulse racing.
"One! Woooooooo!"
We broke apart to whistles and applause. Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I couldn't quite meet Deacon's gaze as we stepped away from each other.
"That earned you a free drink," he said, his voice rougher than before. "What'll it be?"
"Something stronger than beer," I managed.
He nodded and returned behind the bar while I retreated to my stool. The patrons gradually drifted back to their conversations, though I caught curious glances and whispers aimed my way.
