Page 59 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
Meena appeared at his elbow, resplendent in midnight blue, her clipboard conspicuously absent for once. “Did you do it?” she asked quietly. “Did you call Victoria?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I told her I wasn’t interested in the Boston position. That I was staying here. That I was...” He took a breath. “That I was in love with someone else.”
Meena’s face lit up. “How did she take it?”
“About as well as expected. She was... gracious. Disappointed, but gracious.” The conversation had been brutalin its civility. Victoria had listened, had asked if he was sure, and when he’d confirmed—yes, absolutely sure—she’d wished him luck in a tone that suggested he’d need it. Then she’d hung up, and that had been that. A four-year relationship reduced to a ten-minute phone call and a closed door.
It had hurt less than he’d expected. Which told him everything he needed to know about what they’d actually had: a comfortable arrangement, not a great love.
“Good,” Meena said firmly. “Because you’re about to do something either very brave or very stupid.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“No,” she agreed with a grin. “They really aren’t. Ready?”
Grant looked across the room to where Felicity stood at the bar, her back to him, her posture just a fraction too rigid to be truly relaxed. His heart hammered against his ribs.
“No,” he said honestly.
“Perfect. That means you care.” Meena squeezed his arm once, then headed toward the small stage at the front of the ballroom.
Grant followed, his palms sweating for the first time since his father’s funeral. This was it. No more hedging. No more careful risk assessment. No more hiding behind professionalism and protocol.
He was about to risk everything on a public declaration that might end in humiliation.
And he’d never been more terrified in his life.
Meena stepped up to the microphone on the stage, tapping it lightly. The feedback squeal cut through the ambient chatter, drawing attention. The string quartet paused mid-measure. Conversations died down.
“Good evening, everyone!” Meena’s voice rang out, bright and professional. “I hope you’re all enjoying this beautiful evening. The appetizers, the music, the absolutely stunningdécor—” She paused for the appreciative murmur that rippled through the crowd. “We have a wonderful night planned for you, but first, I’d like to invite Grant Whitaker, manager of the First Bank of Frost Pine Ridge, to say a few words.”
Applause filled the room as Grant climbed the three steps to the stage. His legs felt oddly disconnected from his body. He took his place at the microphone, looking out at the sea of familiar faces.
Ida and Ruth sat front and center, practically vibrating with anticipation. Jade and Leo stood near the back, Jade’s hand tight in Leo’s. Brice leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, but his expression was... encouraging? Supportive? It was hard to tell with Brice.
And Felicity. She stood frozen at the bar, her Christmas Catastrophe halfway to her lips, her eyes wide and locked on him.
Grant cleared his throat, gripping the sides of the podium like a lifeline.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he began, his voice steadier than he felt. “The First Bank of Frost Pine Ridge has been a cornerstone of this community for seventy-five years. My grandfather opened these doors in 1949 with a simple mission: to serve this town with integrity, trust, and genuine care for the people who walk through our doors.”
The crowd nodded approvingly. This was the safe part. The easy part.
“My father continued that legacy for thirty-five years. He knew every customer by name. He knew your children, your businesses, your dreams. He didn’t just manage money—he invested in people. In community. In the belief that a bank should be more than a building where transactions happen. It should be a place where neighbors become family.”
He paused, his eyes finding Felicity’s across the room. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked.
“When I took over after my father passed, I made it my mission to preserve that legacy. To protect what he’d built. To honor his memory by maintaining the standards he’d set.” Grant’s hands tightened on the podium. “But somewhere along the way, I confused preservation with paralysis. I turned this bank into a museum instead of a living, breathing part of the community. I kept it safe. I kept it orderly. I kept it exactly as it had been.”
He saw confusion starting to ripple through the crowd. This wasn’t the speech they’d expected.
“And in doing so,” he continued, his voice growing stronger, “I nearly killed the very thing I was trying to protect.”
A murmur went through the room. Ida leaned forward, her holly-sprig hair quivering with interest.
