Page 9 of Filthy Rich Santas

Beckett’s huffs a half laugh. “I think he meant we should make sure she’s okay after the breakup.”

I nod. Sure. That’s what I meant.

At least, it’s all I’m ever going to admit to.

3

LANA

I glance at the pretentious,ornate wall clock hanging over the door to my boss’s office, my pencil tapping on the edge of my desk. Ten more minutes until I can officially step away for an hour.

As if summoned by my glance, my boss’s door swings open.

“Any word on the Wallington case, Lana?” he asks, striding across the room to loom over my desk.

I sit up a little straighter, scooting a file folder over the edge of my planner to hide the sketches I’ve been doodling. Not because I think Mr. Sanders will either notice or care, but a lifetime of listening to my parents demeaning comments about my “useless hobby” didn’t only kill the ambition I had when I was younger to be an artist, they left a permanent emotional scar that I doubt will ever be exorcized.

Just one of many, but I’m working on that.

I push away the thoughts of exactly how I tried to work on that last night when I went to Radiance, and focus on what my boss just asked me.

“I forwarded their counsel’s latest filings to your inbox this morning,” I remind him, doing my best not to let my eyes stray back to the clock while he’s hovering like this. “Would you like me to print out a hard copy for you as well?”

“Please do,” he says with an impatient frown that has me stifling a sigh.

Of course he wants a hard copy. He’s notthatold, he’s a friend of my father’s who was in the same class at Harvard as Dad was, but apparently, since Mr. Sanders’ family started this law firm back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, it means he only trusts paper documents.

In triplicate.

He starts rattling off a list of tasks he needs me to take care of after my lunch break, and I can’t resist. I glance at the clock again.

Two more minutes until my hour of freedom.

And yes, I’m very aware of the fact that me looking forward to lunch as much as I am, when the only thing I have waiting for me is a bland, unseasoned chicken breast and some equally boring steamed vegetables, pretty much says everything about how fulfilling I find working here as an executive assistant.

It doesn’t matter how prestigious my employer is, or how pleased my parents are that I landed a job with what they consider “potential.” The work is completely uninspiring, and being here means constantly worrying about living up to all the same standards my parents always held me to.

All the ones that make me feel like I’m slowly drowning in a sea of conformity.

But just because I don’t love what I do for a living doesn’t mean I’m not good at it.

“Are you getting all this, Lana?” Mr. Sanders asks, with a pointed look at my planner.

“Yes, sir,” I say, dutifully flipping to a clean page and listing out his requests, even though I’ve already got most of them already accounted for in my online schedule. “I’ll take care of it.”

“See that you do. Especially since you’ll be taking extra time off this month.”

A lifetime of hiding my real emotions serves me well, and I manage to give him a bland smile. I may not love my job, but I do want to keep it. And I also understand exactly what that takes, including all the office politics that make me want to bury my face in a pillow and scream sometimes.

“Thank you for authorizing my vacation days, sir.”

The vacation days that I’ve earned, per company policy, and almost never take. And yet of course he’s made it an issue. Especially after I let it slip that part of the reason I put in for as much time off as I did was because I won’t be flying back east, but driving.

I guess he sees it as a weakness, and it probably is. Still, I’ve been terrified of flying ever since the one and only time my parents forced me onto a plane when I was younger, then handed me off to a flight attendant to “deal with” when I started to have a panic attack. And since it’s bad enough that I’m going to have to spend the holidays with them, there’s no way I’m planning on trying to overcome that fear to get back there even faster.

“Yes, well, be sure to wish your father a merry Christmas from Martha and me,” Mr. Sanders says with a distracted smile. “I’m sure he and your mother are pleased to be hosting you and Mr. Bradshaw this year.”

My smile almost drops at the mention of my ex, but I hold it together out of habit.

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