Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
The ballroom tree arrived at two o’clock on a Monday afternoon that was already running behind schedule.
Felicity had been in the bank since seven that morning, working through her checklist with the grim determination of someone who could feel time slipping through her fingers like sand.
Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours until the gala, and her to-do list seemed to multiply every time she crossed something off.
She was adjusting the auction display signs for the third time—because the lighting had changed and the placement looked wrong and she was possibly losing her mind—when she heard the rumble of a truck engine outside.
Through the front windows, she saw Brice’s flatbed pulling up to the exterior entrance of the ballroom, a massive shape wrapped in netting strapped to its bed.
The ballroom tree had arrived.
“Finally,” she breathed, grabbing her coat and heading for the back corridor. Grant was already there, having emerged from his office the moment he’d heard the truck. He had his clipboard, naturally, and was pulling on his own coat with brisk efficiency.
“The delivery is early,” he said, checking his watch. “We scheduled for two-thirty.”
“It’s two o’clock. That’s practically on time by tree delivery standards.” Felicity pushed through the exterior door into the cold afternoon air. “Let’s just be grateful it’s here.”
Brice was already unloading, working with the same methodical competence he brought to everything. The tree was enormous—easily fourteen feet, maybe more. Even wrapped in netting, its presence was commanding.
“Afternoon,” Brice said, nodding to them. “Where do you want it?”
Grant pulled out his phone, consulted what appeared to be a diagram. “Center of the ballroom, approximately eight feet from the stage, accounting for visual sightlines and traffic flow patterns.”
Brice stared at him. “Center of the room. Got it.”
They maneuvered the tree through the exterior ballroom door—which, mercifully, was wide enough for the purpose—with significantly less drama than the lobby tree had generated.
Brice knew what he was doing, and the space was larger, giving them room to work.
Within twenty minutes, the tree was standing in its heavy iron stand, netting removed, branches spreading in all their magnificent, fragrant glory.
It was perfect.
“Good?” Brice asked, already gathering his equipment.
“It’s beautiful,” Felicity said, circling it slowly. “Absolutely perfect.”
Grant was taking photos with his phone, probably for documentation purposes, but she thought she saw something like satisfaction in his expression. “It’s acceptable.”
“High praise,” Brice said dryly. He nodded to Felicity. “Good luck with the rest of it.”
After he left, Felicity and Grant stood in the ballroom, taking in the tree.
The industrial heaters had done their job—the space was warm now, almost comfortable.
The sealed floor gleamed. The chandelier crystals caught the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows.
With the tree as a centerpiece, she could finally see it—really see it.
The vision she’d been carrying in her head for weeks, starting to take solid form.
“We still need to decorate it,” Grant said, practical as ever.
“I know.” Felicity pulled out her planner, flipping to her Monday checklist. “But that’s not even the half of it.
I need to hang the white silk drapes over the windows, finish the lighting on the north wall, set up the welcome table in the lobby, confirm the placement for the orchestra, coordinate with the caterer about the staging area—” She heard her voice climbing, that edge of panic she’d been fighting all week breaking through. “I’m behind. I’m so far behind.”
Grant was watching her with a careful, assessing look. “We can finish the tree tomorrow.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than she intended.
“No, we can’t. Tomorrow is Tuesday—the linens arrive, and I have to train volunteers on table setup.
On Wednesday I’m meeting with the florist, and the lighting crew arrives for the chandelier installation.
Thursday —,” She stopped, took a breath.
“I can’t push anything. The timeline is too tight.
If I don’t start decorating this tree tonight, it won’t be ready. ”
She looked at him, trying to project confidence she didn’t feel. “Just give me the key. I’ll lock up when I’m done. You don’t have to stay.”
“Felicity—”
“I’m not leaving until these items are done, Grant. I can’t.” She heard the desperation in her own voice and hated it, but there it was. “I need this to work. I need—” She stopped herself. She couldn’t finish that sentence. Not to him. Not yet.
He studied her for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a keyring, working one key free.
“Exterior door. Lock it when you leave. And...” He hesitated.
“The alarm code is 1847. The year the bank was founded. You’ll need to enter it on the panel by the main entrance before you leave. ”
She took the key, surprised. “You’re trusting me with alarm codes?”
“Apparently.” His expression was unreadable. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t.”
He nodded once, then turned to leave. At the doorway, he paused. “Don’t work too late.”
“I’ll try.”
After he left, Felicity stood alone in the ballroom with the tree and her impossible checklist and the weight of everything riding on the next seven days.
Then she rolled up her sleeves and got to work
By seven-thirty, Grant had reviewed the quarterly compliance reports, responded to Meena’s fourteen emails about media coordination, and updated the gala budget spreadsheet for the third time that day. His office was quiet, orderly, exactly as it should be.
He could not concentrate on a single thing.
His mind kept drifting to the ballroom, to Felicity surrounded by boxes of decorations, working alone in a space that had been locked and silent for twenty years.
He told himself it was professional concern—she was in his building, after hours, using equipment that posed potential safety risks. It was his responsibility to check in.
It had nothing to do with the look on her face when she’d said I need this to work.
He shut down his computer, gathered his coat, and made his way through the quiet bank.
The lobby was dim, lit only by the security lights and the soft glow of the Christmas decorations Felicity had installed.
The big tree in the corner looked almost ethereal in the low light, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking it in.
His father would have loved this. The thought came unbidden, but it was true. Thomas Whitaker would have been in the thick of it—helping string lights, laughing at the chaos, making everyone feel like they were part of something important.
Grant had spent sixteen years trying to honor his father by preserving order. Maybe he’d been honoring the wrong thing.
He headed toward the back corridor, intending to check on Felicity and then do his final lockup. But as he approached the ballroom, he stopped.
Light spilled from the open doorway—the warm, golden light of Christmas. And music. Something classical and instrumental, playing softly from her phone. He could hear her humming along, slightly off-key, the sound somehow both terrible and endearing.
He stepped through the doorway.
The ballroom had been transformed. The tree was half-decorated, with strands of white lights woven through its branches, catching on silver and crystal ornaments that reflected the glow.
Boxes of decorations sat in organized rows along one wall.
The ladder was positioned beside the tree, and Felicity stood on it, reaching up to hang another ornament, completely absorbed in her work.
She was wearing the same jeans and dark green sweater from earlier, but she’d kicked off her shoes at some point.
Her feet were in thick wool socks, and there was a smudge of something—glitter?
dust?—on her cheek. Her hair had escaped its bun and tumbled around her shoulders in waves that caught the light.
She looked exhausted.
She looked beautiful.
The thought landed in his mind with the force of a revelation, undeniable and terrifying. Not the distant aesthetic appreciation of an attractive colleague. Something deeper, more complicated. Something that made his chest ache with a feeling he absolutely could not afford to examine.
She reached for a higher branch, stretching on her toes, and the ladder wobbled slightly.
Grant was across the room in three strides. “Careful.”
She startled, nearly dropping the ornament. “Grant! I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Clearly.” He steadied the ladder with one hand. “You shouldn’t be on this alone. It’s not stable.”
“It’s fine. I’ve been up and down a dozen times.” But she climbed down anyway, ornament still in hand. “What are you still doing here? I thought you’d left.”
“I did. And then I realized I hadn’t locked the front entrance.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He had been planning to do the final lockup. Eventually. “I came to check on you.”
“I’m fine. Just...” She gestured at the half-finished tree. “It’s going slower than I hoped. I keep second-guessing the placement. Every ornament has to be perfect, and I’m starting to think I’m losing my mind.”
He looked at the tree. It was already stunning—elegant, cohesive, exactly the kind of sophisticated display the gala needed. “It looks perfect to me.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“I don’t ‘just say’ things.” He picked up one of the silver ornaments from the box and examined it. “Where does this go?”
“Grant, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. But you’ve been working for five hours, and that ladder isn’t safe to use alone, and—” He stopped, searching for the logical reason he was offering to help. “And it’s more efficient with two people.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Efficiency. Of course.”
“Always.”