Chapter 7 #3
The tree’s weight shifted. The base slipped on the marble floor. The whole thing began to topple, a slow-motion disaster of needles and branches and Grant’s carefully controlled banking environment being consumed by forestry.
“Catch it!” Meena shrieked.
Brice lunged, one hand shooting out to grab the trunk. With his feet planted, shoulders braced, he stopped the tree’s fall through sheer force and stubborn will. He held it there, one-handed, like some kind of lumberjack superhero.
Grant, however, was on the wrong side of the avalanche.
He’d tried to catch it too, his arms coming up to brace the weight. He succeeded—sort of. The tree stopped falling. But at a cost.
Grant Whitaker, pristine manager of the First Bank of Frost Pine Ridge, was now covered in pine needles, sticky sap, and a fine coating of ceiling plaster.
His usually immaculate hair stuck up at odd angles.
One of his perfectly polished shoes had come off in the struggle and lay forlornly three feet away.
He had a smear of sap across his cheek and a look of profound existential outrage on his face.
He looked like he’d been personally attacked by Christmas.
Felicity, who had been frozen in horror, felt a sound escape her throat. A small, strangled noise that was trying very hard not to be a laugh.
Grant’s eyes found hers. They were not amused.
The strangled noise became a giggle. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late.
The giggle became a laugh—helpless, full-throated, the kind of laugh that shook your whole body and made your eyes water. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, trying desperately to stop, but only laughing harder every time she looked at him.
He was just so... disheveled. So utterly, completely, beautifully human in his disaster. Mr. Perfect, Mr. Precise, Mr. Every-Hair-in-Place, standing there covered in forest debris and looking like he wanted to file a formal complaint with God.
From the bench, Ida’s voice rang out, delighted. “Well, he’s not beige anymore!”
That did it. Even Kevin started to laugh, then tried to hide it with a cough. Marcus was grinning. Meena had her hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing.
The only person not laughing was Brice, who was still holding the tree and looking at all of them like they were insane.
Grant carefully, deliberately, brushed a pine needle off his sleeve. Then another. Then he looked at Felicity, his expression flat.
“I’m glad you find this amusing, Ms. Adams.”
That only made her laugh harder.
He shook his head slowly, but—and Felicity would swear to this later—she saw it. Just for a second. The tiniest quirk at the corner of his mouth. The ghost of a smile before he locked it back down.
“Let’s get this tree in the stand,” he said wearily. “Before anything else goes wrong.”
It took another thirty minutes, but they did it. The tree stood—slightly crooked, definitely too tall, its top bending awkwardly where it pressed against the ceiling tiles—in the corner of the lobby. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what Grant had planned.
But it was glorious.
Meena was already taking photos from every angle. “This is gold. Authentic, community-driven, real. Corporate is going to love this.”
Brice was packing up his equipment, pointedly ignoring Meena’s enthusiasm. When she tried to direct him on where to put the tree stand, he just looked at her until she stopped talking.
Kevin had returned to his teller station, probably traumatized.
Grant had retreated to his office to clean up, leaving a trail of pine needles in his wake.
Felicity stood in front of the tree, still grinning. It was a disaster. It was chaos. It was absolutely, perfectly her.
When Grant emerged twenty minutes later—hair restored to order, sap removed, wearing a fresh shirt he must have kept in his office—he stopped beside her.
They looked at the tree together in silence.
“It’s...” he began.
“Chaotic?” she offered.
“I was going to say ‘memorable.’”
She glanced at him, surprised. He was still looking at the tree, his expression thoughtful.
“You know what the best part is?” she said.
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“People are going to talk about this. For years. ‘Remember when they brought in that tree that was too big and it attacked the bank manager?’ That’s a story. That’s a memory. That’s...” She gestured at the imperfect, beautiful, ridiculous tree. “That’s what Christmas is supposed to be.”
Grant was quiet for a long moment. Then, so quietly she almost missed it: “You might be right.”
Felicity felt something warm bloom in her chest. It wasn’t victory, exactly. It was something smaller and more fragile. It was the feeling of being heard.
The bell above the door chimed, and an elderly woman entered, stamping snow from her boots. Julia Patterson, who came in every month to deposit her social security check. She stopped just inside the door, her eyes widening as she took in the partially decorated lobby.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathed. “Is that a Christmas tree?”
She was looking at the magnificent, too-tall Douglas Fir still standing awkwardly in the corner, undecorated and slightly crooked but undeniably present.
“Yes, ma’am,” Felicity said, moving forward with a warm smile. “We’re getting the bank ready for the holidays.”
“Well, it’s about time!” Mrs. Patterson beamed. “This place has been gloomier than a funeral parlor for years. No offense, Mr. Whitaker.”
Grant cleared his throat. “None taken.”
“It’s so wonderful to see the bank getting into the Christmas spirit,” Mrs. Patterson continued, making her way to the teller window but still craning her neck to look at the decorations. “The whole town’s been buzzing about the gala. My bridge club is already planning our outfits.”
Felicity felt a warm flush of pride. “Wait until you see it all decorated,” she said. “This is just the beginning.”
Felicity hadn't realized how long a twelve-foot tree would take to transform from a bare, slightly crooked giant into something magical. Every strand of lights had to be perfectly spaced, every ornament strategically placed to balance the tree's lopsided top.
Grant retreated to his office.
The afternoon brought a steady stream of customers, and each one stopped to admire the tree.
Their awed reactions—the whispered "oh my goodness" from Beatrice Palmer, the way old Mr. Kennedy pulled out his phone for a photo—filled Felicity with a quiet, glowing pride. This was why she did what she did.
Finally, she placed the final ornament and stepped back to admire her work, then checked her phone. Four-thirty.
She’d been so focused on the tree that she’d completely lost track of time. The ballroom was still an untouched disaster, and Leo had been clear, the industrial heaters needed to run for at least a week before the event to properly dry out the space and get the temperature stable.
They needed to start placing the equipment and cleaning tonight.
She pulled out her phone and texted Jade:
Are you free tonight? Emergency ballroom cleaning. Pizza provided. Please say yes.
The response came almost immediately:
I’ll bring the good scrub brushes. What time?
6pm
Grant had emerged from his office and was watching her with that expression that meant he was already calculating the logistical nightmare she was about to propose.
“We need to start cleaning the ballroom tonight,” she said.
His eyebrows rose. “Tonight? Your schedule says this week.”
“Leo said the heaters need a week to run, and I don’t want to risk leaving things to the last minute.”
She texted Leo:
Can you bring the heaters and equipment tonight? Need them running by tomorrow morning. Will have space cleaned and ready.
His reply came a moment later:
Can do. See you at 6:30
She looked back at Grant, who was still processing. “You don’t have to be there, you know. Just give me the key to the exterior ballroom door. We’ll lock up when we’re done.”
He considered this for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then something shifted—that calculating look she was learning to recognize.
“People messing around in the bank ballroom without my supervision?” He shook his head slowly. “No. I think I’ll be there.”
“You don’t have other plans?”
“On a Friday night?” His tone was dry. “Ms. Adams, I’m a bank manager in a town of three thousand people. My evening plans typically involve reviewing the week’s transaction reports and perhaps a glass of scotch if it’s been particularly eventful.”
“Well,” Felicity said, tucking her phone away, “tonight you get to trade scotch for industrial cleaning solution. Much more exciting.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“I’ll order pizza.”
He looked at the half-decorated lobby, then at her determined face, then sighed—a long, slow exhale that seemed to carry the weight of sixteen years of careful control slowly slipping through his fingers.
“Fine. But I’m documenting the entire process. For insurance purposes.”
“Of course you are,” Felicity said, trying not to smile.