Page 35 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
“Felicity—”
“I’m not leaving until these items are done, Grant. I can’t.” She heard the desperation in her own voice and hated it, butthere it was. “I need this to work. I need—” She stopped herself. She couldn’t finish that sentence. Not to him. Not yet.
He studied her for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a keyring, working one key free. “Exterior door. Lock it when you leave. And...” He hesitated. “The alarm code is 1847. The year the bank was founded. You’ll need to enter it on the panel by the main entrance before you leave.”
She took the key, surprised. “You’re trusting me with alarm codes?”
“Apparently.” His expression was unreadable. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t.”
He nodded once, then turned to leave. At the doorway, he paused. “Don’t work too late.”
“I’ll try.”
After he left, Felicity stood alone in the ballroom with the tree and her impossible checklist and the weight of everything riding on the next seven days.
Then she rolled up her sleeves and got to work
By seven-thirty, Grant had reviewed the quarterly compliance reports, responded to Meena’s fourteen emails about media coordination, and updated the gala budget spreadsheet for the third time that day. His office was quiet, orderly, exactly as it should be.
He could not concentrate on a single thing.
His mind kept drifting to the ballroom, to Felicity surrounded by boxes of decorations, working alone in a space that had been locked and silent for twenty years. He told himself it was professional concern—she was in his building, after hours,using equipment that posed potential safety risks. It was his responsibility to check in.
It had nothing to do with the look on her face when she’d said I need this to work.
He shut down his computer, gathered his coat, and made his way through the quiet bank. The lobby was dim, lit only by the security lights and the soft glow of the Christmas decorations Felicity had installed. The big tree in the corner looked almost ethereal in the low light, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking it in.
His father would have loved this. The thought came unbidden, but it was true. Thomas Whitaker would have been in the thick of it—helping string lights, laughing at the chaos, making everyone feel like they were part of something important.
Grant had spent sixteen years trying to honor his father by preserving order. Maybe he’d been honoring the wrong thing.
He headed toward the back corridor, intending to check on Felicity and then do his final lockup. But as he approached the ballroom, he stopped.
Light spilled from the open doorway—the warm, golden light of Christmas. And music. Something classical and instrumental, playing softly from her phone. He could hear her humming along, slightly off-key, the sound somehow both terrible and endearing.
He stepped through the doorway.
The ballroom had been transformed. The tree was half-decorated, with strands of white lights woven through its branches, catching on silver and crystal ornaments that reflected the glow. Boxes of decorations sat in organized rows along one wall. The ladder was positioned beside the tree, and Felicity stood on it, reaching up to hang another ornament, completely absorbed in her work.
She was wearing the same jeans and dark green sweater from earlier, but she’d kicked off her shoes at some point. Her feet were in thick wool socks, and there was a smudge of something—glitter? dust?—on her cheek. Her hair had escaped its bun and tumbled around her shoulders in waves that caught the light.
She looked exhausted.
She looked beautiful.
The thought landed in his mind with the force of a revelation, undeniable and terrifying. Not the distant aesthetic appreciation of an attractive colleague. Something deeper, more complicated. Something that made his chest ache with a feeling he absolutely could not afford to examine.
She reached for a higher branch, stretching on her toes, and the ladder wobbled slightly.
Grant was across the room in three strides. “Careful.”
She startled, nearly dropping the ornament. “Grant! I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Clearly.” He steadied the ladder with one hand. “You shouldn’t be on this alone. It’s not stable.”
“It’s fine. I’ve been up and down a dozen times.” But she climbed down anyway, ornament still in hand. “What are you still doing here? I thought you’d left.”
