Page 165 of Filthy Rich Santas

He snorts, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“That was a one-time thing, little menace,” he murmurs as we follow Vivian and Oliver to the table.

Caleb catches his attention as we take our seats, and I settle in as the conversation flows around me.

Then I notice something unexpected on the table. There, nestled between the turkey and the Brussels sprouts, is a dish of sweet potato casserole.

My brow furrows in confusion.

“I thought she didn’t make it this year,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

Ryder, seated next to me, leans in close. “Sweet potato casserole? I heard it was missing from the line up earlier,” he says casually. “Can’t have that, though. It’s a Christmas favorite.”

“You like it too?”

He just smiles at me, and I remember his wink from earlier. He doesn’t meanaChristmas favorite. He means it’s one ofmyfavorites.

“But… where did it come from?” I ask, a lump forming in my throat because I think I already know the answer.

“I ran out and picked it up,” he says like it’s nothing.

My stomach swoops. It’s such a small gesture in the big scheme of things, but the thoughtfulness of it overwhelms me.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs, reaching for the casserole dish and serving me some. “Youdohave to share, though.”

I laugh as he adds some to his plate as well.

With so many of us around the table, there’s no shortage of conversation, and before long it inevitably turns to Caleb’s hockey career.

Dad leans forward, his eyes shining with pride. “So, son, tell us how the season’s going. I hear you’re on track for the playoffs?”

Caleb grins, his easy-going nature on full display. “Yeah, we’re doing pretty well. Coach says if we keep this up, we’ve got a real shot at the cup this year.”

“We’re so proud of you,” Mom beams, reaching over to pat Caleb’s hand. “We always knew you’d do great things. They’re lucky to have you.”

Caleb shrugs. “It’s a team sport, but we’re definitely gelling nicely this season.”

“Yeah, yeah, NHL superstar,” Ryder drawls, a mischievous glint in his eye. “But can you still score on Tristan? I seem to remember him shutting you down pretty regularly back in the day.”

Caleb grins easily. “Only reason I improved.”

Tristan smiles, a glint in his eyes as he gives my brother a little shit. “Have you, though?”

“Hey, now!”

Beckett snorts. “It’s a valid question, Caleb. I distinctly remember catching you face-planting on the ice the last time I had ESPN on. Is that the ‘improvement’ you’re talking about?”

The table erupts in laughter, and I join in. It’s nice to see this side of the guys, the easy friendship they’ve always shared with Caleb. For a moment, I let myself imagine being a part of that, not just as Caleb’s little sister, but as… something more.

“Seems to me there’s one way to find out,” Ryder says, grinning widely as he looks at his friends. “Does that pond behind the old Miller place still freeze over at this time of year?”

“I’ve still got gear stored at Grandma Meg’s,” Tristan says, taking off his glasses and polishing them as he gives Caleb a playfully challenging look. “Unless you’re not up to hitting the ice without all those heavy hitters backing you up.”

“Oh, it’s on,” Caleb says gleefully. “And you know we can probably round up some more guys to make it a little more interesting.”

They keep shit-talking while they plan out their potential pickup game, but as dinner winds down, Caleb leans back in his chair, turning his attention back onto me.

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