Page 13 of A Crawford Family Christmas

“We are,” I say sweetly. “I’m the creative director. You’re the muscle.”

He leans in, voice dropping. “You keep calling me muscle in that tone, and we’re gonna have to close the tree rows early.”

My pulse skips. “Big talk for a man holding livestock.”

Waffles bleats loudly, clearly agreeing with me. Hayes laughs, finally setting the goat down. “Fine. Truce. You round up the others, I’ll fix the pen.”

“Or,” I suggest, tugging his collar, “we take a five-minute break in the trees, and then we fix the pen.”

His grin turns slow and dangerous. “Five minutes, huh?”

“Give or take.” I grab Waffles and step over to my best friend. “Could you do me a favor and hold this baby for a few minutes. I need to have a private conversation with my husband.”

Callie takes the goat. “I don’t think that’s what that is called either.”

“You librarians are annoying with your demands for precise word choices,” I say. Then I grab Hayes’s hand and pull him into the trees.

We sneak between two rows of tall pines strung with lights, just far enough from the noise and laughter to pretend the world isn’t watching. The scent of cedar wraps around us. Hayes braces one hand against a tree trunk, his other tracing the hem of my sweater.

“Aurora, you’re a bad influence,” he murmurs.

I hum in response.

“I like that about you.”

“I thought maybe you did,” I say.

His mouth meets mine, warm and unhurried. The kiss is sweet at first, but Hayes never does anything halfway. His tongue teases mine, his hand slides to my waist, and suddenly I’m melting into him.

When we break apart, I’m breathless. “We should get back before Waffles stages a coup.”

“Let him try,” he says, nipping my bottom lip. “You’re the only wild thing I’m worried about right now.”

We walk back, fingers intertwined, just in time to see Waffles attempting to eat the mistletoe garland off the raffle booth.

I groan. “I hate that goat.”

Hayes chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

And he’s right—I don’t. I don’t hate anything about this crazy life of mine.

Not Waffles. Not all the chaos. Definitely not this beautiful man who looks at me like Christmas came early.

“Now that you’ve got your troublemaker contained,” Quinn says, nodding towards Waffles. “Can we get the front gates opened and start this shindig?”

“We’ve been ready,” Hayes says, walking past his brother like he doesn’t have a goat under his arm.

Three hours later, the farm feels different once the crowds are gone.

The music and laughter have quieted. The bonfire’s burned down to embers, along with an alarming number of marshmallows. Hayes and I are loading the rest of our critters in the trailer to drive them back home. Waffles lets out one last disgruntled bleat before settling in.

I exhale, stretching my back and rolling my shoulders. “Well,” I say, looking around at the mess of cocoa cups, candy-cane wrappers, and discarded Santa hats, “that was either the most successful grand opening in Saddle Creek history or the most chaotic.”

Behind me, Hayes chuckles, deep and low. “You say that like those two things are different.”

I turn to find him leaning against a fencepost, hat tipped back, hands in his pockets, looking like the quintessential sexy cowboy. His flannel sleeves are rolled up, his hair’s a little mussed, and his smile is that wicked one he only gives me.

“You know,” he starts, “I was thinking that it would be a tragic waste of all these pretty twinkle lights to not take a walk through the tree rows one more time.”