Page 23 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
“We specified ten.”
“Must’ve mis-measured.”
The two men stared at each other, a silent battle of wills playing out over the marble floor. Felicity looked from one to the other, torn between panic and a hysterical urge to laugh.
This was going to be interesting.
The door swung open wider, and Meena swept in like a caffeinated whirlwind. She took one look at the tree visible through the window, and her face lit up with the kind of unrestrained delight usually reserved for puppies and winning lottery tickets.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “It’s perfect.”
Grant turned to her, his expression one of restrained desperation. “Meena, it’s twelve feet tall. It won’t fit.”
“It’s a statement, Grant!” Meena was already pulling out her phone, framing shots through the window. “This is exactly the kind of bold, community-focused visual we need. It says, ‘We’re not afraid to go big! We’re not a stuffy old bank! We’re fun!’”
“We have an eleven-foot ceiling,” Grant said flatly.
“We’ll make it work!” Meena spun to Brice, her heels clicking on the marble. “Mr. Matthews, can you get it through the door?”
Brice looked at her with the patience of a man who dealt with difficult customers on a daily basis. “Ma’am, I can get it through the door. Whether it fits in the building is another question.”
“Don’t call me ma’am,” Meena said automatically. “I’m thirty-two, not sixty. And yes, it will fit. It has to fit. I already posted about it on the bank’s Instagram.”
Brice’s expression didn’t change, but Felicity saw the slightest twitch of his jaw. “You posted about a tree you haven’t seen?”
“I posted about the concept of the tree. The aspirational tree. The tree that represents our commitment to—” Meena waveda hand. “You know what? Just bring it in. Grant, measure the ceiling.”
Grant pulled out his phone with the grim efficiency of a man who knew this was a losing battle but was going to document it, anyway. “Ceiling height in the designated tree corner is eleven feet, four inches. Minus the tree stand, minus the star topper, that gives us a maximum functional tree height of ten feet, eight inches.”
“So it’ll fit!” Meena said triumphantly.
“That tree is twelve feet tall.”
“Then we’ll trim it. Problem solved.”
Brice, who had been silent during this exchange, finally spoke. His voice was low and flat. “Ma’am, you want me to cut a foot and a half off the top of a Douglas Fir?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want.”
“That’ll kill the tree’s symmetry. Ruin the whole shape.”
“Then angle it so the ceiling covers the awkward part.”
“That’s not how trees work.”
“Well, make it work,” Meena snapped, her patience finally fraying. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
Brice set down the hand truck he’d been holding with exaggerated care. “My job is growing and delivering trees. Not defying the laws of botany and interior architecture.”
“Your job is whatever I need it to be to make this event a success,” Meena shot back.
They were standing closer now, both bristling, the air between them crackling with antagonism. Brice was over a foot taller than Meena, but she didn’t back down an inch, her chin tilted up, her eyes flashing with challenge.
Felicity glanced at Grant, who was watching the exchange with the expression of a man who’d just realized he was living in a sitcom and hadn’t been given the script.
“Perhaps,” Grant said carefully, “we should discuss this rationally. Ms. Adams, what’s your professional opinion?”
All three of them turned to look at her. Felicity felt the weight of the moment—the perfect tree that was too tall, Grant’s barely suppressed anxiety, Meena’s unwavering determination, Brice’s stoic irritation.
