Page 60 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
I keep seeing these weird things, and I need to find a way to put them all together…
I freeze, my pulse suddenly too loud in the quiet of the office. The room feels smaller now, the walls closing in around me.
I quickly flip to the next page, trying to confirm if this is some mistake. But it’s not. I can feel the pit in my stomach grow deeper.
Whoever’s behind this knew exactly what they were doing.
I slam the receipt down, my hands gripping the edge of the desk. This could be huge.
I need to focus. I must figure out exactly where the money’s gone, who’s involved, and how deep this goes.
But before I can dive deeper into the mess, the door slams open with a flourish that makes me freeze mid-thought.
Fucking hell.
It’s my mother. She’s back.
Elaine’s voice ricochets through the building, announcing her arrival as if she’s a queen entering her court. Her bright smile is all for show, masking the sharpness beneath it.
The same smile she flashes every time she wants something, every time she needs to remind me of who’s supposed to be in charge.
“Ryder!” she calls loudly. “We’re on a schedule here. The photographer’s waiting. Hurry up, darling.”
She sweeps into the room with an air of authority that makes me want to hurl the nearest object at her perfectly styled head.
“Huh?” I stare at her in shock. “What are you talking about?”
“I messaged you,” she says with a sweeping laugh. “The photographer fromBoston Heritage Monthlyis here now.”
I feel the spike of irritation crawl up my spine. My pulse is still racing from what I’ve just discovered in the financials, the nagging feeling in my gut growing with every second I don’t address it.
I want to snap at her. I want to tell her to leave me alone, that this is important, that I can’t afford to deal with her nonsense right now.
But instead, I force a smile, masking the frustration boiling inside me. “Now?”
She doesn’t seem to notice. She’s already sweeping toward me with that gliding walk of hers, heels clicking in sync with every word she speaks.
“You’ve been so busy, darling,” she says, showing that for her this whole thing is just one big, glamorous show. “I told them you’d be thrilled to make time for the magazine. They want to showcase the revitalization of the hotel. Your brilliant leadership.”
She smiles happily, back in her element, in the spotlight.
She doesn’t wait for my response, dragging me toward the door with a hand that doesn’t allow room for protest.
“I swear, this woman…” I mutter under my breath as I stand and follow, my hand still clenching the papers on my desk.
But Elaine doesn’t hear it. She’s already too busy making her grand entrance, flicking her hair behind her shoulder.
We step out into the lobby, and the photographer immediately clicks his camera at the sight of us. Elaine is pose-perfect, a huge grin plastered on her face as she practically schmoozes the front desk staff.
“Ah, yes, this place,” she gushes loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear, “my son’s role in revitalizing such a historic hotel! It’s all thanks to his leadership, his vision!” She spins toward me, almost too brightly. “Ryder, darling, come say something about it, won’t you?”
I stand there, frozen for a second, watching her throw me into the spotlight as a puppet on a string. This hotel is my workplace. It’s all been turned into a show.
I hate it.
The whole thing. My stomach turns, but I force myself to smile, nod, and speak even though my skin is crawling with discomfort.
I offer the photographer another strained smile, mumbling about the hotel’s history and the work we’ve been doing to bring it back to life, but my mind is far from here.
