“I’m trying, but you’re not helping.”
Before he can formulate a cutting response, something catches my eye that makes a smile spread across my face.
“No,” he says immediately, following my gaze to Santa’s booth decorated with oversized candy canes and twinkling lights. “Absolutely not.”
“Is that Tommy Matthews?” I ask, though I’m certain it is. “Didn’t you two have chemistry together senior year?”
The question makes him groan, but he doesn’t resist when I begin steering him toward the booth with a gentle pressure against his back.
“He copied all my lab notes,” Taylen says. “Then asked me to tutor him because he ‘couldn’t read his own handwriting.’ Now he’s got five kids and teaches second grade. How do you know?”
I raise a brow. “Did you meet your brother? You couldn’t jump without him proudly announcing to the world how high.”
Tommy spots us approaching, recognizing us immediately. “Ho, ho, ho!” he booms with an enthusiasm that manages to sound both practiced and sincere. “Have you been a good boy this year?”
“Kill me now,” Taylen starts, but I’m already reaching for my wallet to pay the booth fee. His protests die as I guide him toward the elaborately decorated chair. “I hate you,” he mutters, but the way he settles onto Tommy’s lap suggests he’s accepted his fate.
“No, you don’t,” I tell him cheerfully, positioning myself for the perfect photo angle.
Tommy plays his role with admirable dedication, asking about Christmas wishes while Taylen maintains an expression of dignified suffering that makes the whole situation even funnier.
“Smile,” I say before snapping a photo.
“I’m never forgiving you for this,” he declares as we walk away, but his hand still finds mine.
“Yes, you will,” I tell him confidently, pulling him close enough to press a quick kiss to his temple. “Because you love me.” The words still feel new enough to send a thrill through my system, though we’ve been saying them more frequently since our hotel room confessions.
His response is to lean into my contact briefly before pulling away. “Jury’s still out,” he mutters.
Taylen tastes like chocolate and cinnamon when I steal a quick kiss behind the wreath vendor’s display, his hands clutching my jacket as if he’s torn between pulling me closer and pushing me away. The festival swirls around us in happy chaos, but all I can focus on is the way his breath catches when my fingers find the gap between his coat and scarf.
“Behave,” he mutters against my mouth, though he was the one who initiated this particular hidden moment. “We’re in public.”
“You started it,” I remind him. “I was being perfectly innocent until you dragged me behind these wreaths.”
We make our way through the festival grounds slowly, stopping frequently to greet people who want to discuss everything from apple crops to Hall of Fame’s last album.
The veterinary charity booth appears ahead, and Dr. Hunter Cross’s short frame almost looks taller as he talks passionately about animals.
“Dr. Cross,” I call when a family moves away, drawing his attention.
“Sebastian,” he greets, then nods to Taylen. “How’s our newest arrival doing?” The question draws a proud smile to my face as I think about Martha’s heifer.
“Thriving,” I report happily, squeezing Taylen’s hand as I remember the night we spent watching the birth. “Though Gouta’s appointed herself the unofficial guardian. Won’t let anyone near the baby without her approval first.”
Hunter’s laugh holds genuine amusement. “That goat has more personality than most people I know,” he observes, shaking his head slightly. “Should I be concerned about her adopting all your newborns?”
“Probably,” I admit, thinking about the way Gouta herds the calf around the barn like an anxious mother. “My cabin’s already turning into an impromptu animal sanctuary. Wouldn’t be surprised to come home and find them both asleep on my bed one of these days.”
My attention is suddenly drawn to Stone approaching the booth with the determination that suggests a man on a mission. His perfectly styled hair and usual designer clothes look almost out of place among the festival’s casual atmosphere, yet somehow, he manages to make even winter wear seem effortlessly fashionable.
“Dr. Cross,” Stone purrs. “How nice to see you again.” His smile holds a practiced charm that’s worked on countlessadmirers over the years, but Hunter’s polite response suggests immunity to such tactics.
“Mr. Murphy,” Hunter acknowledges professionally. “Are you interested in supporting our local animal rescue efforts?”
Stone’s laugh carries a hint of frustration beneath the surface charm. “Always happy to support good causes,” he says smoothly. “Especially when they’re championed by such dedicated professionals.”
Taylen’s thumb continues tracing patterns against my palm as we watch Stone make a few more attempts at engagement before accepting temporary defeat.
