Page 163 of Filthy Rich Santas

“I could help color them in for you if you want,” I hear him offer, blinking big hazel eyes up at Beckett. “You just got the outlines here.”

“Uh,” Beckett starts, glancing back down at the black linework like he has no idea what to say.

Luckily for him, Oliver moves right along, rambling about a million other things that tug at my heart to hear, just because they’re so sweetly innocent.

Beckett is so clearly a bit out of his depth, but he’s so patient with my nephew. It’s a side of the burly, gruff man that I never expected to see, and I can’t seem to draw my gaze away from the two of them.

After a moment, my mother’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Lana, dear, come help in the kitchen. We’ve got cookies to finish for tomorrow’s party.”

It’s not a request—it’s an order. But as she bustles me off toward the kitchen, I glance back at the guys with a twinge of longing. They’re being led in the opposite direction by Caleb, Oliver tagging along and still chattering, and they don’t look back.

Probably for the best. They’re not mine, and what we had is over. I just need to accept that.

37

LANA

Mom dragsVivian into the kitchen to finish up the cookies too. I tie on an apron and join my sister at the counter, and the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wraps around me like a comforting blanket, momentarily distracting me from the whirlwind of emotions I’m feeling.

“Where’s Kyle?” I ask, realizing I haven’t seen my brother-in-law yet.

Vivian doesn’t look up from the cookie dough she’s rolling out. “Oh, he had some work stuff to take care of today. You know how it is.” There’s something in her voice, a slight tightness that wasn’t there before, but it’s gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. “He’ll be at the party tomorrow night, of course.”

Mom bustles over, flour dusting her perfectly pressed slacks. “Kyle’s been so busy lately,” she says, pride evident in her voice. “He’s really moving up in the firm. On track for partner, I hear. Isn’t that right, Vivian?”

Vivian murmurs a quiet affirmative without looking up from the cookie dough, no doubt just as focused on getting that perfect as she is with everything else in her life.

I sigh softly, not liking my own bitter thoughts. My sister really does do everything right according to my parents, though, and her husband is no different. He’s not just well-connected; he’s also successful and ambitious in a field they approve of—law. In other words, he’s the perfect husband for their perfect daughter.

“It’s too bad Wade couldn’t make it this year,” Mom says out of the blue. “I was looking forward to having him at the party this year. There are definitely a few people on the guest list who I’m sure he’d appreciate an introduction to.”

My stomach clenches as I freeze for a moment, my cookie cutter hovering over the dough. With everything that happened during the road trip, I sort of put the fact that I haven’t told her about the breakup yet out of my mind.

I know I need to find a time to do it, but she’s almost as enamored of Wade as she is of Kyle, and I’m just not up to having that conversation right now. Not with my emotions still reeling, and not in front of Vivian, either.

Thankfully, Mom was just getting in another subtle dig at me, not looking for actual answers on Wade’s absence. So when I make a non-committal sound and refocus on the cookies, she happily rolls right into other topics.

“How are things going with your job, Lana?” she asks. “Your father was just talking to Richard the other day, but he didn’t mention anything about that promotion you were hoping for.”

Richard Sanders isn’t just my boss, he’s one of my father’s friends. Saying I’m hoping for a promotion is a bit of a stretch, though. My parents are the ones always pushing me to move up in the company.

“It’s going fine, Mom,” I tell her, knowing full well she won’t be interested in hearing how unfulfilling and stifling I find the job.

“Fine?” she repeats, her lips tightening for a moment. “Honestly, Lana, I thought you’d be further along by now. Your father pulled a lot of strings to get you that position, you know.”

I bite my lip, fighting back the urge to remind her that I never asked for his help. That the job was thrust upon me, a “favor” Dad did to me that I never asked for and am constantly reminded of.

“Did you use orange zest in this dough?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.

“Lemon,” Mom says. “The flavor pairs better with the frosting.”

Vivian’s lips tilt up in what could almost pass for a smile. “The citrus is a nice touch. Remember those orange-cranberry cookies we used to make? Those were always my favorite.”

Mom tilts her head. “Oh, I do. Why haven’t I made those recently? They really were divine.”

“Maybe we could do a few batches this year?” I suggest, feeling a spark of hope for a moment of genuine connection.

Mom tuts, shaking her head. “There really isn’t time. And really, we certainly don’t need to add more carbs to the party menu, now do we?”

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