Page 38 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
Grant found his voice, though it came out strangled. “We should probably... I need to lock up. The building.”
“Of course,” Felicity said quickly, not meeting his eyes. “I was just finishing, anyway. I should go. It’s late. I need to—” She was already gathering her things, shoving items into her tote bag with more force than necessary.
“No rush, dear,” Ida said, settling onto a folding chair someone had left in the ballroom as if she planned to stay awhile. “We brought plenty of cocoa. We can all sit and chat about?—”
“I really need to go,” Felicity interrupted, her voice tight. She grabbed her coat, her shoes—still not looking at Grant. “Thank you for... for your help with the tree. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She was out the door before he could respond, practically fleeing through the ballroom’s exterior exit. He heard her car start moments later, the engine noise fading as she drove away.
Grant stood in the ballroom, surrounded by the light and beauty they’d created together, with two elderly women who were looking at him with expressions of gleeful interest.
“Well,” Ida said, taking a sip from her thermos. “That went well.”
Ruth shot her friend a look. “Ida Murray, you have the worst timing in the history of timing.”
“I have excellent timing! If we’d come five minutes later, who knows what we would have walked in on!”
“That’s the point,” Ruth said. “We should have come five minutes later.”
Grant closed his eyes, counted to ten, and tried to remember when exactly his carefully controlled life had spiraled so completely out of his grasp.
“I need to lock up,” he repeated, his voice flat. “If you ladies don’t mind.”
“Of course, dear,” Ruth said, standing and ushering Ida toward the door. “We’ll just be going. But Grant?”
He looked at her.
“She’s lovely. Don’t let this—,” she gestured vaguely “—scare you off.”
After they left, Grant stood alone in the ballroom. The tree glowed, beautiful and perfect, exactly what this space needed.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
A text from Victoria:See you tomorrow!
Grant looked at the text. Then at the tree. Then at the exterior door through which Felicity had fled.
Tomorrow Victoria would arrive. Tomorrow he’d have to face both of them—the past he’d carefully left behind and the future he was terrified to reach for.
Seven days until the gala.
Everything was falling apart and coming together simultaneously, and Grant Whitaker had absolutely no idea how to regain control.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Felicity arrived at the bank on Tuesday morning with a carefully constructed plan: be professional, be competent, and under absolutely no circumstances think about what had almost happened last night in the ballroom.
The plan lasted approximately forty seconds.
Grant was already there, standing near the auction display with his clipboard. He looked up as she entered, and their eyes met for a fraction of a second before they both looked away with synchronized awkwardness.
“Good morning,” he said, rigidly formal.
“Morning,” she replied, clutching her tote bag. “I’m just going to work on the ballroom staging.”
“Of course. I’ll be reviewing the catering timeline.”
“Great. That’s... important.”
