Grumpy Glitter Christmas (Frost Pine Ridge #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Felicity Adams had built her entire business around the most wonderful time of the year, which explained why she was hauling three loaves of rosemary bread and a crocheted afghan toward Sugar Pine Sweets instead of carrying a paycheck like a sensible person.

The grateful clients meant well—Mrs. Henderson’s bread was legendary, and the afghan would keep her cozy through the winter—but cozy didn’t pay the rent.

The bell jingled as she pushed in, juggling her load.

Behind the counter, Jade Bennett looked up from a flour cloud, eyebrows raised. “Another successful transaction, I see.”

Felicity dumped her haul onto the counter. Bread teetered. The afghan slumped in a rainbow heap. Glitter still clung to her cheek, sparkling in the newly installed overhead lighting.

“Martha-Mae Higgins is thrilled with her holiday mantelpiece. In return, I’ve been compensated with carbs and one bunker-grade blanket. Who needs cash when you can have artisanal insulation?”

Jade tapped the crust of a loaf. “Her sourdough starter is no joke.”

“Neither is my landlord,” Felicity muttered, unwrapping her scarf. “I tried to pay rent in brioche last month. He was… unpersuaded.” She flopped against the counter with a theatrical groan. “Face it. I’m running the coziest bankruptcy in Vermont.”

From a corner table, town senior busybody Ida Murray snapped, “That’s a lot of bread for one person, dear.”

Her lifelong partner in crime, Ruth Dyer, added, “But the afghan is lovely.”

“It’s my ‘Blankets Don’t Pay The Rent’ line,” Felicity said, giving them a weak wave. “Perfect for when you want to feel festive while living in your parents’ garage because you can’t pay the rent.”

Ida broke the peppermint stick in half with a loud snap. “Nonsense. Your work is beautiful. Martha-Mae’s just a cheapskate. You’ll find clients who want to pay full price.”

Felicity managed a smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes and turned back to Jade. “See? My business model is town gossip now.”

Jade slid her a cocoa dotted with tiny marshmallows. “Drink. On the house.”

Felicity wrapped cold fingers around the mug. “I could pay you with a gently used afghan?”

“Drink,” Jade ordered.

They shared a grin, comfortable in their old rhythm: Jade with her neat, edible art; Felicity with her glitter explosions. Opposites, but perfectly matched.

Still, the words tumbled out before Felicity could stop them. “I just need one break. One real paycheck. Something that proves I’m not just the town’s glitter clown.”

Her chest pinched. Her ex-fiancé had once told her she was “too much.” Too much sparkle, too much optimism, too much everything.

Two years later, she was still trying to prove that “too much” could be an asset.

So far, her résumé included a pantry of jam and a closet that looked like a yarn store sneezed in it.

“Your work is serious,” Jade said firmly. “The library, the fall festival—”

“They paid me in encyclopedias, Jade. Encyclopedias.”

The bell above the door chimed, ushering in a gust of snow and a presence that altered the bakery’s cozy equilibrium.

A woman stood framed in the doorway, small and sharp-edged in a camel-colored coat that probably cost more than Felicity’s winter wardrobe.

Her heels were slim stilettos that clicked like sleigh bells on the floor.

Sleek ponytail. Leather portfolio. Eyes that scanned the room with the efficiency of a barcode reader.

She looked like a human espresso shot—concentrated, bracing, impossible to ignore.

Her gaze landed on Felicity with unnerving accuracy.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice crisp but not unkind. “I’m looking for Felicity Adams.”

Ida and Ruth froze mid-breath. Ruth’s needles stopped clacking. Ida leaned forward, stage-whispering, “She’s the one who’s been snooping around your office.”

Meena’s eyes flicked toward the pair, her brows tightening in the faintest frown, as if she’d just confirmed what she already suspected—every small town came with its resident gossip mill, and she’d just identified them.

“That’s me,” Felicity said, standing straighter, wishing cocoa stains didn’t decorate her sweater.

The woman strode forward, hand extended. “Meena Patel. Strategic Branding and Community Outreach, Sterling-Midland Financial Group.”

Felicity blinked. “The bank?”

“Yes,” Meena confirmed. “I found your office in the square — charming space, by the way. The sign said you were here.”

“Oh.” Felicity flushed. Her “office” was one small rented room above the hardware store, barely big enough for a desk and her glue gun arsenal.

She really couldn’t afford it, but thought it might make her seem more professional.

The sign she’d taped to the door that morning read: Meeting clients at Sugar Pine Sweets.

Follow the cocoa scent. She hadn’t expected anyone important to actually follow it.

Meena smiled faintly, as if the detail had amused her more than annoyed her.

“I’ve been sent to Frost Pine Ridge to help rebrand the bank,” she continued. “And I need you. I’ve seen your work. The library. The town square. Brice Matthews’s tree farm—the garland at his welcome stand was inspired.”

Felicity’s cheeks warmed. Brice had paid her in maple syrup. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Your style is vibrant, accessible, joyful. That’s exactly the image the bank needs. Which is why I’d like you to handle the branch’s holiday transformation.”

Felicity’s heart thumped. A real contract. A real paycheck. Not bread. Not blankets.

“And,” Meena added, warming as she spoke, “corporate also wants the annual Winter Gala elevated into a signature fundraiser. Would you be interested in decorating for that and co-chairing the planning committee?”

Felicity’s triumphant samba of a heart stumbled. Gala planning? Budgets? Spreadsheets?

Spreadsheets are just craft projects with crying, she told herself.

But this was it. The chance to prove she wasn’t fluff.

“I can do that,” she said, voice steadier than she felt.

“Excellent.” Meena’s smile brightened, losing its corporate edge. “Your co-chair will be Grant Whitaker, the branch manager. He’s… traditional. But he cares about this town.”

Grant Whitaker. Mr. Beige himself. Felicity pictured his stern face in the teller line, every tie knotted to perfection, as if joy might unbalance his ledger. Ida once joked he looked like he’d swallowed an abacus.

Her chest tightened with nerves and determination. Fine. If Mr. Grumpystiltskin wants tradition, I’ll bury him in vintage tinsel.

“I’ll be there,” she said brightly.

Meena nodded, brisk again but still warm. “Nine a.m. briefing tomorrow. Bring your ideas. And Felicity?” She paused, softer now. “I think you’re exactly what the bank needs.”

With a swish of perfume and determination, Meena was gone.

The bakery fell silent until Jade let out a low whistle. “Wow.”

Felicity spun, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. “Did that just happen?”

“It happened,” Jade said, smiling wide.

“A corporate job! A gala! A paycheck!” Felicity clutched the afghan to her chest and twirled. “I’m going to be legitimate. I’m going to have a 401k. I don’t even know what that is, but I’ll have one!”

Ruth clapped gently. “That’s wonderful, Felicity!”

Ida snorted into her cocoa. “The bank needs cheer. And Whitaker? He runs it like his father did—one paperclip away from apocalypse.”

Felicity stopped spinning, breathless but glowing. This was her big break. Proof she was more than barter payments and sparkle.

Her smile tightened with determination. Grant Whitaker wouldn’t be a problem. He was just a beige obstacle on her rainbow road.