Johnny & Harper
Harper
The bonfire crackles high, painting everything gold—the rows of trees, the crowd, the frost-edged tips of the pines.
The smell of cinnamon and smoke drifts through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation and laughter.
And right in the middle of it all, on a makeshift stage built from hay bales and stubborn optimism, my husband is tuning his guitar and pretending he isn’t nervous.
Which is ridiculous. Johnny Crawford doesn’t do nervous.
“Alright, folks,” he says, flashing that grin that could melt snow in July.
“Thanks for coming out to the first annual Crawford Christmas Tree Farm Festival! I know that normally it’s my brother, Harrison, up here with his guitar.
I won’t pretend I’m nearly as good as him.
But I thought I’d try my hand at singing. ”
The crowd cheers and hollers.
“To win you over, I thought I’d do some favorites. So y’all sing with me.”
Then he launches into a country-fried version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Next up is Frosty the Snowman, then The Christmas Song.
“For this next one, I’m gonna need some help. Harper!” he calls, voice smooth as honey. “C’mon up here, darlin’. I need a partner.”
The crowd instantly turns, whistling and clapping. Traitors.
“Johnny,” I protest, crossing my arms. “No.”
He strums a teasing chord. “You said you liked duets.”
“Not live ones!”
He leans toward the mic, voice dropping to that dangerous drawl. The one he knows always makes me drop my panties. Though obviously, that won’t be happening here.
“Please? For Me? For Christmas?”
And just like that, I’m sunk. The man weaponizes charm like it’s oxygen.
“Fine,” I sigh, climbing the steps. “But if you pick All I Want for Christmas Is You, I’m leaving you.”
He grins. “Guess I’d better start strumming fast.”
The first chords aren’t Mariah Carey, thank God — they’re his song, Re-Proposal, the one he wrote last year about our wedding and refused to stop playing at every family gathering. The crowd quiets. His voice, low and earnest, threads through the air like warm whiskey.
Then he looks at me, eyes soft and bright under the lights. “You remember the harmony?”
I do. I always do.
When I start singing, it’s shaky at first—too aware of the crowd, the fire, the thousand eyes on us. But Johnny’s grin never wavers. His voice wraps around mine, steady and sure, until the rest of the world falls away.
Halfway through, he slips a hand around my waist, pulling me closer. The song turns slower, deeper—less duet, more confession. When we hit the last line together, our voices blend perfectly:
“Every Christmas, I’ll choose you again.”
The crowd erupts—cheers, applause, whoops that echo across the pasture. I’m laughing, flushed, breathless. Johnny just looks smug.
“You’re ridiculous,” I whisper.
“And you love me,” he says, eyes crinkling.
“Unfortunately.”
He kisses me, right there in front of everyone, and the crowd goes wild. Someone—probably Rory—yells, “Encore!”
He kisses me harder. “No encore. Private show only.”
“Johnny!” I hiss, swatting his chest, but he just grins wider.
When the noise dies down, he hands the mic to Quinn. “Alright, folks. We’ll be back with more music after a hot cocoa break. Try the kettle corn—tell ’em Harper sent you. She’s the boss.”
“Finally,” I mutter.
As we walk offstage, he leans down and murmurs, “You sounded amazing.”
“You’re trouble.”
“Yeah,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, “but I’m your trouble.”
And as the fire crackles and the crowd starts singing again, I can’t help smiling. Because somehow, in this crazy, crowded family, that’s exactly what Christmas feels like—joy and music and just enough mischief to make it magic.
A few hours later, and it’s down to just us Crawfords and Burtons doing clean up. The front gates are closed, and the noise level has dropped so that I can actually hear my thoughts. And, well, at the moment they’re not good. For the last twenty minutes, I’ve been stuck—literally—to a tree.
I am one hundred percent sure I am going to die wrapped in Christmas lights. Or at least pull all my hair out trying to get myself free. I’ve tried to handle this mess on my own, but I’ve only managed to make it worse. So I texted my husband to come find me because I need help.
I see him turn down the row of trees where I’m stuck.
“Johnny,” I hiss, frozen in place between two perfectly trimmed pines.
He turns and sees me. I can see the exact moment that the reality of my situation registers in his brain.
“Do not laugh,” I warn.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then—
“Oh, Harpsichord,” Johnny says, voice shaking. “I’m trying. I promise I am.”
I close my eyes. “I swear to God, if you take a picture—”
“Already did.”
“JOHNNY.”
He steps closer, still grinning like a menace, and his hands lifted in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m done. Just—hold still.”
“That’s literally all I can do,” I mutter.
“How did you even do this?” he asks. His hands are gently pulling on the strands of my hair. “It’s like someone tied your hair around the light strands.”
“I don’t know how it happened. Someone had put a cocoa cup in this tree. I leaned in to get it out and managed to get tangled. Then, when I tried to undo it all, I just made it all worse. Can you free me without having to cut a chunk of my hair out?”
Johnny squints at the situation like he’s assessing a crime scene. “You know, I’ve seen some things tonight. Goats in the cider tent. Quinn yelling at a generator. But this?” He shakes his head. “This might be the highlight.”
“Shut up or I’ll call someone else to help me,” I say.
“Who? If you call my sister, this will end up in the Saddle Peek.”
“Callie. She’s the nice one in the family. Everyone else is crazy.”
“That tracks,” he says. “Alright, sweetheart. Don’t panic.” His voice drops, teasing but gentle. “I’ve rescued calves from barbed wire. This is basically the same thing.”
“Except for the fact that I am not livestock.”
“I just meant the situation.”
I shoot him a look. “I will bite you.”
He grins. “Kinky.”
“JOHNNY.”
“Sorry. Focus.” He gently lifts a section of my hair, careful as if he’s handling something precious. “Okay… you’ve got one curl wrapped around the wire here, another around the bulb… and I think this piece is just emotionally attached.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He leans closer, breath warm against my temple. “You married me.”
“That was before you turned me into a Christmas decoration.”
He laughs softly, then stills. “You did this to yourself. But I’ve got you. Just stay still.”
Something in his voice—steady, sure—makes my shoulders relax despite myself. He works slowly, fingers warm against my neck as he unwinds the wire strand by strand.
“You know,” he says. “This makes me think of the night you let me tie you up.”
“We are not discussing that here.”
“Why not? We’re alone.”
“Your family is still here, and they’re all nosy as hell. They could be hiding in the next row of trees.”
“Doubtful,” he says.
He tugs on one strand that pulls painfully. “Ouch,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Harps. I’m trying to be gentle.”
“I know you are. I’m just cranky and ready to be at home in bed.”
“Pretend this is romantic,” he says. “We’re alone amidst twinkle light-adorned trees.”
“Yes, because nothing says ‘date night’ like emergency tree extraction.”
He laughs. “How about ‘damsel rescue?’”
“I am not a damsel.”
He smiles. “You are tonight.”
One strand slips free. Then another.
“There,” he says quietly. “Almost got you.”
I shift just slightly—and yelp when it tugs again. “Ow—sorry!”
“Hey, hey.” His hands settle on my shoulders. “Easy. That one’s stubborn.”
“Like you.”
“Rude.” He chuckles, then leans in closer, his mouth brushing my ear. “You know… if I hadn’t already married you, this would be the moment I fall in love.”
“Because I’m trapped?”
“Because you’re taking this in stride and not freaking out.”
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.”