Page 49 of Filthy Rich Santas

For once, Ryder doesn’t laugh with me. “Sure, but why not a job you love? Like making art.”

My heart skips a beat. All I’ve ever heard from the people closest to me is what a waste of time my little hobby was, and that I need to be serious and put my time into things that matter.

“I used to want to,” I whisper, gripping my pencil a little tighter when I realize my fingers are trembling a bit.

Ryder smiles. “Yeah? Be a professional artist, you mean?”

I nod, my pulse racing.

He glances back down at the scene I sketched, reaching out to trace some of the lines. “It’s so full of life. Not totally true to life like a photo, but… something more? Something better?”

He laughs, and I grin before I can help it.

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t know what I’m saying,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his. “I sure as shit don’t know art terms. But I don’t just recognize what you drew. Ifeelit. You didn’t even draw in the details, but I swear I can almost taste that cocoa they had just from looking at this picture.” He looks back up at me. “You’ve got an amazing talent, Lana. You know it’s not too late, right? If you really want to do this, you should go for it.”

I stare back at him, a little overwhelmed. I don’t quite know what to do with what he’s saying. I’ve never had anyone encourage me like this, or say something so moving about my stupid little sketching hobby.

Wade knew I liked to doodle, of course. But just like my parents, he’d get impatient with me wasting my time on it, so I kept my art supplies out of sight and hopefully out of mind for him for the most part.

It never occurred to me to show him any of my drawings, and I know for sure if I’d ever so much as hinted that I sometimes thought of quitting my dreary office job to pursue it, he would have…

Well, I’m not sure what. I know he wouldn’t have liked it, though.

And hedefinitelynever would have encouraged me. Not like Ryder is right now.

“What’s the style called?” he asks, tilting his head like he’s trying to get a different view of my sketchpad. “Like, not realistic but, uh, there’s gotta be a word for it, right?”

I laugh, releasing some of the build-up of unfamiliar feelings inside me. I’m not sure if he’s playing up his cluelessness or really wants to know, but I’m always happy to talk about art, so we do for a bit.

“Wait, his name is really Hunter Greene-Paige?” he asks me, laughing. “A little on the nose.”

I pull out my phone and find the artist’s Instagram. “I know, but it really is his given name, so I guess he just went with it? It’s become his signature color.”

Ryder flips through Greene-Paige’s work, pausing on an abstract watercolor. “I don’t get it. But I like it?”

“Oh, good eye.” I chuckle, leaning in. “But I’m biased. That one was inspired by one of my favorite artists.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

I tap the screen and pull up a different page. “Emilia Rossetti. She’samazing.”

I may be fan-girling a little, but it’s well-deserved.

“Huh.” Ryder scrolls through a few images. “Kind of reminds me of your style.”

My eyes go wide, then I laugh and punch his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Hey, I may not have any artistic skills of my own, but come on. I know what I’m looking at here.”

He’s still got me laughing. “You literally just said you didn’t know.”

He shrugs, and my stomach flutters. There are definite vibes between us, and even though he’s always been charming and warm with me, this feels like something else.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and I bite my lip as my heart stutters.

“I could teach you,” I blurt suddenly.

Ryder’s eyes jerk up to mine. “Teach me?”

---