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.”
“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.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Are you flirting with me, Hayes Crawford?”
He shoves off the fence and walks towards me. “Darlin’, I am always flirting with you.”
One of his hands grabs onto my hip and pulls me closer.
“It’s just opening night,” I say. “These twinkle lights are going to be here all season.”
“True. But if we keep selling trees like we did tonight, the rows will be sparse, and it won’t be as magical.”
I try to hide a grin. “Magical, huh?”
“Can a man just wanna romance his wife a little?”
I lean up and press my lips to his. “Of course, babe. I’m sorry. You know how sometimes my practical nature gets in the way?”
“I still love you, practical nature and all.” He kisses my forehead.
We walk, hand-in-hand, deeper into the rows of trees. Wind blows through the tree branches, making the light strands sway.
Hayes nods to the open space before us, where the twinkle lights flicker over the ground. “Dance with me,” he says.
I blink. “There’s no music.”
He shrugs. “Don’t need any.”
“Hayes—”
“C’mon, darlin’,” He holds out a hand. “One dance.”
I sigh, but my heart’s already gone soft and gooey. “You realize I’m wearing mud-caked boots, right?”
“Good,” he says, catching my hand and tugging me gently into his arms. “That means you won’t step on my toes.”
He’s warm and solid against me, the steady beat of his heart creating a rhythm for our dance. We sway there in the middle of the clearing, the stars sparkling bright overhead, the whole world smelling like cedar and smoke.
“Not bad, cowboy,” I murmur.
“You doubted me?”
“I’ve seen you dance. At Quinn and Amber’s wedding, you nearly took out a table.”
He chuckles, his chest rumbling against mine. “I was distracted.”
“By what?”
“You, in that red dress.”
I roll my eyes. “I was the size of a house carrying your baby.”
“You were and are the sexiest woman in the world.” He tilts his head, his voice dropping low and soft. “You were everything I never knew I needed.”
My breath catches. “Hayes,” I whisper, “don’t you make me cry.”
“Don’t cry, pretty girl.” he says, brushing his thumb over my cheek.
I release a watery laugh. “Are you trying to get lucky tonight?”
“Aurora, I am lucky. So goddamn lucky to be your husband. But also, yes, I am definitely trying to get into your pants.”
That makes me really laugh. “You are ridiculous. But I love you like crazy.”
He dips his head and nuzzles his lips against my neck. “So about getting into your pants…”
“We have to go home for that. I’m not interested in getting pine needles stuck in my ass.”
He smacks my bottom. “Then let’s go home, wife.”
And with that, he picks me up, tosses me over his shoulder, and jogs all the way to our truck.