Page 44 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
Something shifted in Felicity’s chest. Not hope exactly, but something harder. Sharper. Determination.
“Six days,” she said quietly.
“Six days to prove them all wrong.”
Felicity stood, wrapping her coat tight. “I’m going to make this gala so spectacular that no one—not Victoria, not corporate, not anyone—can call it childish.”
“That’s my girl.”
“And after it’s over, after I get my paycheck, I’m going to start charging what I’m worth. No more barter. No more accepting scraps because I’m afraid to ask for real money.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Felicity headed for the door, then looked back. “Thank you. For the cocoa. For everything.”
“That’s what best friends are for. Now go home, get some sleep, and tomorrow you walk into that bank like you own the place.”
As Felicity stepped out into the cold, snowy night, she felt different. The hurt was still there—Grant’s silence, Victoria’s condescension, the almost-kiss that now felt like a cruel joke. But it was fuel now instead of weight.
If they thought her sparkle was childish, she’d show them exactly how powerful it could be.
Six days until the gala.
Time to prove them all wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The cold war began Wednesday morning.
Felicity arrived at the bank at seven a.m., earlier than usual, armed with her most detailed checklist yet and a resolve forged in Jade’s bakery the night before. She wore a navy blazer over her usual jeans—a compromise between her style and the professionalism everyone seemed to think she lacked. Her hair was in a neat bun. Her smile was polite and distant.
She was here to do a job. Nothing more.
Grant was already there, of course, standing near the auction display with his clipboard. He looked up when she entered, and something flickered across his face—hope, maybe, or relief.
“Felicity. Good morning. I was hoping we could?—”
“Morning,” she said briskly, not slowing down. “I need to confirm the linen delivery and meet with the florist at nine. The lighting crew arrives at ten for the chandelier installation. Excuse me.”
She walked past him toward the ballroom, her boots clicking on the marble with purposeful authority.
“Felicity, wait. About yesterday?—”
“Not now. I have five days and approximately eighty-seven tasks to complete.” She didn’t look back. “If you need me, I’ll be in the ballroom.”
She heard him start to say something else, but she was already through the doorway, closing it firmly behind her.
In the ballroom, surrounded by the tree they’d decorated together, Felicity pulled out her planner and got to work. She could do this. She would do this. And she would do it with such flawless professionalism that no one—not Victoria, not Grant, not anyone—could ever call her childish again.
By mid-morning, the first crisis hit.
“Ms. Adams?” The florist stood in the ballroom doorway, looking apologetic and holding a tablet. “We have a problem with your order.”
Felicity looked up from where she was marking table positions on the floor with tape. “What kind of problem?”
“The white roses you ordered—three dozen for the centerpieces—we can’t get them. Our supplier had a refrigeration failure. Everything’s ruined.” She scrolled through her tablet. “I can offer white carnations, or we have some beautiful red roses?—”
“Red won’t work. The entire color scheme is white and silver and ice blue.” Felicity’s mind raced. “What about white lilies?”
