Chapter 13
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?”
“Lilies are possible, but they’re significantly more expensive. About forty percent more than the roses.”
Forty percent. Felicity felt her stomach clench. That would blow the floral budget completely. But red roses would ruin the aesthetic she’d spent two weeks planning.
“What about white hydrangeas?” Grant’s voice came from behind her. She turned to find him standing in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. “My mother used to grow them. They’re hardy and elegant.”
The florist brightened. “Hydrangeas! Yes, I have those. They’d actually be slightly less expensive than the roses, and with the right arrangement—”
“Show me pictures,” Felicity said.
Ten minutes later, the crisis was resolved. The florist left with an updated order, and Felicity was left alone with Grant in the ballroom.
“Thank you,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “That was helpful.”
“Felicity, please. Can we talk about—”
“The linens are being delivered in twenty minutes. I need to be there to sign for them.” She gathered her things. “Excuse me.”
She left him standing in the empty ballroom, and she hated how much it hurt to walk away.
Wednesday afternoon brought the volunteer coordination meeting, which was less a meeting and more a controlled chaos event.
Twelve people had shown up to help with table setup, each with their own opinions about optimal table placement, traffic flow, and whether the stage should be centered or offset. Felicity had created detailed diagrams, assigned specific tasks, and prepared a timeline.
Within fifteen minutes, everything had devolved into a debate about whether round tables or rectangular tables created better “feng shui.”
“The chi needs to flow,” insisted Martha Henderson, gesturing expansively. “Round tables allow for energy circulation.”
“We’re not setting up a meditation center, Martha,” countered Tom Davidson. “We’re setting up for a formal dinner. Rectangular tables maximize seating.”
“The order specifically states round tables,” Felicity said, pulling out her diagram. “Ten-tops, arranged in a pattern that allows for optimal sight lines to the stage and efficient server access—”
“But have you considered the symbolic significance?” Martha interrupted. “Circles represent unity and—”
“The tables are round,” Grant’s voice cut through the chatter. He stood in the ballroom doorway, his presence immediately commanding attention. “Ms. Adams has created a comprehensive plan that accounts for capacity, safety regulations, and aesthetic cohesion. I suggest we follow it.”
The volunteers quieted, looking between Grant and Felicity.
“Of course,” Martha said, somewhat deflated. “Round tables are fine.”
After they dispersed to their assigned tasks, Felicity found Grant still standing by the door.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Again.”
“I know you didn’t need me to intervene. You had it under control.” His voice was careful. “But I wanted to help.”
“I appreciate it.” She turned back to her clipboard. “The linens need to be pressed, and the chargers need to be polished. If you’ll excuse me—”
“Felicity, please. I need to explain about Victoria. About what I said—”
“There’s nothing to explain. You were honest. I appreciate honesty.” Her smile was bright and brittle. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
She walked past him, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne, but far enough to avoid any accidental touch.
Behind her, she heard him sigh—a sound of frustration and something that might have been pain.
Good, she thought, and immediately felt terrible for thinking it.
Thursday morning, the cocoa fountain started making alarming noises.
Felicity stood in the lobby, staring at the massive silver monstrosity while it emitted a grinding sound that suggested imminent mechanical death.
“That’s not good,” Meena said, appearing at her elbow with coffee. She’d been stopping by daily to check progress, her corporate efficiency a strange comfort. “Do we have a backup?”
“The backup is not having a cocoa fountain.” Felicity crouched down to examine the motor. “But this was supposed to be a signature element. The ‘Chocolate Vesuvius Experience’. Lots of people are talking about it.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I’m a decorator, not a mechanical engineer.”
“I can give it a try. I minored in mechanical engineering.”
Both women looked up. Grant stood a few feet away, holding what appeared to be a small toolkit.
“You’re a mechanical engineer?” Felicity couldn’t hide her surprise.
“Not really, but I know enough to be dangerous.” He knelt beside the fountain, opening his toolkit with practiced ease. “May I?”
Felicity stepped back, watching as he removed a panel and peered inside. His movements were confident, methodical. This was a side of him she’d never seen—not the careful bank manager, but someone who understood how things worked, how to fix them.
“The main gear is stripped,” he said after a moment. “The motor’s running but not engaging the pump. It’s fixable, but I’ll need a replacement part.”
“How long?”
“If I can find the part locally, a few hours. If I have to order it, maybe two days.”
“We don’t have two days.”
“I know.” He looked up at her, and for the first time since Tuesday, they held eye contact for more than a second. “Let me make some calls. I’ll fix this.”
“Why?” The question came out before she could stop it. “Why do you care?”
Something shifted in his expression. “Because this matters to you. And because...” He stopped, seemed to reconsider. “Because I want this gala to succeed. For both of us.”
He stood, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call the restaurant supply company in Burlington. They might have the part.”
He walked away, already dialing, leaving Felicity staring after him with a confusing tangle of gratitude and frustration and something she absolutely could not afford to feel.
“He’s trying,” Meena said quietly beside her.
“I know.”
“Are you going to let him?”
“I don’t know.” Felicity turned away from where Grant was pacing near his office, phone pressed to his ear. “I can’t think about that right now. I have a gala to save.”
By Thursday evening, Felicity was running on coffee and sheer stubborn will.
The chandelier installation had taken twice as long as expected.
One of the rental company’s trucks had gotten stuck in early snow, delaying the chair delivery by four hours.
The caterer had called with seventeen questions that somehow all required immediate answers.
And the Methodist choir director had sent a tersely worded email threatening to pull out entirely if they were expected to “share the stage with amateurs.”
Felicity had handled all of it with grim efficiency, moving from crisis to crisis with her bright, professional smile firmly in place. She’d soothed the choir director, coordinated the chair delivery, and made fourteen decisions about appetizer presentations without breaking stride.
She was exhausted. She was stressed. But she was proving—to herself, to everyone—that she could do this.
“You need to eat something.” Jade appeared in the ballroom doorway with a paper bag. “And before you say you don’t have time, I’m not leaving until you consume actual food.”
Felicity wanted to protest, but the smell of fresh bread was overwhelming. She sat on the edge of the stage and accepted the sandwich Jade handed her.
“How are you holding up?” Jade asked, sitting beside her.
“I’m fine. Everything’s under control.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Felicity took a bite of the sandwich to avoid answering. Turkey and Swiss on Jade’s sourdough. It was perfect, and she realized she hadn’t eaten since a granola bar at six a.m.
“He keeps trying to talk to me,” she said finally. “Grant. He keeps trying to apologize or explain or something, and I keep shutting him down because if I let him talk, if I let myself listen...” She trailed off.
“You might forgive him?”
“I might fall apart.” Felicity set down the sandwich. “I can’t fall apart, Jade. Not until this is over. I have to stay focused. I have to be professional.”
“You’re allowed to have feelings.”
“Not right now, I’m not.” She stood, brushing crumbs from her jeans. “Right now, I have to be the person who can pull off a miracle in forty-eight hours.”
Jade looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay. But after? After this is over, you let yourself feel everything. Deal?”
“Deal.”
After Jade left, Felicity stood alone in the ballroom, looking at the space they’d transformed together. The tree glowed softly in the dimming light. The sealed floor gleamed. The chandeliers sparkled overhead. It was almost perfect.
Just like her plan to prove everyone wrong was almost working.
She just had to hold it together for two more days.
Friday morning brought the final pre-gala walkthrough, and with it, a new level of barely concealed tension.
Meena had insisted on a complete run-through—every element, every transition, every potential problem identified and solved. She’d gathered the key players: Felicity, Grant, Leo (who’d returned from his trip), the caterer, and the event coordinator from the rental company.
They moved through the bank like a small army, Meena taking notes while Felicity explained each element.
“Guest entry through the main doors,” Felicity said, leading them through the lobby. “Welcome table here, with programs and table assignments. Coat check stationed near the vault hallway—”
“The vault hallway?” The rental coordinator looked alarmed. “We’re using bank spaces for coat storage?”
“It’s secure, climate-controlled, and has excellent capacity,” Grant said. “I’ve cleared it with corporate.”
They moved through the space, Felicity pointing out details, Grant adding logistical notes.
To an outside observer, they probably looked like a well-coordinated team.
Only Felicity could feel the careful distance they maintained, the way they never quite looked at each other, the tension humming in the air between them.
In the ballroom, Meena stopped in the center of the space, turning slowly. “This is stunning. Really, truly stunning. Corporate is going to be thrilled.”
“As long as nothing goes catastrophically wrong,” Felicity said.
“Nothing will go wrong,” Meena said confidently. “You’ve accounted for everything. You’ve built-in redundancies. You’ve planned for chaos.” She grinned. “Which is good, because with this town, chaos is guaranteed.”
After the walkthrough, after everyone else had left, Felicity found herself alone in the ballroom one more time. Tomorrow was the gala. Tomorrow, everything she’d worked for would either succeed spectacularly or fail publicly.
She pulled out her phone and took a photo of the space—the tree, the chandeliers, the elegant emptiness waiting to be filled with people and celebration. Proof that she’d made it this far.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Jade: Remember to breathe. You’ve got this.
Another from Meena: Get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow is your victory lap.
And then, after a pause, one from a number that made her heart stutter: The cocoa fountain is fixed. I’ll be here early tomorrow if you need anything. -Grant
Felicity stared at the message for a long moment. Then she typed back: Thank you.
She didn’t add anything else. Didn’t ask about his day or make small talk or acknowledge the careful olive branch he’d extended.
She just sent the two words and put her phone away.
Tomorrow was the gala.
Tomorrow, she would prove herself.
And maybe—maybe—she could figure out what to do about the man who’d broken her heart and then spent a week quietly trying to fix it.
But that was a problem for later.
Right now, she had a miracle to prepare.