Page 24 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
She looked out the window at the tree. It was magnificent. Full and lush, with that perfect triangle shape that only came from years of careful growth. The kind of tree that stopped people in their tracks. The kind of tree that made you believe in magic, just a little bit.
“Bring it in,” she said.
Grant’s head snapped toward her. “Ms. Adams?—”
“Bring it in,” she repeated, more firmly. “We’ll make it work. We’ll trim it if we have to, or we’ll angle it, or we’ll... I don’t know, embrace the asymmetry. But that tree is perfect, and it’s going in this lobby.”
Meena grinned. “That’s my girl.”
Brice just grunted, which Felicity knew was his version of agreement.
Grant looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a long, slow breath—the sound of a man surrendering to forces beyond his control.
“Fine,” he said. “But if it damages the ceiling, I’m documenting it.”
“Of course you are,” Felicity said, trying not to smile.
Brice and his assistant—a younger man named Marcus, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—maneuvered the tree off the truck. It was even more impressive up close, a twelve-foot monument to the glory of Vermont forestry. They’d wrapped it in netting to contain the branches, but even compressed, it was massive.
“Kevin!” Grant called to the terrified-looking young teller. “I need you to help Mr. Matthews with the base.”
Kevin approached the tree the way one might approach a live bear. “Yes, sir. Um. Where do I...?”
“Just grab the trunk and push when I tell you,” Brice said.
They began the delicate process of angling the tree through the door. Brice took the base, Grant and Kevin positioned themselves in the middle, and Marcus guided the top. Meena stood to the side, phone out, documenting everything for what she called “behind-the-scenes content.”
“Angle it left!” Meena called.
“My left or your left?” Marcus yelled back.
“There’s only one left!” Meena snapped.
“Then why didn’t you just say left?”
“I did say left!”
Brice’s voice cut through the bickering like a knife. “Everybody shut up and push on three. One... two...”
They pushed. The tree scraped through the doorframe with an ominous grinding sound. A shower of pine needles rained down on Grant’s head. A dusting of ancient plaster from the doorframe settled on his shoulders like the world’s least festive snow.
“Keep going!” Meena encouraged. “You’re doing great!”
“This is not great,” Grant muttered, but he kept pushing.
The tree cleared the doorway and entered the lobby. For a moment, it hung suspended in an awkward diagonal, too tall for the space, its top branches scraping the ceiling. More plaster dust drifted down.
And then—because the universe had a sense of humor—physics reasserted itself.
The tree’s weight shifted. The base slipped on the marble floor. The whole thing began to topple, a slow-motion disaster ofneedles and branches and Grant’s carefully controlled banking environment being consumed by forestry.
“Catch it!” Meena shrieked.
Brice lunged, one hand shooting out to grab the trunk. With his feet planted, shoulders braced, he stopped the tree’s fall through sheer force and stubborn will. He held it there, one-handed, like some kind of lumberjack superhero.
Grant, however, was on the wrong side of the avalanche.
He’d tried to catch it too, his arms coming up to brace the weight. He succeeded—sort of. The tree stopped falling. But at a cost.
