Page 110 of Filthy Rich Santas

I only make it through three inches of my own scarf—three incredibly clumsy-looking inches—by the time I start yawning, and I don’t complain at all when the guys insist we all head to bed.

Especially since they mean, once again, all of us in the same bed.

This time, Beckett insists on being next to me, radiating a protectiveness that I really don’t hate, even if the three of them being so careful with me all night has left me feeling a bit broken and untouchable.

But sleeping between Ryder and Beckett, with Tristan in bed with us too? I will never complain about that.

“Good night, love,” Ryder says softly, giving me the world’s most platonic peck on the lips as Tristan kills the lights.

“Good night,” I reply as Beckett drapes an arm over me, pulling me back against him.

“You good?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear and his breath warm on my neck.

I nod, snuggling back against him. “I really am. Thanks for being such a great teacher.”

He makes a soft sound of acknowledgment, his arm tightening slightly.

Warmth blooms in my chest again, my eyelids getting heavy. But as I drift off, I can’t quite shake the feeling of disappointment from earlier.

Our time on this trip is limited, and as wholesome and cozy as the evening was, what I really want is for these three to teach me other things.

While we still have time.

The next morning,the tiny kernel of disappointment I went to sleep with starts to grow. I fight it, because they’re still being ridiculously sweet—making sure I eat enough before we leave, asking how I rested, insisting on carrying all the bags when we check out and head to the SUV again. But once we finally get on the road, the easy banter from previous days is absent.

As we settle into the drive, silence falls over the car and lasts through the full day of driving. The men rotate behind the wheel each time we stop, and whenever they’re not driving, they’re each absorbed in their phones.

Not that they’re ignoring me, exactly. They respond if I speak up, but the easy banter is gone.

After getting yet another distracted response when I point out some of the holiday decorations we’re passing, I give up. Glancing around at the three of them, that sense of loss I started to feel last night hits me hard. Our time together is almost over.

All three of them woke up in the typical male state, but none of them suggested doing anything about their morning hard ons, and none of them have touched me all day today, either.

I pull out my sketchbook, my pencil moving restlessly across the page as I try to quell the growing unease in my chest. But my mind starts to wander, doubt creeping in like an unwelcome shadow.

Are they losing interest now that they know the truth about my illness? I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the perfect daughter, the ideal girlfriend, always put-together and pleasing until I finally decided to live on my own terms. And they seemed to like that version of me. The real one. The one I’m still discovering for myself.

But now they’ve seen me vulnerable, sickly.

And they don’t seem interested in this version of me at all. Well, not sexually. They still care. In fact, every time we stop, their attentiveness is almost overwhelming.

“Lana, drink some water.”

“Are you hungry? We should get you something to eat.”

“Don’t push yourself. I’ve got that.”

And I appreciate it, I do. But I’m feeling so much better now, which only highlights how carefully they’re treating me. Like I’m fragile. Breakable.

As we pull into yet another rest stop, Ryder hands me a bottle of water with a gentle smile. “Here, love. Stay hydrated.”

I take it, forcing a smile. “Thanks. You guys don’t have to keep fussing over me, though.”

Tristan looks up from his phone, pushing his glasses up. “We’re just looking out for you.”

“I know, and I appreciate it, but…” I trail off, not sure how to express the jumble of emotions swirling inside me.

Beckett grunts from the driver’s seat. “But nothing. We’re not taking any chances.”

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