Page 62 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sunny
December 12th
Well,this is just perfect.
I’m half-heartedly flipping throughBoston Heritage Monthly—because apparently, it’s part of my lobby decor now—when the article slams into me like a freight train.
“Ryder Hale and the Quinn Legacy: A Bold New Chapter for Boston’s Garland Rose Hotel.”
My stomach drops. My fingers freeze on the page. The words blur. My vision is swimming in a gut punch I didn’t even see coming.
This is how it happens, huh? The city-wide spotlight, the kind I didn’t ask for, isn’t interested in giving me any grace. No, it’s got to hit right when I’m teetering on the edge of a complete meltdown.
Perfect timing, as always.
I can feel my chest tighten as I scan the piece. There it is, in black and white. My name, splashed across it like a neon sign in the middle of the night.
Sunny Quinn: new owner of the Garland Rose Hotel.
The little bit about me revitalizing it… that’s rich. My version of revitalizing is more like trying to duct tape together a sinking ship with glitter and holiday lights.
And then, to top it off, the words new chapter, like this is some heartwarming story I’m supposed to be telling.
As if I’m not drowning in invoices, panic attacks, and the sound of my own stress-fueled ramblings into the hotel’s phone system. I haven’t figured out how to make one damn thing not fall apart.
But here I am—front page. Like I’ve got it all together.
A sarcastic laugh bubbles up, but it gets stuck in my throat. Instead, I yank the magazine from my hands, crumpling the edges between my fingers as if I can erase what it says by force of will alone.
There’s a faint trace of peppermint oil on the pages, leftover from the holiday-scented candle I knocked over this morning, and it only makes everything worse. It smells like I’m suffocating under a mountain of forced cheer.
I’m not even sure what I expected anymore. But this? This is definitely not it.
I drag my feet all the way to the back office, where Dex is buried behind a mountain of paperwork. The stress isn’t just in the air around here. It’s practically clinging to the walls.
The whole hotel’s been a pressure cooker, and right now, I’m about to blow.
Tinsel, of course, is no help. She’s sprawled right across Dex’s paperwork, tail flicking lazily as if the world isn’t on fire. Dex absently scoops her up with one arm, settling the cat on his lap like a fuzzy paperweight.
“Dex,” I mutter, slamming the magazine down on his desk. “Look at this.”
He doesn’t even flinch when the magazine lands with a thud. Instead, he leans back in his chair, flashes me one of his signature grins, and picks it up, beaming from ear to ear.
I can practically hear the “you’ve got this” speech he’s about to give.
“Isn’t it great?” he says, flicking through the pages, not even bothering to look at me.
I scoff. “Great? Do you know what this is? This is me being shoved into the public eye when I’m barely holding it together.”
Dex raises an eyebrow and flips the page. “It’s good press, Sunny. The hotel is practically shining in this picture.”
“Shining?” I repeat, throwing my hands up. “You can’t be serious. It isn’t ready yet. It isn’t done.”
“But that’s what we’re working toward, right? You’ve got it under control.”
“I amnotunder control!” I throw my arms wide. “Have you seen my to-do list? It’s a goddamn circus in here, Dex.”
