Filthy Rich Santas

3. Lana

3

LANA

I glance at the pretentious, ornate wall clock hanging over the door to my boss’s office, my pencil tapping on the edge of my desk. Ten more minutes until I can officially step away for an hour.

As if summoned by my glance, my boss’s door swings open.

“Any word on the Wallington case, Lana?” he asks, striding across the room to loom over my desk.

I sit up a little straighter, scooting a file folder over the edge of my planner to hide the sketches I’ve been doodling. Not because I think Mr. Sanders will either notice or care, but a lifetime of listening to my parents demeaning comments about my “useless hobby” didn’t only kill the ambition I had when I was younger to be an artist, they left a permanent emotional scar that I doubt will ever be exorcized.

Just one of many, but I’m working on that.

I push away the thoughts of exactly how I tried to work on that last night when I went to Radiance, and focus on what my boss just asked me.

“I forwarded their counsel’s latest filings to your inbox this morning,” I remind him, doing my best not to let my eyes stray back to the clock while he’s hovering like this. “Would you like me to print out a hard copy for you as well?”

“Please do,” he says with an impatient frown that has me stifling a sigh.

Of course he wants a hard copy. He’s not that old, he’s a friend of my father’s who was in the same class at Harvard as Dad was, but apparently, since Mr. Sanders’ family started this law firm back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, it means he only trusts paper documents.

In triplicate.

He starts rattling off a list of tasks he needs me to take care of after my lunch break, and I can’t resist. I glance at the clock again.

Two more minutes until my hour of freedom.

And yes, I’m very aware of the fact that me looking forward to lunch as much as I am, when the only thing I have waiting for me is a bland, unseasoned chicken breast and some equally boring steamed vegetables, pretty much says everything about how fulfilling I find working here as an executive assistant.

It doesn’t matter how prestigious my employer is, or how pleased my parents are that I landed a job with what they consider “potential.” The work is completely uninspiring, and being here means constantly worrying about living up to all the same standards my parents always held me to.

All the ones that make me feel like I’m slowly drowning in a sea of conformity.

But just because I don’t love what I do for a living doesn’t mean I’m not good at it.

“Are you getting all this, Lana?” Mr. Sanders asks, with a pointed look at my planner.

“Yes, sir,” I say, dutifully flipping to a clean page and listing out his requests, even though I’ve already got most of them already accounted for in my online schedule. “I’ll take care of it.”

“See that you do. Especially since you’ll be taking extra time off this month.”

A lifetime of hiding my real emotions serves me well, and I manage to give him a bland smile. I may not love my job, but I do want to keep it. And I also understand exactly what that takes, including all the office politics that make me want to bury my face in a pillow and scream sometimes.

“Thank you for authorizing my vacation days, sir.”

The vacation days that I’ve earned, per company policy, and almost never take. And yet of course he’s made it an issue. Especially after I let it slip that part of the reason I put in for as much time off as I did was because I won’t be flying back east, but driving.

I guess he sees it as a weakness, and it probably is. Still, I’ve been terrified of flying ever since the one and only time my parents forced me onto a plane when I was younger, then handed me off to a flight attendant to “deal with” when I started to have a panic attack. And since it’s bad enough that I’m going to have to spend the holidays with them, there’s no way I’m planning on trying to overcome that fear to get back there even faster.

“Yes, well, be sure to wish your father a merry Christmas from Martha and me,” Mr. Sanders says with a distracted smile. “I’m sure he and your mother are pleased to be hosting you and Mr. Bradshaw this year.”

My smile almost drops at the mention of my ex, but I hold it together out of habit.

“Actually, Wade won’t be able to join me,” I murmur, not really expecting my boss to push for more information but dreading the chance all the same. Wade does travel in the same circles as the Sanders and my parents, after all. It’s why they like him so much.

It’s also why I haven’t been able to tell mine the truth yet. They know he’s not coming for Christmas, of course, but I haven’t admitted to them that we broke up. I just don’t want to deal with their disappointment in me. Again. As always.

I nod along, making appropriately encouraging sounds, as Mr. Sanders thankfully gets back to business and wraps up the long list of assignments for me. At least half of which—like handling his dry cleaning—are definitely not in my job description, but still expected.

Thankfully, it doesn’t actually take that much of my attention to follow along, though. After last night’s embarrassingly disappointing end to my big attempt to explore my options at Radiance, the reminder that I wasn’t good enough for Wade, either, stings more than I’d like it to after all this time.

The man asked me to marry him. And even if saying yes to him felt a little bit like I was sinking under a heavy weight, it was also really validating in ways I’m not sure I’m proud of to know that someone like him wanted me forever.

Until he didn’t, of course.

He broke it off only a few weeks later, after I found out?—

Well, I don’t want to think about that right now, either. It’s just one more thing I’m not ready to share with my family. Although in the case of my engagement to Wade, at least I dodged that bullet.

Sure, they’ll be disappointed when I finally have to confess that we’re not together anymore, but we were going to announce the engagement at Christmas, since both our parents are back in New Hampshire. This way, at least, mine will never realize how close I came to making them proud by marrying the man they practically hand-picked for me, only to fail once again.

“I’ll be sure it’s waiting on your desk when I get back from lunch,” I tell Mr. Sanders as he ends his monologue with another request for a hard copy of the latest filings in the Wallington case.

“Good. See that you do,” he says crisply, as if I need the reminder.

I’m always on top of things with my job. Always . But I shake off my irritation as he walks away, because I’m finally free. At least for an hour.

And honestly, after I got over my hurt at how abruptly Wade dumped me, I have to admit that finally free is also how I feel now that he’s out of my life.

It definitely left me reeling at the time, and it took me a little bit to find my bearings after the path I’d been following all my life—well, sort of just plodding along on, really—suddenly blew up around me with no warning. But with the distance between me and my family limiting our contact and Wade out of the picture, I realized I could just be me for once.

As soon as I figure out exactly who that is, of course.

I head to the pretty little rooftop alcove that gets too much wind but has a fantastic view of the city, and unpack my low calorie lunch, munching through the sandwich as I stare out over the valley. I’ve had a lot of time to think about all the ways I want to reinvent myself over the last few months, and last night was supposed to be a part of that.

It’s pretty obvious that if I’m going to explore kink, I’m not going to be able to do it at Radiance, though. The thought leaves me feeling just as embarrassed and dejected as I did last night when Beckett sent me off in a car instead of ravishing me the way he would have if fantasies actually came to life. But that’s the problem with looking too closely at fantasies in the hard light of day. They really don’t hold up.

“Kind of like these,” I say with a little chuckle as I poke at the vegetables that I steamed last night, causing them to fall apart on my fork.

I sigh and shove them back into my lunch container, deciding to just skip it. Or maybe head down to the cute little coffee shop on the ground floor and treat myself to a cinnamon muffin?

Before I can decide whether to break my diet or not, my phone pings with an incoming message, saving my waistline.

“But not my sanity,” I whisper under my breath in a sing-song voice when I see that it’s from my sister.

VIVIAN: Please remember that we all agreed to wear red for the family Christmas photo. Carmine, not scarlet. A photographer will be coming to the party on Christmas Eve, so pack accordingly.

I roll my eyes. “We” didn’t decide anything. My mother dictated it. And I honestly don’t know the difference between carmine and scarlet, other than vaguely thinking they’re both darker shades of red. Or brighter, maybe?

Either way, I’m sure the dress I’m planning on bringing will be deemed the wrong shade, but finding something flattering for my shape is challenge enough. The red I found will just have to do.

ME: Thanks for the reminder! I’ve already packed a red dress for the party. :)

Her reply comes back almost immediately.

VIVIAN: A dress, Lana? Really? An accent piece in red is enough. You don’t want to draw too much attention. Maybe go with black as your base, since it’s more slimming.

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” I murmur, doing my best to ignore the pang in my chest over yet another reminder that my choices are always the wrong ones. At least, according to my family.

ME: Thanks for the advice. See you soon!

I brace myself for her next jab, but am pleasantly surprised when she lets it go.

VIVIAN: I’m looking forward to it.

Not overflowing with sisterly love, but I’ll take it. I’m even feeling a bit of a warm glow as I pocket my phone, gather up my lunch, and start to head back inside.

So of course my mother has to call and ruin it.

I almost don’t answer, but good manners and familial expectations are too deeply ingrained in me. Besides, I’ve technically still got ten minutes of my lunch break left.

I sigh, then paste a smile on my face and turn back to face the gorgeous view as I answer. I read once that it’s possible to hear a smile in your voice, so I figure I might as well stack the deck.

“Hi, Mom,” I say brightly.

“Lana,” she says, already sounding impatient. If I had to guess, she’s definitely not smiling. “I know you’ll be leaving soon, but I hope you haven’t finished packing.”

I make a non-committal sound and just let her talk. She just told me she hopes I haven’t finished packing, and yet if I were to admit that I haven’t, I’m sure she’d find something wrong with my procrastination.

“You need to find something presentable to wear in red,” she goes on. “We’ll have a photographer here for the annual Christmas party, and it’s important that the whole family coordinate.”

“I know, Mom. I’ve already got it covered.”

She sniffs. “Do you? Carmine red, Lana. I don’t want to have to pay extra to have the photos touched up. Although, if you’ve fallen off your diet?—”

“Vivian just messaged me with a reminder,” I cut in quickly, not sure I’m up to hearing where she’s bound to go with that comment. “I’ll be ready for the party.”

“And Wade?” she asks, making me wince. “He should have something subtle, but it should tie in with the family theme. A tie in carmine would be too garish. But maybe a festive silk pocket square?”

I clear my throat. “Actually, remember when I told you that he probably wouldn’t be able to make it this year?”

“No,” she says sharply, and I can tell by the tone of her voice that she’s not denying that she remembers, but refuting what she can tell I’m about to say. “He must join us. What would it look like if you were abandoned on Christmas by your beau?”

She titters out a laugh, and my stomach ties itself into a knot.

“Sorry, Mom,” I murmur, clutching the phone a little too tightly as I stare at the horizon. “He really won’t be able to make it, though.”

It’s smoggy today, because L.A. always is, but I can still see the ocean out there, which always uplifts my spirits. Maybe because it’s an ocean that’s three thousand miles away from everything my family expects of me.

“Well, you’ll just have to talk to him,” my mother says firmly. “Or maybe I should give his parents a call? I just ran into them at the country club last weekend. If I’d known he was thinking of changing his holiday plans, I would have brought it up then.”

“No, Mom, really,” I say quickly. “Please don’t get involved. This is between Wade and me.”

“Well, see that you don’t embarrass us,” she says after a slight pause. “Now, have you forwarded your flight itinerary to your father and me?”

I take a deep breath. Then another. “You know I plan on driving out.”

She makes a disgruntled sound, annoyed as she always is when reality doesn’t match her expectations or dares to inconvenience her. “It would be faster to fly, darling. Safer as well. It may be perpetual summer over there, but winter roads in the northeast are nothing to trifle with.”

“I’ll be fine. I learned to drive on those northeastern roads,” I remind her.

“But you might be delayed,” she says sharply. Then, after a beat, “You know we’d all hate for you to miss out on the festivities due to poor road conditions.”

“I’ll be there in time for Christmas, I promise.”

“Well, we’ll need you here a bit earlier than that,” she huffs. “The party is, as always, on Christmas Eve, and we have several other social engagements we’d like you to be present for before then.”

My chest feels constricted, like I can’t draw a full breath. I rub it absently, silently reminding myself that it’s only a few weeks. Well, really much less than that, if I count the time I’ll actually have to stay under my parents’ roof, with the drive time both ways.

“I’ve mapped it out and I’ll stick to the main highways, Mom,” I reassure her. “They’ll be kept clear enough, and I’m already planning on leaving a few days early so I’ll have buffer days of travel, just in case, okay?”

“Well, I suppose it has to be,” she says, sounding exasperated but also a little distracted, like she’s already mentally moving on to whatever is next on her agenda after this conversation. “But if you come to your senses, we’d be happy to book a flight for you, even if it means paying last minute prices.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I say, just to keep the peace. She’s never had any patience for my fear of flying, and that clearly isn’t going to change any time soon.

But thankfully, after a few more reminders about holiday expectations, she lets me end the call.

I sigh, lowering my phone but not moving. I probably just have a few minutes of my break left, but I just need a moment to look out at the view. To see the whole world, or at least all of Los Angeles, spread out before me, and beyond that, the endless-looking ocean.

Free. That’s what a long view like this makes me feel. And like I can breathe again.

“Are you planning on driving all the way to New Hampshire by yourself?” a voice behind me asks, making me jump.

I whip around, my heart in my throat, then immediately feel a flush rise in my cheeks.

It’s Tristan.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, my heart pounding as he saunters toward me. He might not be as physically intimidating as Beckett or as traditionally handsome as Ryder, but the scars from his childhood accident speak to his strength, and the quiet, deliberate way he always holds himself, blue-gray eyes the exact color of the ocean I was just admiring, piercing me from behind the barrier of his stylish glasses, is sexier than I’m prepared to deal with in the middle of a random workday.

I swallow hard as he reaches me, stopping just out of arm’s reach and smiling down at me with the same intensity he brings to everything he does.

“You’re going to drive all that way by yourself?” he repeats.

“Um, yes?” I clear my throat, embarrassed that it sounded so uncertain. I go on quickly, hoping he won’t notice how flustered he’s making me. “I’m heading home for Christmas, and I’ll be driving alone, but it will be fine.”

He frowns a little, looking just as doubtful as my mother sounded.

The last thing I need is one more person who doesn’t believe in me, so I go on the offensive before he can say anything about my travel plans. “What are you doing here? I don’t think most of the people I work with even know that we have rooftop access, so I’m not sure how you found your way up here.”

He grins, and my breath hitches. He really is unfairly attractive. “You don’t think we can keep track of you?”

I bite my lip to hold in a smile. “You, Ryder, and Beckett? I knew it wasn’t just coincidence that I’m always seeing you guys around the city.”

He shrugs, but then his smile fades a little. “I came to make sure you’re doing okay.”

I swallow, the genuine concern in his eyes doing something to me. “Oh, um, yeah. Like you probably heard me tell my mother, I’m sure they’ll keep the highways clear, and?—”

He reaches out and brushes a stray piece of hair off my cheek, his fingers lingering for a moment and his touch rendering me mute. “No,” he says after a moment, letting his hand drop. “Not with the drive. Beckett told us you were at the club last night. And about the breakup.”

Shame rushes through me. I may have convinced myself I’m better off without Wade, but I can’t help it. For this man, for all three of them, to know I wasn’t enough for my ex is more embarrassing than I think I can stand.

But I have to, so I lift my chin and smile, putting on a brave face. “I’m fine.”

Tristan looks at me so warmly that it almost feels like he’s touching me again, even though his hands stay firmly at his sides this time. “You don’t have to pretend for me.”

For a split second, my chin trembles, and I want to tell him everything. All my doubts and insecurities. The hopes and dreams and how hard it feels to let myself actually reach for them.

That’s way too much, though. I have no doubt at all that he cares about me. They all do. But he’s just checking in, not inviting me to bare my soul to him.

I smile at him again, meaning it a little bit more even though it also takes more effort than usual to keep my true feelings under wraps.

“I really am fine,” I tell him, daring to brush my fingers over the back of his hand. “It’s been three months, and trust me, I don’t miss Wade at all. But I do have to get back to work. My lunch break is over.”

He stares at me hard, then gives me another small smile. “Okay. I’ll let you go for now.”

Before he can step back, I surprise both of us by lunging forward and hugging him. “Thank you,” I whisper, meaning it. “I do appreciate you checking in.”

“Always,” he promises, only hesitating briefly before wrapping his arms around me too.

For a blissful moment, I’m completely surrounded by strength and acceptance, his lean, hard body molded to mine and his amber and spice scent filling my senses.

Then I go up on my toes to press a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek before making myself pull away. “Merry Christmas. Please say hello to your Grandma Meg for me.”

“Hmm,” he says, looking at me thoughtfully. Then he smiles. “I will.”

Something about the way he’s looking at me has me feeling a little too vulnerable and exposed, his gaze more perceptive than I know what to do with. So I mumble another comment about needing to get back to my desk, and hurry off.

But as I head back into work, I’m hit with a little rush of nerves. I was quick to brush off my mother’s and Tristan’s concerns about my upcoming trip, but the truth is that I’ve never done the long drive between here and New Hampshire by myself before, and I’m a little nervous about tackling it given the recent diagnosis I was given.

But then I take a deep breath and straighten my spine. Even if Wade couldn’t handle my illness, I can. I have to. I’m finally figuring out who I want to be, tasting a hint of freedom for the first time in twenty-six years, and I’m not about to let anything stop me from reinventing myself.

The trip will be fine. Everything will be fine. It has to be.

All I have to do is make it through Christmas.