Page 9 of A Crawford Family Christmas

“Then we’ll use flashlights.” I squeeze his hand. “No one is expecting tonight to be perfect except you.”

The lights flicker back on. “Oh, my bad,” Johnny says. “I unplugged the wrong thing.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Quinn says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

I chuckle. “See? It’s all good.”

He pulls me closer, one hand curling around my waist. “You always know how to calm me. I don’t know why I’m putting so much pressure on myself for this.”

“Because you care. It’s what you do, who you are. You’ve taken care of this family for so long. All on your own. Let me help. Let me be your partner.”

“But I need to take care of you too,” he says.

“You can. And I can take care of you. Symbiosis,” I say.

“I love you, Amber. You’re going to be an amazing mother someday.”

I lean up on my tiptoes and give him a swift kiss. “We already know you’ll be a great dad.”

Quinn looks down at me, his expression so full of love that it makes my heart clinch.

He dips his head, kisses me—slow, and full of heat that doesn’t belong at a family event. His lips taste like cider and sugar and home. When he finally pulls back, he murmurs, “You make this whole damn ranch feel like Christmas every day of the year.”

“Then stop worrying about perfection,” I whisper. “You already built it.”

“You, my wife, are the only perfection I need.” Then he kisses me again.

And if the town of Saddle Creek gets one more scandalous photo of me kissing my husband under the glow of a hundred thousand lights… well, that’s the kind of publicity I can live with.

Two hours later, the official lighting ceremony went off without a hitch, and now I’m pretty sure I have marshmallows melted into my hair.

“Miss Amber!” a small voice calls. “Mine’s on fire!”

I lunge for the stick before the flaming marshmallow drips onto someone’s boot. “All part of the experience, sweetheart,” I say brightly. “We call that extra toasty.”

Quinn chuckles from behind me, handing over another bag of marshmallows. “You sure you’ve got this handled, Mrs. Crawford?”

“Define ‘handled.’”

“No one has caught anything but marshmallows on fire?”

“Then yes, absolutely.”

He’s still laughing when two boys start sword-fighting with roasting sticks. “Whoa there, partners.” Quinn steps in, his voice that perfect blend of calm and command that kids always respond to. “You joust again, and I’m confiscating your marshmallows for evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” one of them asks.

“Bad decisions.”

They giggle and scamper off.

I shake my head. “You’re good with them.”

He glances at me. “You are too.”

There’s something in his tone that makes me glance up — the way his eyes linger, soft and proud and just a little wistful.

The expression makes my eyes fill with tears.