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.
