Page 16 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
She doesn’t notice my skeptical glance as she practically skips to the front of the room, her energy filling the space. I can tell she thinks she’s about to announce the best thing anyone’s ever heard.
“This,” she says, with an almost childlike excitement, “is the Holiday Miracle Plan!”
She slaps the folder down on the table with a flourish, her smile so wide I swear it could outshine the Christmas lights she’s dreaming of.
“It’s got everything! The Christmas gala, the holiday market, and a whole bunch of magical events to get guests and locals talking!”
I raise an eyebrow, already feeling a knot form in my stomach.
The others glance at one another, clearly unsure of whether to laugh or ask for a raise. I’m already mentally calculating the cost of glitter stickers, and I haven’t even seen the math inside yet.
I don’t say anything, letting the silence stretch as she flips open the folder, showing off more sketches of snowmen, Christmas trees, and was that a gingerbread man with sunglasses?
I can feel a sigh building in my chest.
“This is something we need to talk about, Sunny. A Christmas market, a gala, a festival of some sort? You want to turn this place into the holiday hotspot of Boston. Except that none of that is remotely in our budget. We’re barely scraping by on utilities.”
Her eyes flash at the mention of budget, but she doesn’t back down.
“Well, yeah,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “I’m not saying we can do it all tomorrow. But we need to drum up interest, get people excited about the hotel again. Something must change, and quickly, or this place really will be a ghost town.”
“I’m all for boosting interest,” I say, my words dropping to a sharp edge, “but the reality is we can’t even afford basic maintenance, let alone put on a gala. We don’t even have working toilets in half the bathrooms.”
She scoffs, her mouth twisting with impatience. “And you really think people will come for the business-as-usual vibe? Ryder, this hotel needs a spark. It needs joy. The kind of joy that only Christmas can bring. People are desperate for it. Lookat Boston. The whole city gets festive in the winter! We’ve got the potential, but you’re over here with a calculator, trying to squeeze pennies out of a piggy bank that’s already cracked.”
The room has gone completely still, the tension between us crackling. I feel the pulse of frustration in my veins.
“You’re running a fantasy business,” I counter, colder now. “With candy cane fumes and glitter. This hotel’s not a holiday wish list. It’s a business. I don’t know what world you think you’re living in, but around here, we deal in facts, not dreams.”
Sunny’s cheeks flush a deep pink, the irritation radiating off her. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not running some cold, heartless corporation. What is it with you? You’re allergic to joy or something? Scared of fun? It’s Christmas, Ryder! We can’t just wait for the bank balance to fix itself while we sit around doing absolutely nothing magically!”
The words sting, though I refuse to show it. I’m not scared of fun. I’m afraid of failing. And right now, that’s all I see. Her bright ideas are nothing more than distractions from the reality of the mess we’re facing.
“I’m scared of you running the business into the ground,” I shoot back, meeting her gaze with enough force that I know it’ll cut through her. “Do you have any idea how many businesses collapse because they operate on nothing but optimism and glitter? You can’t wish your way out of debt.”
“Well, excuse me for trying to bring some hope into this place!” she snaps, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Because someone has to, Ryder! I’m the one who inherited this wreck, and I’m trying to make it something people will want to be a part of. If that means I have to fight against every penny-pinching, joy-killing number you throw at me, then fine. So be it.”
The argument is growing louder. No one’s even trying to intervene.
The rest of the department heads, who were once hovering on the edges of their chairs, have quietly excused themselves, retreating to the corners of the hotel, probably to find a place not to be caught in the crossfire.
I don’t care. This isn’t about the rest of them. It’s about us.
Her fiery energy challenges everything I’ve spent years building. Her reckless optimism, I can’t tell if it’s naive or brilliant. But all I know is that the more she fights me on this, the more I’m aware of her.
Her presence. Her ideas. Her passion. It’s driving me insane.
The silence after we’ve both said our piece is thick, suffocating.
I know we’re standing on the edge of more. Somewhere between confrontation and whatever happens next.
“Maybe,” I say, barely above a murmur, “you’re not wrong.”
Sunny blinks, thrown off by my sudden shift. She opens her mouth to argue, but I hold up a hand, cutting her off before she can dive back into another rant.
“But it doesn’t change the fact that we have no budget for this,” I say, more calmly now. “Not yet. We’ll have to be strategic. If we’re going to do something like this, it has to be sustainable.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, watching me, her expression tight.
