Mountain Man’s Holiday Bell (Wildwood Valley Christmas #3)

Chapter 1

PAIGE

Icould already taste the tacos as I shoved a plastic bin of bells under my vendor table at the Wildwood Valley Christmas Festival. Steak tacos with cheese and tomatoes, maybe a little lettuce.

I usually got the sour cream on the side, but tonight I’d let them pile it on. Easier to eat standing up while I waited for the tree lighting to kick off.

“You back there?”

The deep voice yanked me out of my taco fantasy. My head jerked up, and only then did I realize I’d been smiling like a fool. The smile stuck as I scrambled to my feet—until I locked eyes with the man standing in front of me.

Holy. Mountain. Man.

This guy was gorgeous—scruffy, broad-shouldered, brown eyes that pinned me like I’d just committed a crime. Which was confusing, since the last thing I remembered doing was daydreaming about food.

Had I broken some festival rule buried in that mile-long vendor packet I hadn’t read?

“You have bells,” he said. “We need three of them.”

Not exactly what I expected.

I tore my eyes away from his face to glance at the crowd. People were filling in between the rows of vendor tables, all craning to see the stage where the massive tree waited. My taco window was shrinking by the second, and this guy wanted my bells?

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

“The mayor.”

He jerked his thumb toward the riser doubling as a stage. The riser barely fit the tree, plus a microphone where Wildwood Valley’s picture-perfect young mayor had promised she’d stand later. She wasn’t there now, but I figured she’d sent Mr. Broody Calvin Klein Model over to fetch supplies.

“They need something for the countdown,” he explained, scanning the crowd like I was boring him. “‘Three, two, one,’ flip the switch, lights come on. Bells.”

“So…they need a bell.”

“The mayor asked for three,” he said flatly. “So I need three.”

His tone had an edge sharp enough to cut tinsel. Immediately, my hackles went up. Excuse me? A Neanderthal attitude was not on the vendor guidelines—at least not in the section I skimmed.

If the mayor wanted bells, fine. But her messenger could at least ask nicely.

“Here you go.” I plucked a red, green, and silver bell from my display and held them out.

He didn’t even glance at them at first. He just stared at me, like he was sizing me up. Finally, he reached for them, and our fingers brushed.

Sparks. Literal sparks. Heat, chills…all the clichés. I wasn’t imagining it. My eyes went wide, and for a second I just gaped at him, mirroring the intensity of his stare.

“Got it,” he said quickly, yanking back both hands. He started to turn, but then paused, still watching me. “She wants you too.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“The mayor,” he clarified, jaw tight. “She wants you up on stage with the bells. Something about authenticity. Local artisan participation.”

The way he said it made it sound like the cheesiest line he’d ever been forced to deliver.

I gawked at him. “She wants me on stage? In front of all those people?”

He gave one curt nod. “Five minutes before the lighting ceremony.”

My stomach flipped. I was a behind-the-table kind of girl. I made things. I didn’t perform.

“Can’t you just…ring them yourself?”

“Apparently not.” His eyes flicked past me, avoiding mine. “She was very specific. The bell maker has to be there. Community spirit and all that.”

Something about his tone was off, like he was making this up as he went. But before I could call him on it, my stomach betrayed me with a loud growl.

His eyes snapped back, and for the first time, the corner of his mouth twitched—like he was fighting a smile. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” I admitted. “I was about to grab tacos before you showed up with your bell emergency.”

He glanced at the taco truck. The line had doubled.

“How long until the ceremony?” I asked.

“Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five.”

I eyed the bells in his hands, then him. An idea formed. A petty, brilliant, probably terrible idea.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “If the mayor really wants me up there, I need fuel. Real food. Not candy canes and kettle corn.”

One brow rose. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re going to get me two steak tacos with cheese, tomatoes, sour cream, and a soda. Now. While I deal with my booth.”

“You want me to get you tacos?”

He looked like I’d asked him to juggle flaming torches.

“That’s my price for public humiliation.” I shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

He studied me for a long beat, then glanced at the taco line, then back. “What if the line’s too long?”

“Then you wait in it. You’re the one who needs me up there, not the other way around.”

This time, something shifted in his expression. The sharp edges softened, replaced by something almost amused.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“I’m a businesswoman.” I gestured toward my table. “Nothing’s free.”

“Fair enough.” He hesitated. “What about the bells? I can’t lug them around for twenty minutes.”

“Leave them here.” I held out my hand. “I’ll keep them safe.”

He stared down at the bells like they were priceless artifacts.

“They won’t vanish,” I said. “And if the mayor insists, she’ll have to trust I’ll show.”

Slowly, he placed them back in my palm. And again—bam. Heat shot up my arm. But this time I was ready, and I kept my face neutral.

“Two steak tacos,” he repeated. “Cheese, tomatoes, sour cream. And a soda.”

“Don’t forget napkins,” I said. “Lots of napkins. No way I’m holding bells with greasy fingers.”

This time, he smiled. A real smile. And wow—when he smiled, his whole face lit up, his brown eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Anything else, your majesty?”

The sarcasm should have ticked me off. Instead, it made me grin. “That’s all. For now.”

He shook his head, still smiling, and started toward the taco truck. But after a few steps, he paused and turned.

“Actually,” he said, “why don’t you come with me? We can wait together. Less of a risk that you’ll miss the start of things.”

I glanced at my booth. The walkway was nearly deserted—everyone was drifting toward the stage anyway.

“What about my stuff?”

“It’ll be fine for twenty minutes. You can still keep an eye on it from the line.”

He wasn’t wrong. And the thought of standing alone, working myself into a nervous wreck before showtime, wasn’t exactly appealing.

“Okay.” I grabbed my purse. “But you’re still paying.”

“Deal.” He waited while I angled myself to keep my booth in sight, then fell in step beside me.

The taco line was long, but moving. We ended up behind a family with three kids locked in a heated debate over hard versus soft shells, like it was a matter of national security.

“So,” I said, sneaking a sideways glance at him, “what’s your name? If we’re going to be business partners in this bell-ringing gig, I should probably know.”

“Jonas,” he said. “Jonas Urban.”

“Paige Ashby.” I studied his profile as he watched the kids ahead. “Are you from Wildwood Valley? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”

“Moved here a few months ago.” He looked down at me. “You?”

“I’m from Bakersfield, South Carolina, population three thousand eight hundred forty-seven. And I know about three thousand eight hundred forty-six of them.”

We shuffled forward. My gaze caught on his hands as he reached for his wallet. Strong hands, roughened with calluses. No wedding ring.

“So what do you do? Besides play delivery boy for the mayor.”

He hesitated just long enough for me to notice. “Construction. Carpentry, mostly.”

That tracked—the calluses, the broad shoulders, and maybe the grumpy edge too. Small-town social events probably weren’t his thing.

“Useful in a place like this,” I said. “Cabins are going up everywhere.”

“Seems that way.”

We hit the front of the line, and Jonas ordered my tacos plus something for himself. While we waited, I stole little glances at him, trying to puzzle him out. He carried himself with confidence, but kept walls up too.

“So how’d you end up as the mayor’s bell gatherer?” I asked.

For a second, his eyes met mine, and something flickered there—guilt? Regret?

“Right place, wrong time, I guess.”

The food arrived, hot and wrapped in foil. Jonas handed me my order, and my stomach growled like I hadn’t eaten in days. I didn’t wait—I unwrapped and took a bite.

Heaven. Absolute cheesy, messy heaven. A little sigh escaped me before I could stop it. Jonas smirked like he’d scored points.

“What?” I asked, my mouth full.

“Nothing.” His lips twitched. “Didn’t peg you as the type to strong-arm strangers into taco duty.”

I swallowed and arched a brow. “Survival instincts. Never underestimate them.”

His laugh was low and warm, and it hit me right in the chest. I licked a smear of sour cream off my thumb and glanced toward the tree glowing in the distance.

The night had started simple—me, my booth, and tacos on the horizon.

Now here I was, eating those tacos with a mysterious carpenter who made sparks fly just by brushing my hand.

Maybe this Christmas festival was going to be more interesting than I thought.