Page 25 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
Grant Whitaker, pristine manager of the First Bank of Frost Pine Ridge, was now covered in pine needles, sticky sap, and a fine coating of ceiling plaster. His usually immaculate hair stuck up at odd angles. One of his perfectly polished shoes had come off in the struggle and lay forlornly three feet away. He had a smear of sap across his cheek and a look of profound existential outrage on his face.
He looked like he’d been personally attacked by Christmas.
Felicity, who had been frozen in horror, felt a sound escape her throat. A small, strangled noise that was trying very hard not to be a laugh.
Grant’s eyes found hers. They were not amused.
The strangled noise became a giggle. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late.
The giggle became a laugh—helpless, full-throated, the kind of laugh that shook your whole body and made your eyes water. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, trying desperately to stop, but only laughing harder every time she looked at him.
He was just so... disheveled. So utterly, completely, beautifully human in his disaster. Mr. Perfect, Mr. Precise, Mr. Every-Hair-in-Place, standing there covered in forest debris and looking like he wanted to file a formal complaint with God.
From the bench, Ida’s voice rang out, delighted. “Well, he’s not beige anymore!”
That did it. Even Kevin started to laugh, then tried to hide it with a cough. Marcus was grinning. Meena had her hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing.
The only person not laughing was Brice, who was still holding the tree and looking at all of them like they were insane.
Grant carefully, deliberately, brushed a pine needle off his sleeve. Then another. Then he looked at Felicity, his expression flat.
“I’m glad you find this amusing, Ms. Adams.”
That only made her laugh harder.
He shook his head slowly, but—and Felicity would swear to this later—she saw it. Just for a second. The tiniest quirk at the corner of his mouth. The ghost of a smile before he locked it back down.
“Let’s get this tree in the stand,” he said wearily. “Before anything else goes wrong.”
It took another thirty minutes, but they did it. The tree stood—slightly crooked, definitely too tall, its top bending awkwardly where it pressed against the ceiling tiles—in the corner of the lobby. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what Grant had planned.
But it was glorious.
Meena was already taking photos from every angle. “This is gold. Authentic, community-driven, real. Corporate is going to love this.”
Brice was packing up his equipment, pointedly ignoring Meena’s enthusiasm. When she tried to direct him on where to put the tree stand, he just looked at her until she stopped talking.
Kevin had returned to his teller station, probably traumatized.
Grant had retreated to his office to clean up, leaving a trail of pine needles in his wake.
Felicity stood in front of the tree, still grinning. It was a disaster. It was chaos. It was absolutely, perfectly her.
When Grant emerged twenty minutes later—hair restored to order, sap removed, wearing a fresh shirt he must have kept in his office—he stopped beside her.
They looked at the tree together in silence.
“It’s...” he began.
“Chaotic?” she offered.
“I was going to say ‘memorable.’”
She glanced at him, surprised. He was still looking at the tree, his expression thoughtful.
“You know what the best part is?” she said.
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
