Page 16 of Filthy Rich Santas

I narrow my eyes. “Jingle Bells?”

“Not a fan.”

“Winter Wonderland?”

“I’d prefer to stay indoors.”

“In other words, sitting around a cozy fire with snow falling outside and the scent of cinnamon and pine in the air sounds good to you?” I ask triumphantly.

“Sure, but it doesn’t have to be Christmas for that.”

“Hot chocolate,” I say, starting to tick off some of my favorite things about this time of year on my fingers. “Presents. Mince pie. Eggnog! Oh, and what about gingerbread? I can’t think of a better cookie flavor, and Christmas is the only time anyone bakes it.”

“Okay, fine. Those are all great things, and I can agree that they make December a fun month.”

“Exactly!”

He smirks. “But you have to admit that a lot of them are a little more about the season and less about the holiday itself. I just don’t see any reason to get excited about it. It’s why I don’t usually head back home.”

“There wouldn’t be a season without the holiday! Besides, surely you’ve gone home with a girlfriend for Christmas or something. Even if you’re determined to be a Grinch, you wouldn’t have imposed that on any of your exes.”

He laughs. “I don’t have to. I don’t really do relationships. So, nope. No one’s ever dragged me home to meet the family for Christmas.”

My heart squeezes with something a lot like disappointment at his easy dismissal of being in a relationship, but that’s silly, so I ignore it. I’ve got better things to do than pine over men I can’t have.

Like help Ryder see the light about my favorite time of year.

“Come on, back me up here, guys,” I say to Tristan and Beckett.

Beckett just snorts, but Tristan grins at me. “I’m with you. I’ve always liked Christmas. The world just feels a little friendlier this time of year.”

“Exactly! I think it brings out the best in people.” I grimace without meaning to, thinking of my own family, and quickly add, “Well, most people.”

“Not to mention that it’s the best eating you’ll get all year,” Tristan says helpfully.

Ryder scoffs. “Are you forgetting about Thanksgiving?”

“Oh please,” Tristan says, adjusting his glasses. “I’m not saying Thanksgiving isn’t great, but it’s only one meal, and it’s basically always the same food. Turkey. Gravy. Stuffing.”

“Pumpkin pie,” Beckett rumbles from the driver’s seat. “Sweet potatoes.”

I bounce in my seat. I can’t help it. “Oh, don’t even get mestartedon sweet potatoes. My mom makes this sweet potato casserole for Christmas every year that’s to die for.”

“You’ve had one sweet potato casserole, you’ve had them all,” Ryder says with a smirk, clearly trying to bait me again.

And, once again, it totally works.

“No,” I tell him earnestly, adjusting my seat belt so I can turn toward him and resting a hand on his arm as I stare into his eyes. “You don’t understand. This is the kind of casserole that makes you want to have its babies. It has marshmallows and brown sugar and spices. I can never convince her to give me the recipe, but the smell alone is divine, and it literally tastes like heaven.”

“Literally?” Ryder teases me. “And what, literally, does heaven taste like?”

I close my eyes, my mouth watering as I sink into the memory. “Like warm, gooey marshmallows. Like sweet, sticky brown sugar. Like all the spices from the holidays wrapped up in one perfect dish.”

I sigh happily, my whole body tingling with the visceral memory of sliding that first forkful into my mouth every year.

“Well, damn,” Tristan says in a husky tone that has me snapping my eyes back open.

All three of the men are staring at me. Even Beckett’s eyes flick back and forth from the road to the rearview mirror, and I swallow, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

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