Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Felicity’s hand found Grant’s, and the moment their fingers touched, something inside her chest that had been locked tight finally, blessedly opened.
She stepped closer, close enough to see the hope and fear warring in his storm-cloud eyes, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to make a choice.
“You’re an idiot,” she whispered.
His face fell. “I know. I’m so—“
“A beautiful, eloquent, ridiculously romantic idiot.” She was crying and laughing at the same time, her voice breaking. “And I love you too.”
The hope in his eyes blazed into something incandescent. “Felicity—“
She didn’t let him finish. She rose on her toes, her free hand sliding up to cup his jaw, and kissed him.
The room exploded.
Applause, cheers, whistles—the entire town erupting in a cacophony of joy that would probably be heard all the way to Burlington. Someone—definitely Ida—let out a whoop that could have shattered glass.
But Felicity heard none of it. There was only Grant, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer.
His lips were warm and sure against hers, and he tasted like champagne and promises.
The kiss was everything the almost-kiss had promised and more—sweet and deep and tinged with salt from both their tears.
They broke apart to see the entire gala watching them with unabashed delight.
Ida was openly weeping into Ruth’s shoulder.
Ruth was dabbing at her own eyes. Jade was beaming so hard Felicity thought her face might split.
Even Brice looked vaguely pleased, which for Brice was the emotional equivalent of a standing ovation.
Meena appeared beside them, her clipboard materialized from wherever she’d been hiding it, a knowing smile on her face. “That was beautiful, truly. But we do have a gala to finish. The auction awaits.”
Grant and Felicity exchanged a look—his sheepish, hers still dazed and glowing.
“Right,” Felicity said. “The auction. We have an auction.”
“We have an auction,” Grant confirmed, but he didn’t let go of her hand.
The high-ticket items went smoothly and lucratively.
The ski resort weekend sparked a bidding war between two families that drove the price to nearly double its value.
The handmade quilt went to a tearful woman who declared it would be a family heirloom.
The wine tasting sold for a respectable sum to the owner of the local bookstore.
But then came the special items.
Meena took the microphone, her professional smile firmly in place. “And now, for something a bit different. Lot number seven: a unique, one-of-a-kind decorative piece that really captures the spirit of rustic Vermont living.”
She unveiled the taxidermy squirrel in its Santa hat with a flourish.
A beat of stunned silence.
Then Ida’s voice rang out: “Fifty dollars!”
The room erupted in laughter.
“Ida, no,” Ruth hissed.
“That squirrel has character! Harold would have appreciated that squirrel!” Ida declared.
“Harold was allergic to squirrels!”
“Well he’s not anymore, is he?”
“Sixty dollars!” someone shouted from the back—it was Ben Carter, Leo’s younger brother, clearly unable to resist the chaos.
“Seventy-five!” Ida shot back immediately.
“One hundred!” Ben countered, grinning.
The bidding escalated, the crowd getting more and more into it, people bidding just to be part of the absurdity.
Felicity watched in delighted disbelief as the squirrel—the tragic, slightly moth-eaten squirrel that she’d been certain would be the embarrassment of the evening—became the star of the show.
It finally sold for three hundred and fifty dollars to Ida, who accepted it with the triumph of someone who’d just won an Olympic medal.
Grant stood beside Felicity, his arm around her waist, watching the chaos unfold with something he never thought he’d feel at a bank-sponsored event: pure, uncomplicated joy.
“Next up,” Meena announced, barely concealing her own amusement, “Lot number twelve: an authentic Vermont dining experience. A family meal deal from the Route 7 Gas & Go Deli, generously donated by—“ she checked her notes, “—Ida Murray’s grandson, Tommy.”
She held up the elaborately framed coupon.
The room dissolved into laughter again. Grant felt it building—the same ridiculous, wonderful energy that had animated the squirrel auction.
“Do I hear twenty dollars?” Meena asked, trying to keep a straight face.
“Fifty!” Ida shouted immediately. “I’m supporting my grandson’s entrepreneurial spirit!”
“Sixty!” Ruth countered, apparently having abandoned all loyalty.
The bidding spiraled upward, people joining in for the sheer fun of it, for the story they’d tell later. Grant watched his neighbors and customers—people he’d kept at professional distance for years—laugh and shout and compete over a twenty-dollar gas station coupon like it was treasure.
This. This was what his father had built. Not the quiet, orderly transactions. This connection. This community. This joy.
He looked down at Felicity, who was laughing so hard she had tears streaming down her face again. She caught his gaze and grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling.
“Still think my approach is unprofessional?” she teased.
“I think your approach is perfect,” he said, and kissed her temple.
The gas station coupon sold for five hundred and twenty-five dollars—to Brice Matthews, of all people, who claimed he was hungry and wanted to support local business. The look on his face suggested he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done.
Meena looked slightly dazed as she announced the total. “That’s... That’s eight hundred and seventy-five dollars for two items valued at forty dollars combined. This is...”
“Magic,” Felicity supplied softly.
“Yeah,” Meena agreed, her professional veneer cracking into genuine emotion. “Yeah, it really is.”
The mystery box came next, and the speculation in the room was palpable. What could possibly be in Mrs. Henderson’s sealed, duct-taped box from her attic?
The bidding was enthusiastic and reached two hundred dollars before Mayor Whitcomb won it with a booming declaration that he loved surprises.
When he opened it on stage, the contents proved to be: a collection of vintage Christmas ornaments (actually quite valuable), a fondue set from the 1970s (questionable), a taxidermy owl (of course), and what appeared to be a complete set of encyclopedias from 1987.
The regular items continued to sell well, the energy in the room buoyant and generous. By the time Meena announced the final tally, the crowd had raised over fifteen thousand dollars.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
The room burst into applause.
“This is a remarkable achievement,” Meena continued. “And it’s all going to an incredible cause. I’d like to invite the chairperson of the Frost Pine Ridge Food Bank to come up and accept this donation.”
She produced an oversized ceremonial check—the kind that looked absurd but photographed well—and held it ready.
“Please welcome Cecily Glick!”
Grant felt Felicity stiffen beside him in surprise.
A woman emerged from the crowd. She was probably in her early sixties, with silver hair pulled back in a practical bun and warm, intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
She wore a simple navy dress, no jewelry.
There was something quietly powerful, and maybe a bit sad, about her presence, a strength that didn’t need to announce itself.
She climbed the stage steps with steady grace and accepted the check from Meena, her smile genuine and deeply grateful.
“Thank you,” Cecily said, her voice clear and carrying. “The Frost Pine Ridge Food Bank has been serving this community for twenty-three years. Every dollar raised tonight will go directly to families who need it. Especially during the holidays, when the need is greatest.”
She paused, her eyes sweeping the room, and Grant had the distinct impression she was seeing each person individually, acknowledging them.
“What you’ve done tonight—the generosity, the joy, the community you’ve built in this room—this is what Frost Pine Ridge is all about.
This is what makes our town special.” Her gaze landed on Felicity and Grant, still standing hand-in-hand near the auction tables.
“Ms. Adams, Mr. Whitaker—thank you for creating a space where this kind of magic can happen. Where a taxidermy squirrel can raise three hundred and fifty dollars for people who are hungry.”
The room laughed, but it was a warm, appreciative sound.
“I’m proud to serve this community,” Cecily concluded. “And I’m grateful to every single person here tonight. Thank you.”
The applause was thunderous. Grant found himself clapping as hard as anyone, moved by the simple dignity of her words.
With the auction over, the band started playing again.
Grant took Felicity’s hand. “Dance with me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He led her onto the floor, one hand at her waist, the other holding hers. They moved together easily, naturally, as if they’d been dancing together for years instead of minutes.
“I can’t believe this is real,” Felicity murmured, her head resting against his shoulder. “A few hours ago, I thought you were about to tell me you were leaving for Boston.”
Grant pulled back to look at her. “Victoria’s offer was never a real option.
I think I knew that the moment she made it.
But I was afraid to close the door completely.
Afraid of what it meant to choose this town, this bank, this life.
” He cupped her face gently. “Then I realized the only thing I was really afraid of was losing you.”
“You’re not going to lose me,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m annoyingly persistent. Ask anyone.”
“I’m counting on it.”
They danced through two more songs, content just to hold each other, to exist in this perfect bubble of happiness.
Around them, the gala continued. Ida and Ruth were dancing together, Ida still wearing her holly-sprig hair, both of them laughing. Leo and Jade swayed nearby, Jade’s head on Leo’s massive shoulder, both looking blissfully happy.
And across the room, near the bar, Brice and Meena were locked in what appeared to be another argument, but they were standing much closer than the conversation required.
As Felicity watched, Meena poked Brice’s chest to emphasize a point, and his hand came up to catch hers, holding it there. They froze, staring at each other.
“Those two are doomed,” Grant observed.
“Those two are perfect,” Felicity corrected. “They just don’t know it yet.”
“Should we interfere?”
“Absolutely not. Let them figure it out the hard way, like we did.”
Grant laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest where her head rested. “You’re devious.”
As the evening wound down, as guests began to collect coats and say their goodbyes, Felicity found herself standing in the middle of the ballroom she’d transformed. The lights glowed softly. The decorations sparkled. The room smelled of pine and success and possibility.
Grant stood beside her, their fingers intertwined, and together they watched their community drift into the snowy night, happy and fed and full of the kind of joy that would carry them through the winter.
“Thank you,” Grant said quietly.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me. On this. On us.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thank you for finally seeing what was right in front of you.”
“A walking glitter bomb who turned my orderly life upside down?”
“Exactly,” she said, and kissed him again, there in the glow of the ballroom she’d brought back to life.
Outside, snow began to fall, soft and silent, covering Frost Pine Ridge in a fresh blanket of white.
The gala was a success. The bank was saved.
And Felicity Adams—professional decorator, purveyor of strategic joy, and the woman who’d taught a banker how to shine—was finally, completely, impossibly happy.