Page 162 of Filthy Rich Santas

“You’re not wearing any makeup,” she says, reaching out to brush my cheek with a tut. “Your freckles are showing.”

I flinch internally, feeling about two inches tall. But before I can muster a response, Tristan speaks up.

“If you ask me,” he says, his voice firm, “those freckles are one of her best features. They bring out the sparkle in her eyes.”

My mother blinks, clearly taken aback by being contradicted.

I don’t think anyone else even heard, but the warmth blooming in my chest as we’re all ushered inside does a lot to heal over the sting of my mother’s constant criticism.

“Will you be staying to catch up with Caleb?” she asks the guys as we all enter the front room.

Before they can respond, my father speaks up. “We’ve only got one of the guest rooms free, Kate,” he says to Mom with a frown. “I’m sure these boys don’t want to all cram in there together.”

Caleb snorts. “They don’t give a shit about that.”

“Language, Caleb,” Mom says with no real bite to it.

He rolls his eyes, and Ryder smirks.

“We’ve got no problem sharing if you don’t mind having us, Mrs. Reeves.”

Even though he doesn’t look my way, the memory of just how very much they didnotmind sharing—either a single bed, or me—has my cheeks heating.

“You’re always welcome here,” Mom says to him. “Of course we’d love to have you.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Tristan steps in smoothly. “We’d be happy to stay tonight. Thank you.”

Caleb heads back outside with them to grab some of their luggage and my father disappears deeper into the house. Before Mom can start in on me again about who knows what, my sister Vivian sweeps in, her perfect hair and immaculate outfit making me feel even more disheveled.

My nephew Oliver trails behind her, and I can’t believe how much he’s grown since I last saw him in person. With his blond hair, gap-toothed smile, and bright hazel eyes, he’s adorable.

“There you are!” Vivian exclaims when she sees me, air-kissing my cheek. “We were starting to wonder if you’d make it at all.”

I force a smile. She really is our mother’s daughter. “It’s good to see you, Vivian.”

The men come back inside, and Caleb immediately drops the bag he’s carrying and scoops up Oliver, dangling him upside down as he laughs and squirms.

Then Oliver catches sight of the other three men, and his eyes widen a bit as Caleb sets him down. It’s been a while since he’s seen them, and since he’s only five, he probably doesn’t remember them all that well.

He looks between all three of them, his attention lingering on Beckett, who towers over everyone else in the room.

“Whoa,” Oliver breathes. “You have so many pictures on you.”

Beckett blinks, clearly caught off guard by the boy’s fascination. He looks down at himself. “Uh, my tattoos?”

Vivian’s mouth purses in disapproval, and I fight not to roll my eyes at her judgmental attitude.

Oliver scrambles down from Caleb’s arms and cautiously approaches Beckett. “Can I see?”

“Oliver,” Vivian says sharply.

“Chill, sis,” Caleb laughs, rolling his eyes. “Beckett doesn’t bite.”

Technically, he does, a thought that has my face heating all over again. But those dirty thoughts are washed away by fond amusement as I watch Beckett shift awkwardly, clearly unsure how to handle this interest from a five-year-old. He clears his throat, then crouches down to Oliver’s level.

“Sure, buddy. Uh, take a look.”

Oliver steps closer, poking at the intricate designs on Beckett’s hands and arms, and chattering at him in a stream of consciousness about other “pictures” he thinks would look good on Beckett.

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