Page 30 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
She gives me a serious look, her eyes sharp. “You’ve got a hotel to save. A hotel, Sunny. And yeah, maybe there’s a tall, broody CFO throwing you off, but that’s all it is: a distraction. And frankly, you’re better than that.”
I feel a lump form in my throat at the reminder of what I’ve been fighting for. The hotel. My dreams. The vision I’ve been chasing despite everything.
She’s right.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, ignoring the cinnamon stick debris. “I am better than that.” I force myself to stand a littlestraighter. “This hotel is my chance to build something that means something. And I’m not going to let Ryder, or anyone, take that from me.”
Marjorie grins, her eyes twinkling with that familiar mischievous gleam. “That’s my girl. You’re Sunny Freakin’ Quinn, after all. Now, let’s get back to making that hotel sparkle like the star it deserves to be. Screw Ryder, okay? And if you need to kick him to the curb, I’ll happily make a sign that says, ‘Ryder’s a prick’ and we can put it in front of the hotel. He won’t know what hit him.”
I can’t help but laugh. It’s precisely the kind of insanity I need right now. “I love that. But maybe let’s hold off on the signage for now.”
She raises her glass in a mock toast. “Fine, fine. But I’m serious, Sunny. You can’t let him throw you off course. You’re better than that. And trust me, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you’ve got the heart and the brains to turn this whole thing around. You’re not just saving a hotel. You’re saving your future.”
Her words sink in a little more than I want to admit.
“You’re right,” I say, steadier now, my eyes focused on the mess I’ve made of these cinnamon sticks. “I can do this. I just need to get my head back in the game.”
“And stay in it,” Marjorie adds, her tone light again. “Now, I’ll let you get back to your fire hazard centerpiece project but just know that I’m rooting for you from over here in my wine-fueled paradise. And if you ever need backup, I’m just a flight away.”
I smile at her, grateful. “Thanks, Marj. I needed this. And I needed you.”
She winks. “Always here for you, girl. Always.”
As we end the call, I look at the mess on my desk and take a deep breath. The chaos of today is far from over, but I’m done letting it control me.
The hotel is mine now, and so is my future. Time to stop letting distractions, especially Ryder, get in my way.
I’ve got this.
I’m feeling light, the pep of Marjorie’s words still buzzing in my head, and okay, maybe the peppermint schnapps I added to my mug of hot chocolate isn’t helping the clarity much.
But screw it, I’ve been trying to plan holiday events, and survive this hotel without so much as a decent nap in a week.
A little festive buzz never hurt anyone.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I make my way down the hallway to Aunt Evie’s room.
The grand suite that used to be her space is tucked at the far end of the hall, and it smells of a blend of pine, old paper, and nostalgia. There’s a comforting sensation about the room.
I’m stepping into a place frozen in time. The walls are lined with antique furniture and vintage wallpaper, layers of memories stacked up high as the dusty tomes in a library.
It’s so Evie.
I move to the closet first, eyes scanning the shelves for anything remotely useful for my next crazy DIY project. Maybe a vintage Santa or some glass baubles that scream charm.
But my mind keeps circling back to the things I found earlier in the office. The weird vibes in the emails, the feeling that there’s more going on than meets the eye.
I shove aside a collection of garlands, wreaths, and tinsel, cursing under my breath when I knock a box of ornaments off the shelf.
They hit the ground with aclink, and as I bend down to pick them up, something catches my eye. There, tucked behind a garland of gold beads, is an old, battered lockbox.
What the hell?
Curiosity piqued, I slide it out carefully, its weight surprising me. It’s locked, obviously, but the little brass padlock looks easy to break.
I don’t even think about it. I find the first pair of scissors I can reach and pry the lock open. It clicks, and the lid lifts with a satisfying creak.
Inside, it’s not what I expect—no Christmas treasures, no forgotten holiday trinkets. Instead, there’s a collection of receipts, handwritten ledgers, and a few veryunfestive papers.
