Page 98 of Filthy Rich Santas

There’s a moment of silence before Beckett speaks, his voice low and controlled. “My father didn’t approve of… well, anything I did. Not unless it was exactly whathetold me to do.”

“Maybe because he’s a judgmental asshole,” Tristan mutters, pushing his glasses back into place and getting another low grunt from Beckett.

“But sneaking down to NYC to see a concert? You must have just been kids, right?”

In fact, I think Caleb might have been with them. This sounds vaguely familiar.

Beckett’s jaw ticks for a moment, then he gives a short, sharp nod. “Yeah. That night was just one of many disappointments I handed him before it all started to chafe too damn much. It’s why I cut him out of my life.”

The bitterness in his tone makes my heart ache. I rest my hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “That really sucks. I’m sorry he was so hard on you.”

Beckett pulls away slightly, his walls slamming back up. “You don’t have to pretend to understand,” he mutters, looking back out the window.

Looking away fromme.

Something inside me snaps. Maybe it’s the lingering fatigue I’m still feeling, or the rollercoaster of emotions from the past few days, but suddenly I’m done tiptoeing around his prickliness.

Grumpily endearing or not, I don’t deserve his coldness, and while I’m not sure if it will last or where it’s coming from, I’m suddenly fed up with putting up with things I don’t deserve.

“Okay, you know what? You’re being a dick.” I turn to face him fully. “Maybe I don’t know exactly what you went through, but don’t act like I can’t possibly understand what it’s like to feel like you’re never good enough for your parents. I’ve spent my entire life feeling like mine are never going to be satisfied with anything I do, that there’s no chance I’ll ever meet the golden standards set by my brother and sister. You’re not alone, Beckett, so quit trying to hog the mantle of suffering under shitty parents all to yourself.”

He turns to stare at me as the words tumble out of me, admitting things out loud that I usually shy away from stating quite so baldly. But his face? It’s still completely blank, the stubborn, infuriating man choosing to remain closed off instead of admitting that we just might actually understand each other in a way not everyone can.

It sends my frustration skyrocketing.

“You think you’re the only one who’s felt worn down by impossible standards? Who’s felt like the odd one out in their own family? News flash, Beckett—you’re not.”

The car goes silent other than my heaving breath. I can feel Ryder and Tristan exchanging glances in the front seat, but I keep my eyes locked on Beckett’s. His expression is still unreadable, but there’s finally a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe even a grudging respect.

It’s not enough to cool me down, but I’m surprisingly not embarrassed by my outburst. It feelsgoodto say what I actually think, and—much like the sex we’ve been having—it also feels freeing.

Ryder clears his throat. “So, uh, there’s a rest stop coming up. Anyone need a break?”

“Yes,” I say, suddenly desperate for some air. “Please.”

I fan myself with my hand. I may not feel embarrassed emotionally, but apparently my body didn’t get the memo. I feel like I’m burning up.

As we pull into the parking lot, I unbuckle my seat belt, ready to bolt as soon as we stop. But Beckett’s hand on my arm stops me.

“Lana,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Look, I didn’t mean to?—”

I shake my head, cutting him off. I appreciate it, I do, but I need to get out of the SUV and get some fresh air. “It’s fine. I just… I need a minute, okay?”

He nods, releasing me. As I climb out of the SUV, I catch a glimpse of his face. He’s still closed off, still guarded, but there’s something new there now too.

I hope it’s a crack in his armor. He may have irritated the hell out of me just now, but I care about him far more than I should. I want to know him better, to be someone he can open up to about the complicated-sounding relationship he has with his father. And I want him to understand—no, towantto understand me too.

But I don’t have the energy to analyze whatever it is I think I see behind his forest-green eyes. Not until I can manage to cool off the intense emotions still boiling under my skin.

I take a deep breath of crisp winter air, trying to shake the lingering heaviness of fatigue in my limbs. As much as I enjoyed sleeping in the same bed with all the guys, it clearly didn’t allow me to get as rested as a full night’s sleep should have left me feeling.

I move a little farther from the SUV, the cold air hitting my flushed skin like a slap. My legs feel shaky from the lingering frustration, but I figure what I really need is to walk some of it off.

I’m about to head toward the restrooms when Beckett’s voice stops me.

“Lana, wait,” he calls, his tone gruff but with an undercurrent of something I can’t quite place. “You can’t just say all that and walk away.”

I whirl around, my temper flaring again, as if the heat under my skin wants to boil over. “Oh, I can’t? That’s rich coming from you, Mr. I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it.”

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