Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Felicity stood in the ladies’ room of the First Bank of Frost Pine Ridge, staring at her reflection and trying to remember how to breathe.
The dress had been an impulsive purchase from a boutique in Burlington three weeks ago, back when she’d still believed this gala would be her triumph.
Now it felt like armor. The deep cranberry velvet hugged her curves before flaring into a full skirt that swished when she moved.
The neckline was modest but elegant, and she’d paired it with her grandmother’s vintage silver earrings—the ones that caught the light and threw tiny rainbows.
Her hair was swept up in an intricate twist that had taken Jade forty minutes and approximately seven hundred bobby pins to achieve, with a few strategic curls left loose to frame her face.
She looked professional. Elegant. Put-together.
She did not look like someone who had spent the last two hours oscillating between heartbreak and fury.
“You can do this,” she whispered to her reflection. “Four hours. You can survive anything for four hours.”
The door burst open and Jade rushed in, a vision in forest green silk that made her dark hair and eyes luminous. The dress had a delicate beaded overlay that sparkled with every movement—Felicity’s work, a thank-you gift from months ago that Jade had insisted on saving for a special occasion.
“Oh my God, Fee, you look stunning,” Jade said, then immediately grabbed her hands. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” Felicity lied.
“You’re a terrible liar.” Jade squeezed her fingers. “But you’re a beautiful terrible liar, so at least you have that going for you.”
Despite everything, Felicity smiled. “You look amazing. Leo’s going to swallow his tongue when he sees you.”
A pretty blush colored Jade’s cheeks. “He already saw me. He actually stuttered. Leo Carter, the human sequoia, stuttered. I’m counting it as a personal victory.
” Her expression turned serious. “Are you sure you’re okay?
Because if Grant Whitaker so much as looks at you wrong tonight, I will personally—“
“I’m fine,” Felicity said more firmly. “Tonight isn’t about him. It’s about proving I can do this job. That’s it.”
Jade looked skeptical but didn’t push. “Well, for what it’s worth, the ballroom looks like a fairy tale. You’re a genius.”
“We should get out there,” Felicity said, smoothing her skirt. “The guests are probably arriving.”
They walked back to the ballroom together, Jade’s hand finding hers and squeezing once before they separated. The moment Felicity stepped through the doors, her breath caught.
It was perfect.
The ballroom glowed with warm golden light from hundreds of carefully placed candles and string lights.
The chandeliers, wrapped in fairy lights, sparkled overhead.
White silk drapes softened the tall windows, and the tables were dressed in crisp linens with silver and evergreen centerpieces that made the whole room smell like a winter forest. The stage was framed with pine boughs and white hydrangeas, and in the corner, the auction tables displayed their wares under elegant spotlights.
I did this, she thought. Whatever happens tonight, I did this.
“Felicity!” Meena materialized at her elbow, and Felicity actually gasped.
Meena Patel had transformed. Gone was the corporate warrior in her suits and clipboard armor.
Tonight she wore a stunning midnight blue gown with a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt that moved like water.
Her dark hair was down in glossy waves, and her makeup was dramatic—smoky eyes and deep red lips.
She looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine.
And she was still carrying her clipboard, because of course she was.
“You look incredible,” Felicity said, momentarily forgetting her own heartache.
“Thank you! I decided if I’m going to orchestrate a small-town gala, I might as well look like I’m enjoying it.” Meena did a little spin, her skirt flaring. “Your ballroom is perfection, by the way. Corporate is going to lose their minds when they see the photos.”
“Speaking of photos,” Felicity said, “where’s our photographer?”
“Already here, already shooting. I’ve got him documenting everything.” Meena checked something off on her clipboard. “Caterers are set, bar is stocked, and the choirs have been separated into different warm-up rooms so they can’t start a turf war before the actual performance.”
“You’re terrifyingly efficient.”
“I know.” Meena beamed. “Oh! The mayor just arrived, and he brought his wife, who is apparently wearing a gown made entirely of—I’m not kidding—jingle bells. You can hear her on the other side of town.”
As if on cue, a distant tinkling sound echoed from the lobby, followed by Mayor Whitcomb’s booming laugh.
Felicity felt a hysterical giggle building in her chest. This was going to be a night to remember, for better or worse.
The guests began to arrive in earnest, and Felicity slipped into her role as gracious host, greeting people at the entrance, directing them to the coat check (a makeshift station they’d set up in a side office), and accepting compliments with a smile that she hoped looked genuine.
Ida Murray and Ruth Dyer arrived together, and Felicity’s jaw dropped.
Ida wore a floor-length burgundy gown with a fur stole that looked like it had survived several decades and possibly a small war. Her white hair was styled in an elaborate updo decorated with what appeared to be actual holly sprigs. She looked like a Christmas tree topper come to life.
Ruth, by contrast, was demure in pale blue lace with her signature pearls. But she’d clearly let Ida influence her accessories—her clutch purse had tiny silver bells attached that jingled softly when she moved.
“Felicity, dear!” Ida announced, her voice carrying across the lobby. “You’ve outdone yourself. This place looks like something out of a movie. A classy movie, not one of those trashy holiday romances where everyone falls in love in a week.”
“Thank you, Ida,” Felicity said, trying not to laugh.
“Although,” Ida continued, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “I wouldn’t be opposed to some falling in love tonight. Romance is good for the digestion. Ruth, back me up here.”
“Oh, Ida, leave the girl alone,” Ruth said, but she was smiling. She leaned in conspiratorially to Felicity. “You do look lovely, though. That dress is a stunner.”
“Thank you,” Felicity said, genuinely touched.
“That handsome bank manager better have his head examined if he doesn’t tell you so,” Ida declared loudly. Several nearby guests turned to look. “A woman in a dress like that deserves to be admired, I always say.”
Felicity felt her cheeks heat. “I should go check on the caterers—“
“Oh no you don’t,” Ida said, catching her arm. “You’re going to stand right here and greet your guests like the professional event coordinator you are. And if Mr. Whitaker has half a brain, he’ll—oh, speak of the devil.”
Felicity’s heart stopped.
Grant had emerged from the hallway, and the air left her lungs in a rush.
He wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that made his broad shoulders look even broader.
His white dress shirt was crisp, his bow tie was straight, and his dark hair was swept back in a way that highlighted his sharp cheekbones and that ridiculous jawline.
He looked like he belonged in a cologne ad. He looked devastating.
And he was looking directly at her.
Their eyes met across the lobby, and for a moment, the noise of the arriving guests faded to a dull hum. She saw him take a half-step toward her, his expression intense and unreadable.
Then someone called his name—a board member wanting to discuss something—and the spell broke. He nodded at the man but kept his eyes on Felicity for one more heartbeat before turning away.
Felicity let out her breath.
“Well,” Ida said with obvious satisfaction, “that was a look if I ever saw one.”
“Ida,” Ruth hissed.
“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. That man is—“
“Would you like to go find your seats?” Felicity interrupted desperately. “The appetizers are being passed, and I believe there’s champagne.”
“Champagne!” Ida perked up immediately. “Come on, Ruthie. If we’re lucky, we can get a spot with a good view of the drama.”
They swept into the ballroom, Ida’s holly-sprig hair leading the way.
Felicity was still trying to recover when she heard a familiar, warm laugh. She turned to see Leo and Jade entering together, and her heart did a complicated squeeze.
Leo Carter had cleaned up remarkably well. The plaid flannel had been replaced by a dark charcoal suit that actually fit his large frame properly. His sandy hair was neatly combed, his beard was trimmed, and he looked...
“You look so handsome!” Felicity blurted out.
Leo’s ears turned red. “Jade made me,” he muttered, tugging at his collar uncomfortably.
“I suggested,” Jade corrected, beaming up at him. “He chose.”
They were standing close together, and Jade’s hand was resting lightly on Leo’s arm. Not quite holding hands, but intimate in a way that made Felicity’s chest ache with a confusing mix of happiness for her friend and grief for herself.
“You two look perfect together,” she said, and meant it.
Jade’s smile softened. “You okay?”
“I’m great,” Felicity lied brightly. “You should go in, enjoy yourselves. The beef tenderloin bites are apparently incredible.”
Leo nodded and gently steered Jade toward the ballroom, but not before Jade shot Felicity one more concerned look over her shoulder.
Felicity was greeting another cluster of guests when a commotion near the entrance caught her attention. Several people had stopped mid-conversation, staring.
Brice Matthews had arrived.
And he was wearing a suit.
The sheer improbability of it created a momentary hush.
Brice—the human mountain, the man who communicated primarily in grunts, the walking advertisement for flannel and work boots—was wearing an actual, proper, navy blue suit.
It was clearly new, clearly expensive, and it fit his massive frame surprisingly well.
His beard was neatly trimmed, and someone had convinced him to trade his usual scuffed boots for actual dress shoes.
He looked deeply, profoundly uncomfortable, like a bear that had been stuffed into people clothes.
“Is that Brice Matthews?” someone whispered.
“I didn’t know he owned anything that wasn’t plaid,” someone else murmured.
Brice heard them—he had to have heard them—but he just shoved his hands in his pockets and walked further into the lobby with the resigned air of a man facing execution.
He spotted Felicity and headed toward her, his expression equal parts stoic and pleading.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever you were about to say. Just don’t.”
“I was going to say you look very handsome,” Felicity said innocently.
“Jade made me buy it,” he grumbled. “Said I couldn’t show up to your fancy gala looking like I just came from the tree farm.”
“Well, she was right. You look great, Brice.”
“I look like I’m about to go to prom,” he muttered. “With a bear. As the bear.”
Before Felicity could respond, Meena appeared, her midnight blue gown swishing as she approached with her clipboard. She opened her mouth to say something to Felicity, then caught sight of Brice.
She stopped. Stared.
Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. A faint flush colored her cheeks.
“You’re...” she started, then seemed to lose her train of thought. “You’re... different.”
Brice’s jaw tightened. “Got a problem with it?”
“No,” Meena said, recovering her composure with visible effort. “No problem. It’s just... unexpected. You actually own a suit.”
“I didn’t realize you used a clipboard as part of your party outfit,” Brice shot back.
Meena looked down at the clipboard in her hands as if seeing it for the first time. “This is... this is my backup clipboard. My evening clipboard. For events.”
“You have multiple clipboards?”
“Organization is key to success.”
“You’re clinically insane,” Brice said, but there was less heat in it than usual.
They stood there, glaring at each other, but something was different. The air between them wasn’t just antagonistic anymore. It was charged with something else, something neither of them seemed to know what to do with.
“Well,” Meena said finally, her voice a touch breathless, “I should... check on the caterers.”
“Thought that was handled,” Felicity said.
“It is. I mean, I should double-check. Triple-check. Quality assurance is crucial.”
“Meena.”
She looked up at him, and Felicity saw it—the moment of naked vulnerability before Meena’s professional mask slammed back into place.
“You look good,” Brice said gruffly. “The dress. It’s... good.”
“Thank you,” Meena said quietly.
They stared at each other for another moment, the tension so thick Felicity felt like she should excuse herself.
Then Meena cleared her throat. “I should—“
“Yeah.”
She hurried off toward the ballroom, and Brice stood there looking like he’d just survived a natural disaster.
“You okay?” Felicity asked gently.
“No,” Brice said. “Can I leave now?”
“Absolutely not. You’re staying for the whole thing. Consider it penance for every time you’ve made fun of my decorating choices.”
“That’s cruel and unusual punishment,” Brice muttered, but he headed into the ballroom with the resignation of a man accepting his fate.
Felicity took a moment to breathe, smoothing her dress and checking her reflection in one of the decorative mirrors. She could do this. She could get through this night. She could—
“Felicity.”
Grant’s voice, low and close, made her jump. She turned to find him standing just behind her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean that made her want to lean in and breathe deeply.
“You look...” He seemed to struggle for words, his storm-cloud eyes traveling over her dress, her hair, her face, with an intensity that made her skin heat. “You look absolutely stunning.”
Her traitorous heart did a somersault. She forced steel into her spine. “Thank you. You clean up well yourself.” Her voice was cool, professional. A shield.
“Felicity, about earlier. About the text you saw—“
“We should check on the auction tables,” she interrupted, already moving past him. “Make sure everything’s displayed properly.”
“Felicity, please. Let me explain—“
“Later,” she said, not looking at him. “After the gala. We can talk after. Right now, we have guests to attend to.”
She walked into the ballroom, her head high, her smile bright, her heart cracking with every step.
Behind her, she felt Grant’s eyes on her back, burning with everything unsaid.