Mistletoe and Mayhem (The Mountain Man’s Mail-Order Bride #9)

Chapter 1

Noel

It’s snowing sideways and I’m five minutes away from committing a felony.

My combat boots crunch over ice as I hike up the front steps of the crusty cabin the bartender at The Devil’s Brew sent me to. “Nash Hollis’s place,” he’d said with a smirk that should’ve warned me. “Up the ridge. Big wood cabin. Can’t miss it.”

And now here I am. Frozen, out of breath, and fueled by half a cup of lukewarm gas station coffee and a highly questionable life plan. Answering a mail-order bride ad…what the hell was I thinking?

But hey—Mountain Makeovers: Holiday Edition said go big or go home. So I went big.

Specifically, I answered a fake mail-order bride ad. As a joke. As a strategy. Depends who you ask.

The network said they wanted “the most festive holiday transformation in the Rockies.” I said, sure—I'll give you mistletoe, magic, and marital mayhem. If I find a rugged bachelor with a beard, a cabin, and a soul in need of saving.

I knock. Loud. Twice.

No answer.

I fish the skeleton key out of my pocket—the one the bartender told me I’d find under a gnome statue by the woodpile—and unlock the front door.

“Hello?” I call out.

The air inside is warm. Pine-scented. Definitely inhabited. My boots scuff across a threadbare rug as I step inside.

That’s when I hear it.

A deep, guttural thud from somewhere down the hall.

Then a voice. Gravel and thunder.

“Who the hell—”

I spin toward the hallway just in time to see him.

Nash Hollis.

Towel. Body. Dripping. Steam curling off his broad, tattooed shoulders as he rounds the corner, bare feet silent on the floorboards.

He stops dead when he sees me.

So do I.

Because holy. Actual. Shit.

He’s a bear. A bear with abs. Salt-and-pepper beard, chest like a slab of marble, towel clinging low on his hips like it’s seconds from surrender. He’s not built for Christmas. He’s built for sin.

And currently glaring at me like I’m the intruder.

Which, okay, technically I am.

“What the f—” he rumbles, voice still sleep-rough, “—are you doing in my house?”

I blink, trying not to stare at the droplet racing down the center of his chest. It veers around a scar over his ribs and disappears into the towel.

Don’t follow it, Noel.

“I’m your bride.”

He blinks.

“You’re my what?”

“Bride. Sort of. Mail-order. It’s not legally binding or anything.” I gesture vaguely to my oversized tote. “I come bearing ornaments.”

He doesn’t move. Just glares.

“You answered my ad?” he growls.

“Technically. It was part of a reality show application. Think HGTV meets Bachelor in the Boondocks.”

Nothing.

“I’m Noel Hart,” I try again, stepping forward, hand extended. “Interior designer. Reality show finalist. Here to turn this cozy—” I look around at the cabin’s violently beige aesthetic, “—potential-filled rustic hellscape into a holiday fantasy.”

His eyes narrow. “You broke into my house.”

“Your bartender said the key was under the gnome.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his beard. “Rick’s a dead man.”

“Not if I win,” I chirp. “There’s a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar cash prize for best decorated holiday cabin. I keep half. You get the other half. I leave. You never see me again. I tried to call first but the call kept going to voicemail. Didn’t you check your messages?”

“Not if I can help it.” He crosses his arms.

Which just flexes his chest.

Which, frankly, feels like a personal attack.

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no.” He stalks past me to the fireplace, snatches a flannel shirt off the arm of a chair, and shrugs it on—but doesn’t button it. Just lets it hang open like he’s allergic to modesty. “I didn’t agree to a damn thing. You’re not staying here.”

“Kind of late for that. Snow’s coming down like a cocaine Christmas outside. No one’s getting back down the mountain tonight.”

“Then you’ll sleep in your car.”

“I drive a Prius.”

“Then you’ll freeze in your car.”

I blink. “Wow. You really are the Grinch.”

He grabs a log from the basket and tosses it onto the fire like it personally insulted him. “I don’t do guests. I don’t do cameras. And I sure as hell don’t do mistletoe.”

I toss my coat over the banister and march past him toward the fireplace, pulling out a roll of garland from my bag like I’m about to go to war. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to do anything except stay out of my way and cash a check when this is over.”

He watches me kneel in front of the mantel, garland in hand, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You think you’re just gonna roll in here and turn my place into a damn catalog page?”

“Yes.”

He stalks forward. Slowly. Steps measured. Deliberate.

“Put the garland down.”

I arch a brow. “Or what?”

His voice drops. “You don’t wanna know.”

A shiver slides down my spine. Not from fear. From interest.

Which is dumb.

So dumb.

But the way he’s looking at me—like he could peel me open and feast on every part I’ve been trying to hide—it short circuits my brain.

“Careful, Hollis,” I murmur. “You’re starting to sound like foreplay.”

He stops a foot from me. “You want foreplay, tinsel girl?”

My mouth goes dry.

He leans in, close enough for his heat to lick at my skin.

“Try stringing up a strand of that glittery crap and see what happens.”

My lips part, ready to toss back something sharp, but the words get stuck in my throat.

He’s so close. Smells like cedar soap and something dark and masculine and devastating.

I swallow. “You really don’t want to know what happens when I get glittery.”

He chuckles. Low. Dangerous. “Oh, I have a few guesses.”

We stare at each other.

The fire cracks behind us. Wind howls outside.

He doesn’t move. Neither do I.

Finally, he straightens, that muscle in his jaw ticking.

“You’ve got forty-eight hours,” he says. “Decorate whatever the hell you want. But you stay out of my room. You don’t touch my kitchen. And if you hang a single elf, I’ll burn the place down.”

I smile. Sweetly.

“You’re gonna be so pretty with twinkle lights in your beard.”

He mutters something that sounds like I hate everything and storms off down the hall.

And me?

I plop a red velvet bow on the mantel and grin.

This might be the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Or the best one.

Either way?

It’s gonna be one hell of a week.