Page 10 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
“Oh, my heavens!” Mrs. Finch declared, patting her chest. “I nearly took a tumble. All this unsecured wiring. It’s a terrible liability.” She shot Felicity a look of pure, unadulterated triumph before bustling away, leaving the dead string of lights pooled on the floor.
It was sabotage. Blatant, unapologetic, A-grade sabotage. Felicity seethed.
From the bench, Ida’s voice cut through the quiet. “If you ask me, what this place really needs is mistletoe.”
Ruth patted her arm. “Now, Ida, let’s not be hasty.”
“Hasty? It’s a holiday tradition!” Ida declared, projecting for the entire lobby. “A nice, big sprig of it. Right over the main teller window. Imagine the fun! Mrs. Finch would have suitors lined up to the door.”
Mrs. Finch, who had just returned to her post, looked as if she’d swallowed a wasp.
Grant’s face, already a study in neutral gray, somehow lost even more color. He turned his head just enough to address the peanut gallery. “Forced romance over checking deposits is not part of the holiday campaign.”
His deadpan delivery was so perfect, so utterly devoid of humor, that a laugh escaped Felicity before she could stop it. It was a sharp, helpless bark of a laugh, and it felt like a betrayal to her own mounting frustration. He glanced at her, and his stormy eyes held a flicker of something she couldn’t name—not annoyance, but something closer to surprise. It unnerved her more than his constant disapproval.
“Fine,” she clipped, scooping up the useless string of lights. “No lights. Let’s discuss organic materials. I suggest garlands. Thick, beautiful, fragrant pine garlands from Brice Matthews’s tree farm. Supporting a local business—a family-run, third-generation Frost Pine Ridge institution. It is the literal dictionary definition of ‘Hometown Heart.’ It’s a story.It’s community. You can’t file a risk assessment against community.”
She thought for a glorious second that she’d finally broken through. He was quiet, his eyes on the sample of dark green boughs she’d placed on his desk. He even reached out and touched one of the needles.
“The sap,” he said finally, his voice low and solemn.
She waited. Surely there was more.
“It’s viscous,” he continued. “It will adhere to clients’ coats, to the carpet, to documents. The needles, even from the freshest pine, will inevitably shed. This requires additional custodial hours, which is an unbudgeted operational expense. The pine dust and pollen can become airborne, circulating through the HVAC system and triggering potential allergic reactions in both staff and clientele. And the scent, while pleasant to some, could be overwhelming to others, constituting an assault on the senses.”
Felicity stared at him. “You just described the smell of Christmas as a physical attack.”
She felt something inside her snap. Not explosively—just a quiet click, like a door closing. The boundless ocean of her optimism had finally hit the Great Wall of Grant.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You are a black hole of joy.”
He stiffened. “I am a bank manager, Ms. Adams. My job is to mitigate risk, not to cultivate… whimsy.”
The word ‘whimsy’ was delivered with the same distaste one might use for ‘fungal infection.’
Before Felicity could respond, the door to the bank opened, and Meena Patel swept in like a highly caffeinated force of nature.
“Grant! Felicity! Perfect, you’re both here.” She was carrying her ever-present leather portfolio and radiating the kind ofenergy that suggested she’d already had three espressos and conquered a small nation before nine AM. “I just got off a call with corporate and they’re very excited about the progress. But we need to move forward on the venue assessment—have you shown Felicity the ballroom yet?”
Felicity blinked. “The ballroom?”
Grant straightened slightly. “Ah, right.” He turned to Meena. “So you still want to proceed with that space?”
Meena’s eyes narrowed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”
Grant sighed and then turned to Felicity. “The ballroom is a bit worn, Meena wants to use it as the actual Gala venue. I was going to take you through it after we established the lobby parameters.”
“The lobby is just the warm-up and greeting space,” Meena said briskly. “The ballroom is where everything happens—the dinner, the auction, the dancing. It’s the centerpiece.” She looked at Felicity. “You’ve never seen it?”
“No, I?—”
“Perfect! Let’s go look at it right now.” Meena was already moving toward the large double doors. “I have twenty minutes before my next call. Come on, both of you. I want Felicity’s immediate, honest assessment.”
Grant and Felicity exchanged a brief glance—his unreadable, hers confused—before following Meena.
They walked through to the other side of the lobby in a strange procession: Meena leading with purposeful clicks of her heels, Grant following with the resigned posture of a man being led to an execution, and Felicity bringing up the rear, her mind whirling with questions.
Past Mrs. Finch, who watched them with undisguised curiosity. Past Ida and Ruth, who exchanged knowing looks. Past the vault, through a back corridor Felicity hadn’t known existed.
