Page 206 of Filthy Rich Santas

The fireplace crackles merrily as we all get settled around Meg’s lovely tree, casting a cheery glow over the room. Meg has potpourri burning on the mantle next to her nativity scene, scenting the entire room with a sweet, spicy blend of cloves, oranges, and cinnamon. The eggnog flows freely, and we all help ourselves to the platter of cookies and other snacks as Oliver digs through the pile of wrapped presents under the tree.

“Who is this one for?” he asks excitedly, pulling out a beautifully wrapped box with a bright red bow.

“That one is from me, for your mom.” Caleb points to a second box with festive paper and a matching bow. “And that one is for you, squirt.”

Oliver’s grin stretches from ear to ear, but before ripping into his own gift, he brings Vivian’s to her.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Do you want to give your aunt and uncle their gifts too?”

Oliver scrambles to get them, and I point out the ones I got for my brother and sister so he can distribute those too.

“What about this one?” Oliver asks, grabbing a larger box with the kind of professional wrapping that screams mall gift wrap center.

Meg laughs, patting her hands in the air as if to tell him to settle down. “How about we spend a little time opening the ones you’ve already passed around, little elf, before we get on to the next ones.”

“Okay, okay,” Oliver says, plopping himself down and ripping through the wrapping paper on his gifts from Caleb—a pint-sized hockey set and what looks like a custom jersey with Caleb’s number on it—and from me, an age-appropriate art supply set that I half expect Vivian to frown about, since I know her home is all carpeted in white.

Instead, she surprises me by squeezing my hand. “He’ll have fun with that, Lana. Thank you.”

I beam at her, then quickly finish unwrapping the gifts my siblings gave me as they each do the same. I’m so damn grateful that they both chose to be here with me on Christmas morning.

The guys direct our Christmas elf to the gifts they’ve brought for Grandma Meg next. She coos over a set of gardening tools from Tristan, laughs delightedly at a risqué romance novel from Ryder, and tears up a little at a framed photo of all of us from Beckett.

She’s not the only one. It’s a candid shot from a cell phone camera, from the Christmas tree farm we stopped at. I don’t know when he took the time to print it and pick up a frame for it, but I already know I want a copy of it for myself too.

Meg wipes her eyes quickly, as if she doesn’t want to make a fuss, then grabs a flat box with silly paper on it. “Now, Oliver, this one is for Baldwin, but I think he’s going to have a little trouble opening it. Do you think you can help him, dear?”

Oliver grins. “I can do that!”

We all laugh as he dives into his task, sending wrapping paper and ribbon flying. The tiny dog yaps as he’s presented with a new sweater—this one adorned with tiny reindeer—and a squeaky toy shaped like a Christmas tree.

Then Beckett clears his throat. “You didn’t forget that one, did you, Oliver?”

He points to the larger, professionally wrapped gift Oliver had picked up earlier, and Oliver dives for it.

“Who’s this one for, Uncle Beckett?”

Beckett’s ears go just a bit pink at the honorary title. “That one’s for you, buddy.”

“From Santa?”

“Sure.”

“But Santa already brought me my gifts at home this morning.”

Beckett looks at me with a hint of panic, and it takes everything I have not to laugh.

“I think what Uncle Beckett means is, it’s from one of Santa’s helpers.”

Oliver blinks. “Who?”

“Me,” Beckett confesses, and Oliver gapes in awe.

He throws his arms around Beckett’s neck, then rips the wrapping paper, letting out a squeal of pure joy when he sees what’s inside.

“The Millennium Falcon Lego set! Mom, look!”

Beckett clears his throat. “I, uh, I know it’s a bit complicated, Vivian, but he was kind of excited about it the other day. I’d be happy to supervise and help him build it, if that’s okay.”

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