Page 37 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
“You did it,” he said.
She turned to look at him, and her smile widened. “We did it.”
They stood there, surrounded by light and possibility, and Grant felt something fundamental shift inside him. This wasn’t just about the bank anymore. It wasn’t about maintaining his father’s legacy or surviving corporate oversight or checking boxes on a project timeline.
This was about her. About the way she’d brought color and life and hope back to a place that had forgotten how to celebrate. About the way she made him want to be less careful, less controlled. About the way she looked at him now, in the glow of the tree they’d decorated together, like he was someone worth knowing.
“You smiled,” she said softly.
He hadn’t realized. But she was right—he could feel it, the unfamiliar pull of his own expression. “Did I?”
“A real one. Not the polite customer service smile. An actual, genuine smile.” She stepped closer, tilting her head. “It’s nice. You should do it more often.”
“Perhaps I need more reasons to.”
“Perhaps you’ve been surrounded by reasons and just haven’t been looking.”
She was close now. Close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes, could smell that citrus scent that clung to her, could count the faint freckles across her nose. Close enough that if he just leaned forward slightly, if he just closed the distance between them...
His hand came up seemingly of its own accord and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek, and he felt her breath catch.
“Felicity,” he said, her name rough in his throat.
“Grant,” she whispered back.
Her eyes fluttered closed. She swayed toward him, the smallest movement, but it was invitation and permission and everything he hadn’t known he’d been waiting for.
He lowered his head. She rose on her toes. The world narrowed to the inch of space between them, to the warmth of her breath, to the thundering of his own heart.
His thumb brushed her jaw. Her hand came up to rest on his chest, right over his heart.
One more second. One more breath.
“Well, don’t let us interrupt!”
The voice boomed through the ballroom like a foghorn, shattering the moment into a thousand pieces.
Grant and Felicity sprang apart as if electrocuted. His hand fell away from her face. She stumbled back a step, her eyes wide with shock.
Ida Murray stood in the doorway of the ballroom, Ruth Dyer beside her, both bundled in winter coats and carrying thermoses. They must have come through the front entrance—the one Grant had left unlocked for his final lockup. The one he’d completely forgotten about.
Ida’s grin was absolutely triumphant. “We saw the lights on and thought you two might want some cocoa. The bank lobby door is unlocked, so we figured it was okay to come in. But it looks like we’re interrupting something far more interesting than tree decorating.”
Ruth had her hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing with barely suppressed laughter. “Oh my. Oh dear.”
Grant felt heat creep up his neck—actual, genuine mortification. He was thirty-five years old, a respected bank manager, and he was blushing like a teenager caught by his parents.
Felicity had turned a shade of red that rivaled the ornaments on the tree. “Ida. Ruth. We were just... finishing the tree.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Ida said, her tone absolutely dripping with skepticism. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“Ida,” Ruth said, nudging her friend. “Leave them alone.”
“I’m not doing anything! I’m just observing that these two young people were engaged in some very focused tree-finishing activities.” She walked further into the ballroom, Ruth following with an apologetic expression. “Though I have to say, it’s about time. Ruth and I have been watching you two dance around each other for two weeks now. The whole town has bets going on when you’d finally?—”
“Ida!” Ruth’s voice was sharp.
“What? It’s true!”
