Page 30 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
“Better.” He nodded to the room. “Place is looking good. Keep it up.”
Then, he was gone.
The silence was heavy.
“That was weird,” Felicity said.
“He came all the way here on a Friday night to deliver extension cords?” Meena asked.
“Probably heard we might have pizza.”
By nine o’clock, they’d made remarkable progress. The floor was clean, the walls wiped down, and all four heaters were running, filling the space with warmth. The pizza had arrived around seven-thirty, and they’d demolished three pies while sitting on the floor, laughing and sharing stories.
Now, packing up supplies, Felicity felt bone-deep exhaustion mixed with pride.
“We did it,” she said. “It’s a start.”
“It’s more than a start,” Meena said, taking photos. “This is going to be stunning.”
Grant joined them, clipboard under one arm, a smudge of dust on his collar. “The heaters will run continuously. Leo estimates optimal temperature within seventy-two hours.”
“You’re in your element,” Felicity teased. “Recording. Documenting.”
“Someone has to maintain standards,” he said, with the barest hint of humor.
By nine-thirty, they were packing up. Leo did a final check on the heaters while Jade and Meena gathered cleaning supplies.
“Same time Monday?” Felicity asked, making notes in her planner.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Meena said, looking at her ruined two-hundred-dollar leggings with surprising satisfaction.
“I’ll bring more scrub brushes,” Jade added. “And maybe kneepads.”
They headed out together into the cold December night, leaving Grant to lock up. Through the exterior door, Felicity could hear the steady hum of the heaters—the sound of progress, of a space coming back to life.
Twelve days until the Gala.
CHAPTER NINE
Grant Whitaker had never worked on a Saturday with quite this much energy in the building.
It was barely nine in the morning, and the bank was already humming. Customers weren’t just conducting business—they were lingering, pointing at decorations, taking photos of the too-tall tree that dominated the lobby.
He stood near his office door, watching Felicity arrange folding tables along the wall. She’d arrived at eight-thirty, arms full of tablecloths and signage materials, moving with focused efficiency. She wore jeans and a dark green sweater, and she knew exactly what needed to be done and in what order.
It was, he had to admit, impressive.
“The quarterly reports are on your desk,” Mrs. Finch said beside him. “They require your signature by Monday.”
“Thank you.”
She followed his gaze to Felicity. “She’s here early on a Saturday.”
“The auction preview display needs to be ready. Ms. Patel is still collecting donations, but Ms. Adams wanted to showcase what we have so far—build anticipation.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Finch’s tone was impossible to read. “At least she’s taking it seriously.”
The closest thing to approval Grant had ever heard her express about Felicity.
