Page 18 of A Crawford Family Christmas

I huff a breath. “Give me time.”

He finally frees the last strand and steps back with a flourish. “And… you are released.”

I sag forward in relief—straight into his chest.

His arms come around me automatically, steady and warm, and for a second neither of us moves. The lights glow softly around us.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” I look up at him. “My hero.”

He grins. “I will always rescue you. You’re my Harpsichord.”

He leans in and kisses me—slow, easy, full of warmth and laughter and the kind of love that sneaks up on you when your life’s already full. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

“Next year,” he murmurs, “we put the twins in charge of the lights.”

I laugh. “They won’t even be three next Christmas. That feels unsafe.”

“We’ll supervise,” he says, smiling. “Or at least I will. I’m not sure you can be on lights duty ever again.”

He takes my hand, fingers lacing with mine as we head back toward the glow and noise of the farm—me a little disheveled, him entirely too pleased with himself.

“Normally, I have to work pretty hard to get your hair that messy.”

“You are the worst.”

“But you love me.”

“You know I do.”