Page 58 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
She hurried off toward the ballroom, and Brice stood there looking like he’d just survived a natural disaster.
“You okay?” Felicity asked gently.
“No,” Brice said. “Can I leave now?”
“Absolutely not. You’re staying for the whole thing. Consider it penance for every time you’ve made fun of my decorating choices.”
“That’s cruel and unusual punishment,” Brice muttered, but he headed into the ballroom with the resignation of a man accepting his fate.
Felicity took a moment to breathe, smoothing her dress and checking her reflection in one of the decorative mirrors. She could do this. She could get through this night. She could?—
“Felicity.”
Grant’s voice, low and close, made her jump. She turned to find him standing just behind her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean that made her want to lean in and breathe deeply.
“You look...” He seemed to struggle for words, his storm-cloud eyes traveling over her dress, her hair, her face, with an intensity that made her skin heat. “You look absolutely stunning.”
Her traitorous heart did a somersault. She forced steel into her spine. “Thank you. You clean up well yourself.” Her voice was cool, professional. A shield.
“Felicity, about earlier. About the text you saw?—“
“We should check on the auction tables,” she interrupted, already moving past him. “Make sure everything’s displayed properly.”
“Felicity, please. Let me explain?—“
“Later,” she said, not looking at him. “After the gala. We can talk after. Right now, we have guests to attend to.”
She walked into the ballroom, her head high, her smile bright, her heart cracking with every step.
Behind her, she felt Grant’s eyes on her back, burning with everything unsaid.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Grant’s carefully prepared speech—the one he’d drafted, edited, and memorized—had evaporated from his mind the moment Felicity walked into the lobby.
The cranberry velvet dress hugged her curves before flowing into a skirt that moved like water with each step. Her hair was swept up, showing the elegant line of her neck, and those vintage silver earrings caught the light and threw tiny rainbows across her skin. She looked like something out of a dream. A terrifying, beautiful dream that he was fairly certain he didn’t deserve.
He’d been in the middle of a conversation with Harold Bolton from the board, something about quarterly projections, when she’d appeared. The numbers died on his tongue. Harold’s voice became white noise.
All he could see was her.
He took a step toward her without conscious thought, drawn like a compass to true north. Their eyes met across the lobby, and the world narrowed to just the two of them. He saw her breath catch, saw color rise in her cheeks, saw something flicker in her expression—hope? fear?—before her professional mask slammed into place.
Someone called his name—Harold, still talking about those darn projections—and Grant forced himself to turn away. But his eyes found her again moments later, tracking her movement through the crowd like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
Because she was.
He’d tried to explain about the text, about Victoria, but she’d shut him down.Later. After the gala.
If there was an after. If she didn’t run the moment he opened his mouth.
He’d watched her walk away, her head high, her shoulders back, every inch the professional event coordinator. But he’d seen the crack in her armor, the hurt she was hiding behind that bright smile.
He’d put that hurt there. And tonight, he was going to do everything in his power to fix it.
Grant moved through the crowd on autopilot, shaking hands, making small talk, accepting compliments about the venue. But his attention was split, always tracking Felicity across the room. Watching her handle everything with grace and humor. Watching her turn potential disasters into charming quirks.
She was magnificent.
