Page 129 of Filthy Rich Santas

“Holy shit,” Lana breathes. “Emilia Rossetti? Are you guys serious right now?”

I grin. I’d never even heard of the woman Lana identified as her favorite artist before she shared some of her work with us the other day, so it felt like fate when a quick internet search showed that this special installation of her work was directly on our journey.

“Surprise, love,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her from behind and pressing a kiss to her temple.

She whirls to face me, her expression a mix of shock and pure joy. “You guys remembered?”

“It’s no giant ball of string, but?—”

She flings her arms around me. “Thank you!”

Beckett watches us with a rare smile softening his features, and as soon as Lana releases me, she launches herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Her excitement is contagious, and as she proceeds to hug Tristan and then drag us all inside the warehouse, it hits me just how much I fucking love making her this happy.

I can’t say it’sbetterthan the sex, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t just as good.

We make our way inside the warehouse, and I have to admit, the setup is pretty impressive. The cavernous space is filled with a mix of paintings in what I’m already starting to recognize as the artist’s signature style, as well as sculptures, mixed-media pieces, and other decorative touches that all seem to have the sole purpose of highlighting her work. And interspersed among them all are the same towering ice sculptures on display outside the warehouse, catching and refracting the light in mesmerizing ways.

Lana’s eyes go wide with wonder. “This is… it’s incredible.”

As we start to make our way through the exhibition, Lana eagerly explains the significance of each piece we come across.

I try to pay attention, I really do.

But I’m finding it hard to focus on anything but her.

The way her eyes light up as she talks about the symbolism in a particular painting. The graceful sweep of her hand as she gestures toward an intricate ice sculpture and points out the way it complements the artist’s work. The soft curve of her lips as she smiles up at me when she catches me staring.

“You’re not even looking at the art, are you?” she teases.

I grin, unabashed. “Can’t help it if the view right in front of me is better than anything on these walls.”

“I second that,” Tristan says, adjusting his glasses with a grin as Beckett grunts in agreement.

Lana blushes at our words, and I have to fight the urge to haul her into my arms and kiss her.

“Come on!” She laughs, tugging us toward the next piece before I give in to the impulse.

We end up spending most of the afternoon at the exhibition, and Lana’s enthusiasm never wavers. By the time we leave, the sun is already starting to dip low on the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks.

None of us are particularly tired despite the hours spent wandering through the installation, so we could probably make it a good distance farther before stopping for the night. But instead of getting back on the road, we decide to explore the quaint little town we’ve stumbled upon.

Snow crunches under our boots as we make our way down a picturesque street lined with shops, their windows glowing warmly in the fading light.

Suddenly, Lana stops short, her eyes fixed on something in one of the shop windows. I watch as her face lights up for a moment, then dims just as quickly.

“What’s up, love?” I ask, following her gaze.

She shakes her head, a wistful smile on her face. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just… I liked that dress, but it’s not really my style.”

I study the dress in question—a slinky, form-fitting number that would hug every curve of her body. Then I look back at Lana, seeing the conflict in her eyes.

I get it. I know all about the expectations of wealthy parents, the constant pressure to fit in and be “appropriate.” Which, for someone as naturally curvy as Lana, definitely doesn’t include flaunting her assets the way I’m pretty sure that dress would.

But fuck that. The dress is gorgeous, and so is she.

I grab her hand and pull her into the shop. Tristan and Beckett follow, exchanging knowing looks. We’re clearly all on the same page about this, just like we so often are when it comes to running our business together.

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