Page 79 of Filthy Rich Santas

They’re not what I hoped for.

Instead of a chorus of appreciative groans or more of the praise that I’m admittedly getting greedy for, the kitchen gets quiet. All three men have unreadable expressions on their faces, and Beckett… well, he looks almost angry.

My stomach tightens, and I dart a worried glance down to my own plate. Maybe I should have tasted them before inviting the men to dig in, just to be sure I didn’t mess up the recipe by swapping salt for sugar or something.

But before I can spiral about it, Ryder stands up abruptly. He strides over to me with purpose, and before I can even squeak out a question, he’s cupping my face in his hands and kissing me so hard that it bends me backward.

When he finally pulls away, leaving me breathless and dizzy, he grins down at me. “These pancakes are fucking amazing, Lana.”

I blink, looking between the three of them as I try to process what just happened.

“You’ve found Ryder’s weak spot,” Tristan chuckles, adjusting his glasses. “The man is a sucker for a good breakfast.”

Even Beckett’s stern expression has softened. He pins me with an intense look that makes my toes curl as he murmurs, “They really are amazing.”

I beam at them all, relief and happiness bubbling up inside me. “I’m so glad you like them.”

As we finish eating, we all agree that we’re not going to try to keep driving until the weather clears up, but it’s not until Tristan is gathering up our empty plates that Ryder stretches and asks, “So, what’s the plan for today? We’re pretty much snowed in, but the local roads might be okay if we want to do some exploring. Should we try to go out and about?”

Beckett’s expression is predictably serious. “We’ve got some club business to take care of, but that can be handled right here from the hotel room.”

“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed. “That’s okay. I can keep myself busy.”

“Don’t get too busy,” Ryder tells me with a grin. “The stuff for the club shouldn’t take all day.”

Tristan tilts his head, studying me. “And you could always hang out with us while we handle it, if you’d like. Maybe pull out your sketchbook?”

My heart skips a beat at the suggestion. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be in the way.”

Ryder cups my chin. “Trust me, love. Having you around will make boring business a lot more bearable.”

I flush, deciding to take them up on the suggestion. A lazy morning curled up in an armchair in the suite’s living area, my sketchbook balanced on my knees while the guys spread out paperwork and their laptops on the coffee table, sounds kind of perfect, actually.

They talk in low voices as they work, occasionally asking each other questions or debating some point I don’t quite understand. But honestly, I’m not really listening. I’m too busy studying the lines of Beckett’s profile, the way Ryder’s hands move as he gesticulates, the furrow that appears between Tristan’s brows when he’s concentrating.

My pencil moves almost of its own accord, capturing moments and expressions as I lose myself in the act of creation, only vaguely aware of the passage of time. It’s not until I feel a presence looming over me that I snap back to reality.

“I think we’re done here,” Tristan murmurs, resting his hand on my shoulder as I instinctively cover my sketchbook. “The weather looks like it’s clearing too.”

My stomach sinks slightly at the news, and when I glance out the window, I see that he’s right. The snow has slowed to a gentle flutter.

Beckett is already shaking his head, though. “If we left now, we’d barely make any progress before having to stop again. We might as well wait till morning. We can get an early start tomorrow if the roads are clear.”

Ryder grins, sprawling on the couch next to me and throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Oh no, whatever shall we do?”

I laugh, leaning into him. “Well, we can’t just sit in this hotel room all day, as nice as it is here. There’s got to be something to do around here, right?”

We all look at each other for a moment before Tristan suggests, “Why don’t we ask at the front desk? They might know of some local attractions.”

It’s a great idea, and after quickly changing into more appropriate clothes, the four of us end up trooping down to the lobby to ask.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asks, looking up at us with a smile.

“We’re looking for something fun to do in the area,” I tell him. “Do you have any suggestions?”

He rattles off quite a few, but it’s the three magic words he says at the end that have me perking up with excitement.

“A Christmas tree farm?” I repeat, smiling so hard my cheeks ache. “Really? Is it far? Is it open? Do they do tours? Tell me everything!”

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