Page 1 of Mountain Man's Naughty Elf
Chapter One
“Jingle Hell”
Pepper
I jingled when I walked. Not a cute, festive little tinkle, but a full-on reindeer-pulling-Santa's-sleigh cacophony that announced my presence to anyone within fifty feet. The sound followed me like an overeager Christmas ghost, haunting my every step through North Pole Village.
"Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!" I called out, waving enthusiastically at a family passing by my station at North Pole Village. The mother smiled and pulled her phone out for a photo of her kids with the oversized candy cane backdrop I was manning. "Would you like me to take that for you? Then you can be in the picture too!"
"That would be wonderful." The woman handed over her phone, and I captured several shots of the happy family.
I tucked a wayward strand of auburn hair behind my ear as I returned the phone. At twenty-eight, I'd perfected the art of the elf persona—petite enough to look the part, but with curves that made the striped tights a bit more interesting than North Pole Village's family-friendly image strictly required. My freckled nose and bright green eyes completed the look, earning me the nickname "Real-Life Christmas Elf" from more than one visitor.
This was the part of my job I loved—creating Christmas memories for the families of Evergreen Falls. As the head elf andevents manager for North Pole Village, I took pride in turning our little mountain town's Christmas attraction into the most magical experience possible.
North Pole Village smelled like a Christmas bakery had exploded—cinnamon, pine, and the sugary scent of hot chocolate competed with the crisp mountain air. Instrumental carols played from hidden speakers, punctuated by children's laughter and the occasional 'ho ho ho' from our premium Santa.
What I didn't love? The costume. Don't get me wrong—I adore Christmas. Like, inappropriately, restraining-order levels of adoration. But even I had my limits, and they began somewhere around the curly-toed boots that pinched my feet and ended with the red and green striped tights that rode up in places they had no business exploring.
"Pepper!" Martha Klaus, our board chairwoman and my personal Christmas fairy godmother, bustled over with her clipboard. Despite the town's insistence on calling her "Mrs. Claus" behind her back, Martha refused to wear the traditional red and white outfit, instead opting for tailored pantsuits in festive colors. Today's was emerald green with subtle candy cane pinstripes.
"The Toy Drive donations are through the roof this year," she said, eyes twinkling. "We've already collected twice as many gifts as last year, and Mayor Wickett just arrived for the photo op."
I forced my face into a neutral expression at the mention of my ex-fiancé. "Wonderful. Where would you like me to position him?"
"By the giant gift stack. The photographer's already there." Martha gave me a sympathetic look. "I know it's awkward, dear, but you're so much better at handling him than anyone else."
That's because I'd had three years of practice before I caught Nolan with his pants down—literally—with his campaign manager. The memory still stung, but not as much as his smugface when he realized I wouldn't cause a scene that might damage his precious political career.
"I'll wrangle the mayor," I promised, my bells announcing every step as I made my way through the village.
North Pole Village was my pride and joy. When I'd taken over as event manager two years ago, it had been little more than a sad collection of plastic reindeer and a Santa who smelled suspiciously of bourbon. Now it was a winter wonderland spanning three acres, complete with artisan hot chocolate stands, a genuine reindeer petting zoo, and hand-crafted Christmas decorations for sale by local artists. The Toy Drive was the crown jewel—collecting gifts for every child in the county whose family needed assistance.
I spotted Nolan immediately, his campaign smile fixed firmly in place as he posed with a giant teddy bear by the donation pile. At thirty-six, Nolan maintained those calculated boyish good looks that seduced voters—gleaming veneers that cost more than my monthly rent, brown hair styled with mathematical precision, and today's cashmere sweater that screamed 'approachable wealth.' His campaign smile never quite reached his cold eyes.
"Mayor Wickett, so glad you could make it." I kept my voice professional as I approached.
His smile faltered for just a second before recovering. "Pepper! Looking... festive."
"That's the idea." I tugged at my pointy hat. "The photographer is ready when you are. We thought a few shots with the donation pile, then maybe one with you handing a gift to Tommy—he's representing the children's home this year."
"Perfect. Politics is all about the visuals, after all." He winked at me like we were sharing an inside joke.
I resisted the urge to jab him with my pointy elf shoes and instead directed him through the photo session withprofessional efficiency. Once he was occupied with the local newspaper reporter, I slipped away to handle a crisis involving a malfunctioning snow machine.
By the time I returned to the main building—a large log cabin structure housing our offices and Santa's throne—my feet were screaming in protest and my cheeks hurt from smiling. I just needed five minutes of peace to regroup before the evening rush.
The administrative office was blissfully empty. I collapsed into my chair and kicked off the torture devices masquerading as footwear, wiggling my toes in relief. A notification pinged on my computer—the donation accounting spreadsheet needed updating with today's numbers. I reached for my USB drive to back up the files.
That's when I noticed Nolan's laptop sitting open on the conference table.
He must have left it there earlier during the board briefing. My ex was notorious for being careless with his belongings, always expecting someone else to look after them. Usually that someone had been me.
I was about to close it when I noticed the file name displayed on the screen: "NP_Reallocation_Final.xlsx."
NP—North Pole. Reallocation?
I shouldn't look. It was probably just boring budget stuff. But something about that word—"reallocation"—sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the December temperature.
