Chapter 11 Sunny
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sunny
So, I guess Ryder was a Christmas movie star.
The guy I’ve been dealing with, acting like he’s all spreadsheets and business meetings, was once the Christmas Prince from Snowed in With Santa.
As in, the guy who wore a crown and flirted with snowflakes on the TV every December.
This is happening, right?
I spent the whole morning trying to wrap my head around it. Ryder, the grumpy CFO with abs of doom, was some Christmas Prince?
How does that even happen? Was he born with a golden retriever smile, or did the studio slap him into a red velvet suit and call it a day?
I’m still mad about it. Not just at him, but at myself. At how I’ve let him under my skin.
He’s been an enigma wrapped in a suit, and now I know he’s also wrapped in some seriously weird nostalgia that everyone knows about except me.
Does he get fan mail? Is there a Christmas ornament of him somewhere?
But no, I’m not going to waste time getting stuck in his weird Christmas Prince world. This hotel needs saving. I’ve got way too many things on my plate to fall down that rabbit hole.
Which brings me to the lockbox from Aunt Evie’s attic. It’s been sitting on my desk all morning, just staring at me. It knows I’m getting nowhere.
Inside are receipts, ledgers, and a mysterious letter to someone named Vincent. All of it makes me want to scream, but I force myself to stay calm.
I flip through the pages again, squinting at the numbers that seem to play hide and seek with me. There’s a pattern to this mess, but I might as well be trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded.
Some things are missing—mostly money, or at least the explanation of where it went.
I grab the letter to Vincent, the one that seems to be a confession, and reread it. It’s odd. A little rambling. Why did Aunt Evie keep this letter? Why didn’t she send it?
I can’t stop thinking about her warning to someone she apparently no longer trusted. I feel a cold knot twist in my stomach when I read the line: Ryder… he’s the only one I trust to keep this place safe.
What did she mean by that?
I slam the letter down and lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. What was Aunt Evie protecting the hotel from? And why didn’t Ryder tell me about it?
Why does it feel like I’m the last one to know everything?
Just as I’m about to lose my mind, there’s a knock at the door. I barely have time to blink before it swings open, and there stands Dex, holding a tray with two mugs.
“Hot cocoa,” he announces, wiggling his brows. I can tell it’s spiked by the gleam in his eyes. “You’ve been moping all day. You need to snap out of it, babe. You’ve got a hotel to save. And a win to get.”
He sets the tray down with an exaggerated huff, his eyes narrowing as he studies me, clearly not impressed by my current state. I’m wrapped up in layers of confusion and a fair amount of self-pity, but Dex isn’t here for that.
I take a deep breath. “A win? You think I can get a win?”
“Hell yes.” He grins, picking up a mug and handing it to me. “Look, you’re staring at that damn box like it’s gonna fix itself. What you need is something big. Something memorable.” He gestures around the room as if it’s all too obvious. “Something that makes the city remember this hotel exists.”
I stare at him for a moment. Yeah, I know. The hotel needs an event that grabs people’s attention. But what?
Then, it hits me all at once, and I have to bite back a grin. A gala. A big event. Something over the top. But not just any event.
A Christmas event.
I pull Aunt Evie’s journal out from under the mess on my desk, flipping through pages of her barely finished plans for a Christmas Eve Gala.
She’d scribbled down ideas before she passed. Details on the kind of event she wanted to host but never got the chance to make happen. A night to give this place the life it used to have.
I pause, feeling that familiar warmth of determination start to settle into my chest.
This is it. This is how I’m going to save this hotel.
Or at least how I’m going to try.
I can already picture it. Fairy lights twinkling around the lobby pillars, the massive Christmas tree covered in vintage ornaments, the sound of live music filling the air.
Guests are laughing, mingling, their glasses full of champagne as they sway beneath mistletoe that hangs in every doorway. The locals, the out-of-towners, all gathered in a scene straight out of a holiday romance.
It’s perfect. It’s precisely what The Garland Rose needs.
“She never finished this,” I mutter under my breath as I read over Aunt Evie’s notes, an idea forming. “But I can.” I meet Dex’s gaze with a grin. “I’m going to host the Christmas Eve Gala.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You sure? This’ll be a massive undertaking, Sunny.”
“I know,” I say, feeling more alive than I have in days. “But it’s the only way I can try to keep this hotel afloat. I’ll make it happen. I have to.”
Dex smirks, clearly amused. “Well, there it is. Now we’ve got something to work with.”
I stand up, feeling the strain of it all, of the responsibility, of the pressure, but also of the opportunity. This could be my big break.
My way to turn The Garland Rose around, to honor Aunt Evie’s memory, and maybe even put a little sparkle back into my own life.
I just hope it’s enough.
It’s time to give The Garland Rose the Christmas it deserves. I’m not wasting another minute.
Grabbing my favorite pen, a candy-cane-striped, way-too-cute-for-its-own-good thing I bought last Christmas, I begin scribbling furiously.
I can already see it in my head. The grand event. The moment that’ll pull this hotel out of the doldrums and make it impossible for anyone to ignore.
I write at the top of the page:
The Garland Rose Christmas Gala: A Night of Lights and Legacy
It’s simple. Elegant. Exactly the vibe Aunt Evie would have wanted. My heart races as I continue the list, my hand moving quickly, fueled by both panic and excitement.
Theme: A blend of classic Christmas charm with just the right amount of sophistication. This is something that speaks to both the locals and the guests. We can make this place feel like a hallmark, feel alive.
Decor: Hundreds of candles, each one flickering like the promise of something better. Glittering garlands draped over every surface.
A ceiling installation of faux snowflakes. Delicate and beautiful, a little magical, hanging low enough to create a canopy of winter wonder. People will feel like they’ve stepped into a holiday dream.
Food: Chef Andre’s gingerbread towers. Because if there’s one thing this place is known for, it’s food that brings back memories.
Mini Beef Wellingtons, because it’s fancy but still cozy.
Boozy eggnog shots. Because why not?
Music: A live jazz trio, so the entire evening is filled with a soft, elegant soundtrack of classic Christmas covers.
No loudspeakers, no cheesy tunes. Just smooth jazz. The kind of music that makes people feel like they’ve stepped into the pages of a magazine.
Marketing: This needs exposure. And lots of it. I’m going to invite the local press, some social media influencers to spread the word, and, hell, even the mayor.
I’m not playing small anymore. If we’re doing this, we’re going big.
My mind spins as I write down even more details, all the ideas flooding in faster than I can keep up with.
The gala will be a celebration of everything. Of the hotel, of Evie’s legacy, of Christmas, of all the things I’ve been afraid of. It’ll be everything this hotel needs to show it’s not dead, not yet.
But as the adrenaline starts to wear off, I feel a heavy pressure settle over me.
The scale of it. The risks. The hotel is on thin ice financially; I can’t deny that. Every penny is stretched. And this gala? It’s a gamble.
Ryder will hate it. He’ll see it as another reckless idea. Impractical, unnecessary. He’ll point out the numbers, tell me the hotel needs stability, not a flashy event.
But I can’t let this slip through my fingers.
If I pull this off, it will show everyone that The Garland Rose still has life, that I can make something of it. And if it fails? Well, then I’ll know I gave it everything I had.
I stop and rub my eyes, already feeling the heaviness of what I’m about to undertake. But this isn’t just about saving a hotel.
It’s about proving this to myself that I’m more than the girl who was handed this mess. That I’m capable of pulling something great out of chaos.
I may have no clue what I’m doing, but I’m damn sure going to do it anyway.
The evening slips into an unexpected quiet.
After hours of phone calls, emails, and frantic brainstorming, I find myself curling up on the couch in my room, too wound up to sleep but too tired to do anything else.
The lockbox and its contents are scattered across the desk, still taunting me with its mysteries, but I push it aside for the moment.
I need a break—a distraction. So, I grab the remote, scroll through the hotel’s old DVD collection—because of course there’s a Christmas Classics section—and I spot the movie.
Snowed in With Santa.
The one Ryder starred in. The one where he was the Christmas Prince. The one that made him a teen idol, apparently.
I shake my head, trying to make sense of it all.
For a second, I almost laugh. Me, sitting here, voluntarily watching the very movie that proves Ryder’s not just the uptight CFO I’ve been trying to deal with.
He’s that guy. The one who charmed his way into every living room on Christmas Eve twenty years ago, in a red velvet suit, probably making a dozen hearts skip in one go.
I press play.
And then, there he is. A scrawny, overenthusiastic young man with too much gel in his hair, flashing a smile that could melt the entire North Pole. He’s awkward. Endearing. And wow, so cheesy.
Tinsel curls up beside me, purring so loudly I almost miss Ryder’s first cheesy line. When the younger Ryder winks at the camera, Tinsel bats at the screen like she wants to catch it.
“Oh no,” I whisper, horrified. “Even my cat’s falling for him.”
I watch the entire thing, because why not? I’m surprised by how much it pulls me in. The innocence of it. The charm. The way he looks at the camera is like it’s asking him to save the world with one wink.
And I get it. I understand how it worked, how it made Ryder the object of countless fans’ affections.
But as the movie drags on, and the festive magic swirls around, something nags at me. He’s not that guy anymore.
Ryder in the movie is all holiday cheer and wide-eyed optimism. He believes in the magic, in the goodness of Christmas.
But when I look at him now, he’s buried that version of himself under piles of spreadsheets and cynicism.
What a shame. I know it’s a character, but this version of him is fun.
How did this bright, shining boy in the movie, the one who was so full of hope, come to hate Christmas and fun so much?
By the time the credits roll, I’m not laughing at the hokey lines or the too-perfect holiday set. I’m thinking about Ryder. About how he’s this complex puzzle.
Behind those calculating eyes, there’s a man who was once that sweet-faced prince, and I wonder if it’s all just gone.
And that bothers me. It bothers me that he doesn’t even want to try to enjoy life, to let himself care about the little things. The fun things.
I sit there for a moment, letting the delicate glow of the TV screen wash over me. The quiet hum of the room is a lullaby. One I don’t want to fall into just yet.
I want answers. I need to figure out who Ryder really is, beyond the CFO, beyond the Christmas Prince. And damn it, I’m going to.
I turn off the TV, slide the remote back onto the coffee table, and grab the lockbox from the desk, my fingers trailing over the yellowed paper inside. But then my mind drifts back to Ryder—that stupid Christmas movie.
Maybe I’ll confront him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll ask him what the hell happened. Or maybe I’ll wait, keep pushing forward with my plans for the gala.
Either way, I’m done letting the hotel slip through my fingers. If I need to figure out who Ryder really is to do that, then I will.