Page 53 of Filthy Rich Santas

“Oh, I don’t know.” I shrug. “So many things, but also nothing really specific. Just a happy life, you know? This time of year kind of makes it impossible not to daydream like that, don’t you think?”

Ryder hums softly under his breath, which isn’t a no. But knowing his distaste for this season, it’s not a yes, either.

That’s okay. I loveChristmas. And there really is magic in it, as far as I’m concerned. Even if you have to find it in small moments most of the time, not in big, flashy miracles.

“Shit, I think I left my charger in the car,” Tristan says, digging through the small bag he grabbed when we all came inside.

“I’ll grab it,” Beckett grunts, keys jingling in his hand. “I’ve gotta step out anyway. I’ll be back in a bit.”

He nods at us, then leaves the room.

I shiver as cold seeps in through the window, and Ryder rubs my arm briskly, then steps away. “Let’s turn up the heat.”

“I think I’ll grab a quick shower too,” I tell them, needing to warm up.

Ryder tosses me my overnight bag, and I head into the spacious bathroom, sighing contentedly when I finally step under the water a few minutes later.

I do love winter, and snow really is one of my favorite things. But getting warm again after spending a little time in it? That’s its own kind of miracle, and I stand under the rainfall shower head and let myself relax and enjoy it.

As I close my eyes and tilt my head back, the sound of the water hitting the glass enclosure suddenly takes me back to this morning. To Tristan. To watching him touch himself, hearing him groan my name, seeing his head fall back with pleasure.

I gasp and open my eyes again, reaching for the scented body wash provided by the hotel. Rubbing it over my skin tempts me to follow Tristan’s example and touch myself a little more intimately.

But I don’t. Not with the three of them—well, maybe just two if Beckett isn’t back yet—out there possibly listening.

Or maybe I don’t because the idea of these men out there listening makes it a littletootempting.

I bite my lip, then shake my head and rinse off quickly without giving in to that temptation. I’m not sure what’s happening between all of us, or between any of us, but I do know that I don’t want to figure it out in here all on my own.

I turn off the water and towel myself off, then moisturize with the high-end lotion I’m addicted to and put on a fluffy robe, compliments of the hotel.

It feels amazing against my bare skin, but my enjoyment is cut short when my phone rattles against the counter where I left it. I’ve got it muted, and when I pick it up, I realize that I missed a call and several texts about Christmas from my mother.

I blink, surprised to see them. Not because the urgent tone over mundane matters is out of character for her, because it’s not. But because for a moment, I almost forgot what this road trip is really about.

For another moment, I very, very briefly consider continuing to forget, just for a while, but then I shake that bit of foolishness off too and quickly tap out a reply to her repeated requests for confirmation of my arrival time.

She’s already going to be annoyed by the update I’m sending, letting her know that we’ve run into bad weather. Annoying her further by delaying my reply would just make my life that much more miserable.

I got a response almost instantly.

MOM: I hope you’re not using that as an excuse to spoil our holiday plans. You have obligations as a member of this family, Lana.

My stomach tightens unpleasantly, but really, what did I expect? Concern over the safety of the roads?

ME: I’ll be there. Depending on the road conditions tomorrow, I might arrive a bit later than I expected to, but I budgeted extra time anyway, so I’m not too worried about it.

MOM: Maybe you should be a little more worried. We’ve invited people who will expect to see you on the 24th. Don’t disappoint me.

I bite back a sigh, knowing there’s no point in wishing she’d want me there because she misses me, or because she’s looking forward to all of us being together at the holidays, rather than just appearances and expectations.

ME: I’ll make it in time for the Christmas Eve party.

MOM: This wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d flown. Where are you now? If the weather hasn’t cleared tomorrow, we should look into flights local to you.

I sigh. It doesn’t matter how many times I explain how uncomfortable with flying I am. Shealways gives me a hard time about it.

ME: I really don’t want to fly. There’s still plenty of time to make it on the road. I’ll be there. I promise.

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