Page 25 of Filthy Rich Santas

RYDER: What song?

“Oops,” I say when I see Ryder’s question. “Let me ask my phone.”

That gets sent off to the guys too, and I fuss with my settings for a minute, trying to remember how to get my phone to do the thing where it recognizes the song currently playing. It keeps vibrating with more texts from the guys while I do that, and once I finally figure it out and send it back, the group chat feed is full of new messages.

BECKETT: What’s the name of the bar?

RYDER: I’ve got a great drinking game you can try. Too bad for Shane Bystander, though. It can only be played back at the hotel.

RYDER: Wait, are you at the hotel?

BECKETT: Lana, tell us where you are.

TRISTAN: When you say “new friend,” just how friendly is this guy trying to be?

RYDER: Never trust a man who takes his Scotch neat.

TRISTAN: Beckett takes his Scotch neat.

BECKETT: Beckett wants an answer to his goddamn questions.

I shake my head, grinning down at my phone.

ME: I thought you guys said you were still in your meeting.

I send that one off after I see the wall of text, just so they don’t think I’m ignoring them, then scroll back up to read through everything I missed.

“What was that?” Shane asks, leaning in as I snap a pic of the cocktail menu and send it off to the guys.

There. That answers Ryder’s question about what I’m drinkingandtells Beckett where I am, since it’s got the bar’s name at the bottom.

I look up at Shane again. “I said, I love this song!”

I didn’t, but I should have, because I totally do. And when Shane points out that the little bar has a dance floor, I completely blame the Christmas Cranberry Cosmos for the way I slide off my stool and convince him to finish off his boring Scotch and come dance with me.

For once, I’m not even self-conscious about it. I’ll never see this man again, I’m full of cocktail confidence, and most importantly, I’m a brand new me. One who actually manages to live that old cliche, dance like no one’s watching, for once.

At least, for a minute or two.

Then heavy hands fall on my hips, and I open my eyes to the reminder that I invited Shane out onto the dance floor with me.

He smiles down at me, and I almost feel bad for instantly comparing his attractiveness to the three guys I’m road tripping with.

Beckett? Hotter.

Tristan? Also hotter.

Ryder? Yep, still hotter.

Shane leans in. “That smile of yours is amazing. What are you thinking about right now?”

“Um,” I stall, feeling a little guilty. Not to mention a little too tipsy to come up with white lie on the fly.

Before I have to, Shane is suddenly yanked backward, breaking us apart.

“Hey!” he shouts as another set of hands stabilizes me when I stumble.

“Hands off,” someone tells him. Someone who sounds a lot like Ryder.

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