Page 159 of Filthy Rich Santas

But even worse is the thought that thisismy new normal.

I sigh, then shake it off. It’s our last day on the road, and I want to savor every moment, so I might as well not waste any more time wallowing in my thoughts. Besides, Iamgrateful that they let me sleep. It’s just one more way they’ve gone out of their way to take care of me.

But we’re close to my hometown now. We’ll get in today for sure, since there’s no convenient bad weather to hold us up at this point, so I’ll have to tuck those feelings away like a treasured gift now. Whatever this is between us, and I don’t just mean the amazing sexual side of it, it’s about to be over.

Before I can wallow too deeply in that bittersweet thought, my phone starts buzzing again. Mom’s name flashes on the screen, and I brace myself before answering.

“Lana! Finally,” Mom says without any greeting. “Where are you? I can’t believe you’re still dilly dallying when you could have avoided all of this by booking a flight.”

I grit my teeth, but don’t say anything. She’s never going to care about how much I hate the idea of ever getting on a plane again, and that makes it feel a lot like she just doesn’t care aboutme.

It’s something I haven’t let myself think about quite so frankly before, but after spending all this time with three men who go out of their way to care for me, it’s a lot harder to pretend that’s not how it is.

“You were supposed to be here days ago!” Mom goes on, her voice shrill with stress, making me wince. “Are you ever going to make it?”

“Good morning to you too, Mom,” I say, trying to keep my tone light to keep the peace. “And yes, we’re close. We’ll be getting in today, I promise.”

She huffs, clearly not appeased. “It’s practically Christmas Eve already! There’s so much to do, and you’re gallivanting across the country.”

I bite back a sigh. I wish she was bringing up Christmas Eve because it was important to her to spend the holiday together as a family, and while thatisimportant to her, it’s for appearances sake. God forbid I miss the party she sets so much store in throwing every year.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “We got delayed by weather, but we’re making good time now.”

“Well, I suppose it’s better late than never,” she says with a huff. Then her tone takes on that particular lilt that always makes my stomach clench. “Though it’s a shame you missed your sister’s party last night.”

And there it is.

“Vivian and Kyle really do host the most delightful gatherings,” she gushes. “The Morgans were there, and the Turners as well! Even that charming news anchor from channel five!” The wistfulness in her voice is palpable. “It was such a lovely opportunity to connect with influential people in town. Your father and I had a wonderful time.”

The unspoken comparison hangs heavy in the air. Vivian is their perfect daughter, hosting picture-perfect parties, rubbing shoulders with the kind of people my parents think matter thanks to marrying the son of the mayor, and fitting into the mold of everything that matters to them—a mold that’s always fit me poorly, like a too-tight pair of uncomfortable jeans that pinch at the waist.

Actually, no. More like a mold that justdoesn’tfit me.

“Her party does sound nice,” I manage, hating how inauthentic I feel when I automatically slip back into my lifelong habit of trying appease her. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“You could have enjoyed it too,” Mom says with a snap to her voice. “Or at least considered how much trouble your sister went through to organize the party when you made your travel plans.”

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that, knowing Vivian, I’m sure she hired a party planner and caterers and couldn’t have cared less whether I attended or not.

Mom doesn’t notice my silence as she launches into more details about the party, each word feeling like another tiny needle pricking my self-esteem.

I make small noises of interest until she finally winds down. She finally ends the call when I manage to interject something about needing to get ready so we can get back on the road. As soon as we hang up, I sigh.

I toss my phone aside and flop back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The warm cocoon of contentment I woke up in has evaporated, replaced by an all-too-familiar weight of inadequacy. It’s not just the end of my arrangement with Tristan, Ryder, and Beckett that’s weighing on me now. Mom’s call was a reminder that returning home also means returning to all the expectations that come with it.

The bedroom door bursts open, startling me out of my thoughts.

“What?” I gasp, scrambling upright.

Tristan, Ryder, and Beckett all file in, each wearing a bright red Santa hat. The sight is so unexpected and ridiculous that I burst into laughter, the tension in my shoulders evaporating.

“Where on earth did you get those?” I ask, shaking my head in amusement.

Ryder grins, adjusting his hat with a flourish. “We have our ways.”

“What he means is, we have connections,” Beckett deadpans, making Tristan snort.

I grin. “Well, so far, I like what these ‘connections’ are hooking you up with.”

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