Chapter 3
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.
“Right. No candy canes.” She flipped the page, her chipper armor starting to thin. “What about garlands? We could get some beautiful, thick pine garlands from Brice Matthews’ farm, woven with red ribbon and—”
“Needle-shed,” he interrupted. “It would require additional custodial hours and could interfere with the ventilation system. Not to mention potential allergens for staff and clients.”
Felicity stared at him. Was he serious? He was a walking, talking risk-assessment report. “Brice uses the freshest pine,” she offered weakly. “The needles are very… stable.”
He didn’t dignify that with a response. His stormy eyes just held hers, waiting.
She took a breath, rallying. “Alright, Mr. Whitaker, Grant. The gala. It’s meant to be a signature event.
A fundraiser. We need to build excitement to get people talking.
We need a centerpiece here in the lobby for that.
A showstopper.” She pulled out her final, most ambitious sketch: a magnificent twelve-foot Christmas tree, laden with ornaments and lights, right in the center of the lobby.
“And a light, tasteful dusting of glitter to make it all sparkle.” She’d actually written metric ton of glitter in her notes, but had wisely edited herself.
He looked at the drawing, then back at her.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Ms. Adams. A twelve-foot tree would obstruct security camera sightlines to teller stations one and two. Furthermore, ‘a tasteful dusting of glitter’ is not a measurable unit. It is, however, a guaranteed contaminant for the cash counters, the deposit slips, the computer keyboards, and, God help us, the vault’s ventilation system. ”
He said ‘the vault’ with the same reverence a priest might use for a sacred relic.
Felicity’s portfolio snapped shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“Mr. Whitaker,” she said, her voice dropping the forced cheer, “your bank is… brown. It’s a lovely shade of brown, very dependable.
But Ms. Patel hired me to bring it to life.
To make it joyful. Joy isn’t… efficient. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s sparkly.”
A flicker of something—annoyance? surprise?—crossed his face. “My father ran this branch for thirty-five years. He built it into a pillar of this community based on trust, stability, and professionalism. Not… sparkle.”
The way he said the word, you’d think it was a communicable disease. The conversation had hit a wall. A very beige, very solid wall.
Just then, Meena Patel bustled in, her energy sucking all the stagnant air out of the room. “Grant! Felicity! How’s the creative synergy flowing?”
Grant shot her a look that would have frozen a lesser person. Meena, who'd weathered his disapproval since their Economics 101 study group, just smiled brighter. “Ms. Adams has been presenting some… ambitious concepts.”
Meena beamed. “Wonderful! Ambition is what we need. I just got off the phone with my boss, and they have decided that Sterling-Midland wants this branch to be the pilot for our entire ‘Hometown Heart’ campaign. The gala needs to be a triumph. A press release is already drafted. Success is non-negotiable.” She clapped her hands together.
“Now, let’s go look at the lobby and see where we can put all this fabulousness. ”
She herded them out of the office before Grant could object. Back in the main lobby, Felicity felt a fresh surge of determination. She could win him over. She had to.
“See?” she said, gesturing expansively. “The acoustics in here are perfect for carolers. And if we hang garlands from the teller cages…” She took a step back to better illustrate her point, her arm catching the strap of her tote bag.
It happened in cinematic slow motion.
The bag swung forward. A small plastic container of iridescent silver glitter tumbled out of the unzipped top. For a heart-stopping second, it hung in the air like a glittering grenade. Then, it fell.
The container hit the small table between the lobby chairs and popped open, releasing a puff of glitter that bloomed into a miniature, sparkling mushroom cloud.
The cloud drifted.
It settled on the polished mahogany of the teller counter. It dusted the keyboard of a teller’s computer. It shimmered on the black uniform of a very stoic security guard. A few errant flecks caught the light as they floated dreamily toward the open, grated door of the vault.
A collective gasp went through the lobby.
From her station, Mrs. Finch made a small, strangled sound, clutching her chest as if she’d been physically wounded.
From their bench, Ida Murray whispered loudly to Ruth, “Well, it’s not beige anymore.”
Felicity froze, her blood turning to ice. Her gaze snapped to Grant.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching a single, renegade piece of glitter swirl in an air current before disappearing into the hallowed darkness of the vault. His face was a mask of placid horror. When he finally turned to her, his voice was unnervingly calm.
“Do you realize,” he said, his tone soft and lethal, “that glitter is now a part of this bank’s permanent monetary ecosystem?”
Mortification washed over Felicity in a hot, smothering wave. This was it. Job over. Her one chance at legitimacy, undone by a quarter-ounce of craft supplies. She was the glitter clown, after all.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammered, fumbling in her bag for… what? A tiny vacuum? A glitter-attracting magnet? She started trying to scoop the shimmering particles off the counter with her hand, which only smeared them into a wider, more radiant smear. “I can—I’ll clean it. I promise.”
She felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her. She thought she might actually combust from pure, unadulterated shame. She had not only failed, she had failed spectacularly, publicly, and with sparkles.
“Perfect,” Meena said.
Felicity stopped smearing. Grant blinked.
Meena was beaming, a genuine, thousand-watt smile. She looked from Grant’s thunderous face to Felicity’s mortified one. “This is perfect.”
“Perfect?” Grant choked out the word as if it tasted like poison. “There are non-regulation particulates in the vault.”
“There’s tension,” Meena corrected, her eyes gleaming. “There’s creative friction. You, Grant, are the stable, traditional foundation. The history. The trust.” She gestured to Felicity. “And you are the future. The joy. The sparkle.”
Felicity stared, bewildered.
“You two are the story,” Meena declared. “The perfect embodiment of this campaign. Tradition meets innovation. Order meets chaos. Grumpy meets sunshine.” She might have actually said that last part under her breath. “Which is why you will be brilliant co-chairs for this project.”
Grant looked like he was about to short-circuit. “Meena, with all due respect, our approaches are… incompatible.”
“They’re complementary,” Meena chirped. “You’ll balance each other. You need her creativity, and she needs your… structure.” She glanced at the glitter-smeared counter and added, “And possibly your oversight on materials handling.”
Felicity’s head was spinning. She wasn’t fired? She was… the story?
“The Gala is in three weeks,” Meena said, her tone shifting back to brisk, corporate command.
“You’ll have a budget, you’ll have volunteers, and you’ll have my full support.
Make it magical. Report to me frequently.
” She gave them both a look that was equal parts encouragement and warning. “Don’t let me down.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and clicked away, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.
The silence was broken by Ida. “Well, this should be more entertaining than the town council meetings.”
Felicity slowly turned to face Grant. His jaw was clenched so tight she was surprised his teeth hadn’t powdered. He looked at her, then at the iridescent mess, then back at her. A war was being waged behind those stormy eyes.
Forced partnership. With him. Mr. Grumpystiltskin. On the single most important project of her career.
A tiny, hysterical bubble of laughter rose in her chest. She ruthlessly squashed it down, replacing it with a bright, determined, and utterly defiant smile.
He might be the beige, but she was the glitter. And the battle for the soul of the Frost Pine Ridge Bank had just begun.