Page 211 of Filthy Rich Santas

I laugh, feeling some of the tension melt away. “You do realize it’s December 26th, right? Christmas is over.”

His grin widens. “We make our own rules.”

“I thought you hated Christmas,” I tease him.

Ryder shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye as we hit the road again. “What can I say? I’m coming around to it. In fact, it might just be my new favorite holiday.”

The tripback to L.A. goes by much faster than the one that brought us all together.

Several days after leaving New Hampshire, the gentle brush of lips against my forehead slowly pulls me from sleep.

“Wake up, freckles. We’re home,” a soft voice murmurs.

I blink, feeling groggy, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m still in the SUV, my head resting on Tristan’s shoulder.

The guys set a harder pace as we headed for home, staying on the road a lot longer each day and covering the ground more quickly. They also did the majority of the driving, insisting I rest and recover from the whirlwind trip.

“What time is it?” I mumble, stretching as best I can in the confines of the backseat.

“Just past eleven,” Ryder answers from the driver’s seat. “December 31st. We made it back for New Year’s Eve after all.”

I perk up at that, the fog of sleep starting to clear. “Really? We’re in L.A.?”

Beckett chuckles, already out of the car and opening my door. “See for yourself, sleepyhead.”

As I step out, the familiar warmth of a California night wraps around me. The air smells of jasmine and distant ocean, so different from the crisp winter we left behind in New Hampshire. It feels surreal to be back, like waking from a vivid dream.

“Come on,” Tristan says, his hand finding the small of my back. “Let’s get inside.”

I nod, a thrill going through me as I look up at the gorgeous house the three of them share. We still haven’t made concrete plans about how this relationship will look, but when they invited me to stay at their place tonight, I was more than happy to say yes. With them, wherever they are, is exactly where I want to be, and knowing they want that too energizes me even more as we all walk through their front door.

It’s the first time I’ve been here, and it’s so… them. Distinctly masculine, yet comforting. I smile as I take in the spacious living room, a perfect blend of modern aesthetics and cozy touches.

As we settle into the house, dropping bags and shrugging off jackets, the banter flows easily between us. Tristan teases Ryder about his questionable playlist choices during the drive, while Ryder retorts with a jab about Tristan’s lead foot.

I’m laughing at their antics when Beckett’s deep voice cuts through the chatter. “Lana, come upstairs with me for a second. I want to show you something.”

He leads me up to his room, a gorgeous space filled with warm earth tones, well-worn leather furniture, and a few personal touches that hint at the gentler side beneath his gruff exterior. A skein of yarn on the dresser, a pair of reading glasses on the bedside table, and a small potted succulent on the windowsill.

I take a moment to appreciate the view from the window—the lights of the city sparkling against the night sky. Then I turn back to Beckett, running my hand over the soft black comforter on the massive bed that dominates the room.

“Is this what you brought me up here to show me?” I tease lightly.

He shakes his head, unzipping his travel bag instead of reaching for me.

“No, it’s something else.”

He hesitates for just a moment, piquing my curiosity, then pulls out a handful of rumpled paper.

Notjustpaper. There are napkins and a few receipts mixed in with sheets of hotel stationary and the thicker paper I recognize from my own sketchbook. Because that’s what he’s got there. Every sketch, drawing, and doodle I did during our road trip. Every single one of them, even the ones I crumpled up and tossed aside after finishing.

“You… you kept all of these?” I whisper, reaching out to touch a sketch I made on the back of a gas station receipt. It’s a rough image of Ryder laughing, his head thrown back in joy.

Beckett nods, his expression serious. “Every single one. They’re too beautiful to throw away, Lana.”

I shuffle through them slowly, overwhelmed by the memories each sketch brings back. There’s Tristan, his glasses slightly askew after our epic snowball fight. And one of Ryder, dramatically posing with an axe at the Christmas tree farm. Looking at it, I can almost hear his laughter echoing through the chilly air.

Then there’s one of Beckett, his strong hands working on his knitting and a look of peace on his normally gruff face.

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