Page 12 of A Crawford Family Christmas

hayes & rory

Rory

I should probably just wear a shirt all the time that says, “The goats are running amok.”

That seems to be my life story. Technically, I don’t need to use some of my animals in a mobile petting zoo; I don’t need that as my income. Hayes makes plenty of money and then some.

Yet here we are with the goats… well, running amok.

There are at least four goats in the cocoa tent, one in the bouncy house, and another one who keeps trying to steal Santa’s hat.

So, you know—typical Thursday.

“Rory!” Hayes’s voice booms from somewhere behind the ornament booth. “Please tell me those aren’t our goats.”

“They’re the town’s goats now,” I yell back. “It’s called community outreach!”

When he rounds the corner, he’s carrying a half-gnawed wreath and looking way too composed for a man surrounded by festive farm animals gone rogue. His hat’s tilted back, his forearms are dusted in glitter, and his patience looks one bleat away from collapse. And damn if he isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Woman, I love you,” he says, “but your definition of ‘petting zoo’ needs work.”

I give him an innocent smile. “They’re our pets. People are petting them. It fits.”

He exhales like a man who’s fought this battle before. “You promised me no chaos for opening day.” But he’s smiling because, as much as he pretends he doesn’t, he loves this mayhem as much as I do.

“I promised you no fires. That’s very different, babe.”

A high-pitched “Baaa!” echoes as Waffles—the tiniest, most defiant goat of the bunch—leaps onto the hood of the cider truck.

Hayes groans. “You know what that means.”

“Waffles is thirsty?”

He fixes me with a look. “Goat rodeo.”

A crowd’s gathering, half the town cheering and recording on their phones. Hayes climbs up after Waffles with calm, cowboy precision, his jeans hugging every inch of muscle in a way that makes me forget what we’re even doing here.

Callie somehow appears beside me and elbows me in the ribs. “You’re drooling.”

“I can’t help it if my husband is pretty.”

Hayes catches the little troublemaker around the middle, jumps down, and lands in front of me to a round of applause.

“Hero!” someone yells.

He deadpans, “Add that to my résumé.”

I’m laughing so hard I nearly drop my hot chocolate. He shoots me a look that’s part exasperation, part you’re in trouble later.

“You could help, you know,” he says.

“I was spotting you.”

“I don’t think that’s what it’s called,” Callie says.

“Semantics,” I say.

Hayes steps closer, holding the goat with one arm. “Pretty sure I remember you saying something about us being partners.”