Page 20 of A Crawford Family Christmas

“We did good,” I correct softly. “The Crawfords and the Burtons. All of us. We make a pretty good team.”

A handful of hours later and we’re done for the night and finally home.

Every light out, every Crawford gone, every goat accounted for. I’ve already showered and am snuggled into our bed, wearing one of Caleb’s old t-shirts. It drives him crazy when I wear his clothes.

There it is—Rory’s text, complete with a blurry photo of my husband looking way too comfortable on that step stool at the cocoa station, surrounded by hysterical siblings. The caption reads:

POSEIDON’S SHERIFF: COMING TO A STAGE NEAR YOU.

I snort laugh. Then the bedroom door opens and Caleb steps in, freshly showered, hair damp, towel wrapped around his waist. A droplet of water slides down his perfect chest and disappears into his treasure trail. My mouth waters.

“Something funny, darlin’?” he asks, voice low and lazy as molasses.

I tilt the phone toward him. “You’ve officially gone viral. Rory’s already threatening to make t-shirts.”

He groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “Remind me why I let y’all talk me into family business ventures? Every time we gather, my dignity takes another hit.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, tossing my phone aside and stretching out on the bed. “You seemed to handle yourself just fine tonight.” I bite down on my lip. “Does it bother you that everyone knows now?”

“No. I’m not ashamed of what I did. It was a legitimate job, and it taught me some good moves.” He does a little pelvic thrust movement.

“Are you offering me a show? Because you’ve clearly got experience entertaining a crowd.”

“Mm.” His grin turns wicked. “Crowd work’s easy. It’s private shows that take skill.”

“Well then,” I purr, leaning up on my elbows, “looks like you’ve got an audience of one. But I can guarantee that I’m your biggest fan.”

He laughs, low and deep, shaking his head. “You’re something else, Trouble, you know that?”

“Want me to put on some music for you?” I grab my phone and click the screen, and The Weather Girls, “It’s Raining Men” comes out of my speaker.

That makes him laugh.

Good gravy, he’s handsome when he smiles.

But it gets him moving. He crosses the room slow—deliberate—his bare feet whispering over the rug until he’s standing at the foot of the bed, all smirk and seduction.

“You want a show, huh?” he asks.

“I want to know what the college girls in Austin were paying for.”

He chuckles. “Normally, I would have started with more clothes on than a towel.”

“You can take it off. I don’t mind,” I say.

“Patience, my love. I need to wiggle my assets a bit more before showing you the goods.”

I abandon my phone and move to the end of the bed, sitting closer to where he’s gyrating. He really is quite good at it.

The next few moments are equal parts ridiculous and hot as sin—Caleb, the serious, stoic sheriff, giving me a slow, teasing reenactment of his long-retired “college hustle.” The music is low, and his movements are definitely doing their job. I am ready to devour him.

He stops at the foot of the bed, leans forward, and braces his hands on either side of me and murmurs, “You satisfied, darlin’?”

“Not yet. I do have one question, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Is that a nightstick in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”