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 towardthe 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.
