Filthy Rich Santas

37. Lana

37

LANA

Mom drags Vivian into the kitchen to finish up the cookies too. I tie on an apron and join my sister at the counter, and the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wraps around me like a comforting blanket, momentarily distracting me from the whirlwind of emotions I’m feeling.

“Where’s Kyle?” I ask, realizing I haven’t seen my brother-in-law yet.

Vivian doesn’t look up from the cookie dough she’s rolling out. “Oh, he had some work stuff to take care of today. You know how it is.” There’s something in her voice, a slight tightness that wasn’t there before, but it’s gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. “He’ll be at the party tomorrow night, of course.”

Mom bustles over, flour dusting her perfectly pressed slacks. “Kyle’s been so busy lately,” she says, pride evident in her voice. “He’s really moving up in the firm. On track for partner, I hear. Isn’t that right, Vivian?”

Vivian murmurs a quiet affirmative without looking up from the cookie dough, no doubt just as focused on getting that perfect as she is with everything else in her life.

I sigh softly, not liking my own bitter thoughts. My sister really does do everything right according to my parents, though, and her husband is no different. He’s not just well-connected; he’s also successful and ambitious in a field they approve of—law. In other words, he’s the perfect husband for their perfect daughter.

“It’s too bad Wade couldn’t make it this year,” Mom says out of the blue. “I was looking forward to having him at the party this year. There are definitely a few people on the guest list who I’m sure he’d appreciate an introduction to.”

My stomach clenches as I freeze for a moment, my cookie cutter hovering over the dough. With everything that happened during the road trip, I sort of put the fact that I haven’t told her about the breakup yet out of my mind.

I know I need to find a time to do it, but she’s almost as enamored of Wade as she is of Kyle, and I’m just not up to having that conversation right now. Not with my emotions still reeling, and not in front of Vivian, either.

Thankfully, Mom was just getting in another subtle dig at me, not looking for actual answers on Wade’s absence. So when I make a non-committal sound and refocus on the cookies, she happily rolls right into other topics.

“How are things going with your job, Lana?” she asks. “Your father was just talking to Richard the other day, but he didn’t mention anything about that promotion you were hoping for.”

Richard Sanders isn’t just my boss, he’s one of my father’s friends. Saying I’m hoping for a promotion is a bit of a stretch, though. My parents are the ones always pushing me to move up in the company.

“It’s going fine, Mom,” I tell her, knowing full well she won’t be interested in hearing how unfulfilling and stifling I find the job.

“Fine?” she repeats, her lips tightening for a moment. “Honestly, Lana, I thought you’d be further along by now. Your father pulled a lot of strings to get you that position, you know.”

I bite my lip, fighting back the urge to remind her that I never asked for his help. That the job was thrust upon me, a “favor” Dad did to me that I never asked for and am constantly reminded of.

“Did you use orange zest in this dough?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.

“Lemon,” Mom says. “The flavor pairs better with the frosting.”

Vivian’s lips tilt up in what could almost pass for a smile. “The citrus is a nice touch. Remember those orange-cranberry cookies we used to make? Those were always my favorite.”

Mom tilts her head. “Oh, I do. Why haven’t I made those recently? They really were divine.”

“Maybe we could do a few batches this year?” I suggest, feeling a spark of hope for a moment of genuine connection.

Mom tuts, shaking her head. “There really isn’t time. And really, we certainly don’t need to add more carbs to the party menu, now do we?”

“But… it’s Christmas.”

“And there are plenty of festive foods that we can enjoy while still being mindful of our figures, hm?”

I glance at Vivian as my mother speaks, and to my surprise, I think I catch a subtle roll of her eyes.

“Is that why we’re doing truffle mashed potatoes?” she asks.

I grin. “Oh god, those are delicious.”

“Well, we do have a delightful recipe for a Brussels sprouts gratin that I think everyone will love on the menu,” Mom says.

“Mmm, Brussels sprouts,” Vivian says almost playfully.

Mom gives her a little tut, but smiles. “You like them.”

Vivian starts sliding the cookie shapes onto a baking pan. “I like the butternut squash and sage risotto too.”

“And your sweet potato casserole,” I throw in. “Nothing tastes more like Christmas than that.”

“Oh, we’re not doing that this year,” Mom says just as Caleb and the guys pass by the doorway.

Ryder tosses me a playful wink, but his smiles slips a little as he reads the disappointment on my face.

“No sweet potato casserole?” I repeat, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as tight as it feels. I clear my throat. “It’s my favorite.”

“It will be good for you to try something new this year,” Mom says dismissively as Caleb leads his friends into the living room. “I got the new recipe for the Brussels sprouts from Kyle’s mother. She says he loves it, and if it’s good enough for the mayor’s table, it’s good enough for ours.”

“Of course,” I murmur as Vivian turns away to slide the cookies into the oven. “I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

I’m also sure I’m being ridiculous for feeling emotional about a simple dish, so I brush that aside as we move on to dinner preparations, throwing myself into chopping vegetables and stirring sauces until everything is ready and I can finally escape upstairs to my old bedroom to get myself ready for dinner.

As I pass the living room, I catch sight of Tristan, Ryder, and Beckett laughing with Caleb, their easy camaraderie evident. A familiar twinge of longing tugs at my heart, but I hurry past before they can see me. What we had is over, and Caleb would probably find it awkward if I tried to intrude on his time catching up with his friends.

I find my luggage waiting in the room I grew up in. It’s been transformed into a generic guest room, something my parents did as soon as I moved out, but it’s still where I stay each time I come back to visit.

The walls that once held my posters and dreams are now adorned with tasteful, impersonal art, all traces of my childhood erased, but I still find a bit of comfort just in being between these four walls. I wasn’t always happy here, but it was still my space. A private sanctuary that I was free to dream in, even if I learned to keep those dreams to myself.

I open my suitcase, debating what to wear. My fingers linger on the soft fabric of the new clothes the guys bought me during our trip. Each piece feels like a tangible reminder of the woman I became on the road—bold, authentic, free. But as I glance at the prim dress hanging in the closet, clearly left by my mother as a not-so-subtle suggestion, I falter.

It will be easier if I don’t rock the boat, so with a resigned sigh, I reach for the safer option. The one they’ll approve of.

Freshly changed, I make my way back downstairs. As I near the bottom of the stairs, I hear Oliver’s excited voice coming from the living room.

“And then the Millennium Falcon goes whoosh! It’s got so many pieces, like a bazillion! Mom says it’s too comp-uh-cated for me, but I really, really want it for Christmas. Do you think Santa will bring it?”

I peek around the corner to see Oliver, eyes shining with enthusiasm as he talks Beckett’s ear off about what I have no doubt is a coveted Lego set.

I half expect to find Beckett looking a little shell-shocked and trying to escape, but to my surprise, he’s crouched down to Oliver’s level, nodding seriously as he listens.

“I’m not up on what Santa’s planning, kid,” Beckett rumbles, a hint of a smile softening his usually stern features. “But the toy sounds pretty cool.”

“It is,” Oliver gushes, beaming up at him. “If I get it, you can help me put it together if you want.”

“I’m sure Caleb’s friend doesn’t have time to be playing with Legos,” Vivian says, swooping in to collect her son and bustle him toward the dinner table. “Come along, Oliver. Best behavior now.”

He grumbles, but follows directions as Beckett pushes himself to his feet, meeting my eyes for a moment. There’s something sweet and tender there that takes the sting out of hearing my sister refer to him as Caleb’s friend, and I find myself smiling back when his lips quirk up.

“You’re not up on Santa’s plans?” I tease him quietly, the image of the men in their silly, festive hats fresh in my mind. “That’s not how it looked this morning.”

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 mean a Christmas favorite. He means it’s one of my favorites.

“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. “You do have 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.

“What?” I ask as he grins at me silently.

He shrugs, still smiling. “You look good, sis. That west coast air must really agree with you.”

“What?” I repeat, caught completely off guard.

He waves a hand toward me, as if he’s taking in my whole appearance. “You look, I dunno, kind of radiant. Just more relaxed and happy than I’ve seen you in a while. Back me up here guys. Living out in L.A. is good for her, isn’t it?”

I feel a flush creep over my cheeks as Tristan, Ryder, and Beckett all murmur agreement. The weight of their stares makes it clear that they know just as well as I do that it’s not the California sun responsible for all that.

“Thanks,” I murmur, even though I know he’d be having an entirely different reaction if he actually knew what—or rather, who—was responsible for my newfound radiance.

“Oh, I don’t know, Caleb,” my mother puts in, her eyes narrowing a little as she gives me a critical look. “I think Lana looks a bit tired. Are you remembering your sunscreen out there, dear?” She tuts, shaking her head. “It’s not just more freckles you need to worry about. I’m already seeing some fine lines around your eyes. It’s never too early to consider Botox. Thirty will be here before you know it.”

I blink, glancing at Vivian in some misbegotten quest for solidarity, given that she’s the one actually over thirty. I’m only twenty-six, for fuck’s sake. But my sister’s skin is flawless, of course, and she’s busy quietly admonishing Oliver for his manners, not paying attention to the way Mom is nitpicking my appearance.

Caleb’s attention has also moved on, back to something about hockey, and I force a smile, used to these little jabs by now. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mom.”

Thankfully, dinner is just about done, and as we clear the table and start on cleanup, I feel the weight of the day settling on my shoulders.

Vivian gathers up a sleepy Oliver, making her exit with promises to see us all tomorrow for the party preparations. The rest of us migrate to the living room, settling in for some post-dinner conversation, but I can’t quite shake the feeling of emotional heaviness, and find myself not participating so much as just existing on the periphery.

I’m hyper-aware of Tristan, Ryder, and Beckett’s presence. They’re so close, lounging on the couch and laughing with Caleb about old times, but feel impossibly far away. They aren’t ignoring me. If anything, it almost feels like they’re providing a buffer to my fatigue by keeping up the lively conversation. Still, I’d give anything for a moment alone with them even if I’m not sure what I’d say if I got it.

We already had our moment of closure earlier.

It doesn’t matter anyway, since I don’t get the chance, but later, lying in bed in the sterile-feeling guest room, I miss the comforting feel of three warm bodies around me.

I roll onto my side, hugging a pillow to my chest. It’s a poor substitute for what I really want, but I suppose I’ll get used to it.

I’ll have to.