Page 105 of Filthy Rich Santas

“Thank you,” I whisper.

A smile spreads across his face, unlike any I’ve seen from him before. It’s not his usual smirk or the occasional tight-lipped, guarded one he sometimes gives. This is a slow, private thing. A tiny slice of sun breaking through his typical storm clouds, and it makes my heart feel wrapped in something just as impossibly soft as the scarf he made.

It doesn’t take Ryder long to navigate to a surprisingly upscale hotel, and my stomach flutters when I realize that Tristan booked a big suite online for all of us to share as we were driving over.

The first time we shared a room, it was an accident. But this time, they’re deliberately choosing it, making the choice to stay with me, and I love that.

Although I could probably do with a little less hovering.

The minute we enter the suite, Tristan starts fussing with the thermostat, muttering about optimal temperatures. Ryder raids the mini-fridge, insisting I need to keep my blood sugar up and talking about running back out to stock up on food. And Beckett… well, Beckett just looms nearby, his presence both comforting and slightly overwhelming.

“Guys,” I say, trying to keep the fond exasperation out of my voice, “I’m fine. Really.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” Tristan asks, adjusting his glasses.

“She needs food,” Ryder says, sounding almost as grumpy as Beckett usually is.

I laugh, holding up my hands. “I really don’t right now. Honestly, I’m not hungry, but thank you.”

I can tell he’s going to argue or suggest something else, and although I appreciate how they’ve taken news of my lupus in stride, having their focus on me like this is starting to make me feel a little too self-conscious.

“I think I’m just going to take a bath,” I blurt, needing a brief escape. They’re being impossibly sweet.

But also a bit much.

They exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them that I can’t quite decipher. Finally, Tristan nods. “Alright, freckles. But if you need anything?—”

“I’ll yell,” I promise, already heading for the bathroom.

As I’m about to close the door, I catch Ryder’s grin. “Better not lock the door, in case youdoneed us.”

My stomach flutters, and some of my self-consciousness eases with the confirmation that they’re not just concerned about my health right now.

They still want me.

Once inside the bathroom, I start running the water, testing the temperature until it’s just right. As steam begins to fill the room, I reach for my phone to put on some music, but pause when I see a notification.

It’s a text from Mom.

Of course it is. We’re already behind schedule.

My stomach clenches reflexively as my finger hovers over the screen. The preview text doesn’t give away much, but it’s all too easy to imagine any variety of my failings she might be messaging me to harp on.

But then I think about the doctor’s words. About taking care of myself. About managing stress.

And I hear Beckett’s voice, telling me I’m already perfect.

I take a deep breath. Then another.

I’m really not perfect. I mean, who is? But I do need to limit my stress right now, and that means not subjecting myself to whatever backhanded criticism my mother just sent.

I set the phone aside without opening the message. Whatever she has to say, it can wait.

Once the tub is full, I slip into the bath, the hot water enveloping me like a cocoon.

I lean back, close my eyes, let the soft music I chose wash over me, and just let myself enjoy it for a while. The tension from my mother’s text is forgotten, and the lingering anxiety from the hospital stay slowly fades away too.

Out there are three men who, for reasons I can’t quite fathom, seem to genuinely care about me. Who booked a suite just to be near me. Who look at me like I’m… special. Worth the effort. Perfect.

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