Page 164 of Filthy Rich Santas

“But… it’s Christmas.”

“And there are plenty of festive foods that we can enjoy while still being mindful of our figures, hm?”

I glance at Vivian as my mother speaks, and to my surprise, I think I catch a subtle roll of her eyes.

“Is that why we’re doing truffle mashed potatoes?” she asks.

I grin. “Oh god, those are delicious.”

“Well, we do have a delightful recipe for a Brussels sprouts gratin that I think everyone will love on the menu,” Mom says.

“Mmm, Brussels sprouts,” Vivian says almost playfully.

Mom gives her a little tut, but smiles. “You like them.”

Vivian starts sliding the cookie shapes onto a baking pan. “I like the butternut squash and sage risotto too.”

“And your sweet potato casserole,” I throw in. “Nothing tastes more like Christmas than that.”

“Oh, we’re not doing that this year,” Mom says just as Caleb and the guys pass by the doorway.

Ryder tosses me a playful wink, but his smiles slips a little as he reads the disappointment on my face.

“No sweet potato casserole?” I repeat, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as tight as it feels. I clear my throat. “It’s my favorite.”

“It will be good for you to try something new this year,” Mom says dismissively as Caleb leads his friends into the living room. “I got the new recipe for the Brussels sprouts from Kyle’s mother. She says he loves it, and if it’s good enough for the mayor’s table, it’s good enough for ours.”

“Of course,” I murmur as Vivian turns away to slide the cookies into the oven. “I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

I’m also sure I’m being ridiculous for feeling emotional about a simple dish, so I brush that aside as we move on to dinner preparations, throwing myself into chopping vegetables and stirring sauces until everything is ready and I can finally escape upstairs to my old bedroom to get myself ready for dinner.

As I pass the living room, I catch sight of Tristan, Ryder, and Beckett laughing with Caleb, their easy camaraderie evident. A familiar twinge of longing tugs at my heart, but I hurry past before they can see me. What we had is over, and Caleb would probably find it awkward if I tried to intrude on his time catching up with his friends.

I find my luggage waiting in the room I grew up in. It’s been transformed into a generic guest room, something my parents did as soon as I moved out, but it’s still where I stay each time I come back to visit.

The walls that once held my posters and dreams are now adorned with tasteful, impersonal art, all traces of my childhood erased, but I still find a bit of comfort just in being between these four walls. I wasn’t always happy here, but it was stillmyspace. A private sanctuary that I was free to dream in, even if I learned to keep those dreams to myself.

I open my suitcase, debating what to wear. My fingers linger on the soft fabric of the new clothes the guys bought me during our trip. Each piece feels like a tangible reminder of the woman I became on the road—bold, authentic, free. But as I glance at the prim dress hanging in the closet, clearly left by my mother as a not-so-subtle suggestion, I falter.

It will be easier if I don’t rock the boat, so with a resigned sigh, I reach for the safer option. The one they’ll approve of.

Freshly changed, I make my way back downstairs. As I near the bottom of the stairs, I hear Oliver’s excited voice coming from the living room.

“And then the Millennium Falcon goes whoosh! It’s got so many pieces, like a bazillion! Mom says it’s too comp-uh-cated for me, but I really, really want it for Christmas. Do you think Santa will bring it?”

I peek around the corner to see Oliver, eyes shining with enthusiasm as he talks Beckett’s ear off about what I have no doubt is a coveted Lego set.

I half expect to find Beckett looking a little shell-shocked and trying to escape, but to my surprise, he’s crouched down to Oliver’s level, nodding seriously as he listens.

“I’m not up on what Santa’s planning, kid,” Beckett rumbles, a hint of a smile softening his usually stern features. “But the toy sounds pretty cool.”

“It is,” Oliver gushes, beaming up at him. “If I get it, you can help me put it together if you want.”

“I’m sure Caleb’s friend doesn’t have time to be playing with Legos,” Vivian says, swooping in to collect her son and bustle him toward the dinner table. “Come along, Oliver. Best behavior now.”

He grumbles, but follows directions as Beckett pushes himself to his feet, meeting my eyes for a moment. There’s something sweet and tender there that takes the sting out of hearing my sister refer to him asCaleb’sfriend, and I find myself smiling back when his lips quirk up.

“You’re not up on Santa’s plans?” I tease him quietly, the image of the men in their silly, festive hats fresh in my mind. “That’s not how it looked this morning.”

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