Page 5 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
Grant Whitaker straightened his tie, locked the doors, and began mentally preparing for war.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning, Felicity stood before the Frost Pine Ridge Bank, which looked less like a financial institution and more like a monument to the color beige. The brick was historic, the columns were stately, but the soul inside was pure, unadulterated taupe. She took a deep, fortifying breath that smelled like pine and possibility.
Professional Felicity: activate.
She’d dressed for the part, or at least her version of it. A sensible navy-blue dress, tamed—mostly—with a wide belt. A single elegant silver necklace instead of her usual jumble of beads. Her hair, a perpetual storm of blonde curls, was wrangled into what she hoped was a sophisticated twist, though a few rebellious strands had already staged a jailbreak. Her tote bag, however, was a liability. It was a cheerful canvas explosion of embroidered flowers, and she knew, with the certainty of a physicist explaining gravity, that it was leaking glitter. She clutched it to her side, willing its iridescent contents to stay put.
The heavy glass door swung open with a silent, well-oiled swish. The air inside hit her first: a sterile marriage of industrial carpet cleaner and old money. The quiet was profound,punctuated only by the soft tap of keyboards and the deferential hum of a cash counter.
Down to her right, two upholstered benches sat against the wall, currently occupied by Ida Murray and Ruth Dyer, who had apparently relocated their usual gossip headquarters from the too-cold town square bench to the bank lobby. They looked as settled and permanent as the water cooler beside them, and gave her a subtle, conspiratorial nod.
At the teller line, a woman with a magnificent bun of steel-gray hair and glasses perched on the very tip of her nose watched Felicity’s entrance with the grim neutrality of a warden observing a new inmate.
That had to be Mrs. Finch, a woman who, according to Jade, considered a holiday-themed deposit slip to be a grievous assault on the sanctity of banking.
Felicity’s gaze swept the lobby. Polished marble floors. Somber mahogany counters. A single, sad-looking ficus in a pot. It was a room crying out for joy, for color, for a well-aimed glitter cannon.
Felicity approached the teller line, clutching her problematic tote bag. A young teller with a bright, nervous smile looked up expectantly.
‘I’m here to see Mr. Whitaker,’ Felicity said. ‘I have a nine o’clock appointment. Felicity Adams.’
The teller’s eyes widened slightly—whether at the name or the faint shower of glitter that escaped when Felicity shifted her bag, it was hard to say. ‘Of course! He’s expecting you.’ She gestured toward a formidable-looking office. ‘Right this way.’
Felicity straightened her shoulders, hoisted her problematic tote, and crossed the expanse of marble, her boots making an entirely too-loud clicking sound. Ida gave her a thumbs-up. Felicity offered a wobbly smile in return.
The office door was ajar. She knocked lightly.
“Come in.”
The voice was exactly as she’d imagined: low, level, and devoid of any discernible emotion. She pushed the door open and stepped inside a room that was somehow even more beige than the lobby. Everything was organized with terrifying precision. Pens were aligned in a perfect row. Files were stacked in neat geometric towers. Not a single paper was out of place. It was the kind of office where fun came to die.
And behind the desk sat the room’s human equivalent.
Grant Whitaker looked like he had been custom made to match the decor. His dark hair was perfectly parted, his gray suit was impeccably pressed, and his posture was so straight he could have been used as a T-square. He wasn’t looking at her, but at a spreadsheet on his monitor, his focus absolute. Felicity had a sudden, absurd image of him filing his emotions away in a manila folder labeled Feelings, Miscellaneous, To Be Ignored.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Whitaker? Felicity Adams.”
He finally looked up, and for a split second, the beige facade cracked. His eyes weren’t beige. They were a startling blue-gray, the color of a winter sky just before a storm. They swept over her, from her escaped curls to her silver necklace to the bright cranberry lipstick she’d applied as a last-ditch effort at bravery. He gave her scarf, a defiant slash of crimson, a look that cataloged it as a Class C fire hazard.
“Ms. Adams,” he said, rising. They shook hands. His grip was firm, brief, and dry. “Please have a seat.”
She sat, perching on the edge of a chair that felt designed to discourage comfort. She wrestled her portfolio from her tote bag, trying to keep the glitter bomb contained.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” she began, her voice a little too bright for the space. “I’m so excited about the possibilities for the bank. Meena was telling me about the new community-first initiative, and I think we can create something truly special for the Winter Gala.”
He steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable. “Sterling-Midland has its directives. My concern is maintaining the security, efficiency, and professional atmosphere our clients have come to expect.”
“Of course!” Felicity said, opening her portfolio. “And nothing says ‘professional’ like festive cheer! It makes people feel welcome, valued. It’s an investment in community goodwill.” She slid a sketch across the desk. “First the lobby. I was envisioning a canopy of fairy lights over the main entrance, creating a sort of enchanted forest effect.”
He glanced at the sketch for precisely one and a half seconds. “An electrical overload and a potential fire code violation. Municipal code four-point-one-seven-b is quite specific about exterior lighting on historical facades.”
Felicity’s smile twitched. “Okay. Well, moving inside… how about we replace the velvet ropes at the teller stanchions with giant candy canes? Festive and functional!” She presented another drawing, this one more whimsical.
“A tripping hazard,” he said flatly. “And the paint could chip. We can’t have contaminants near the cash-handling areas.”
Contaminants. He made it sound like she was proposing to install a smallpox blanket.
