Page 38 of Babies for the Christmas Grump

Dex raises a brow. “I figured that’s what you do with announcements. You know… share them.”

“How would I know,” Pearl interjects, letting me know that she’s here, like always, “if we didn’t have the flyers up?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You know everything that happens here.”

“But nothing this exciting has happened here for years.”

I take a slow breath. “This is a major event. It has financial implications. Where’s the budget? Where’s the forecast? Where’s the conversation?”

Dex waves a hand. “She said she was handling it, that it’s gonna be worth the risk. Something about legacy, holiday spirit, and rebranding. It was inspirational, man.”

Inspirational.

Right.

I don’t say another word. I turn and walk, not fast, but with purpose past the dining room, through the hallway with the drafty window that still needs replacing, and straight to Sunny’s office.

I’m seeing red. Again.

Another decision. Another gamble. Another unvetted, unapproved, emotionally driven stunt.

This place is already on the verge of collapse. We’re barely covering operational costs week to week. And she wants to throw a gala?

With press and goddamn jazz musicians?

I reach her office and raise a hand to knock, but then I stop. The door’s slightly ajar, and I catch a glimpse of her inside.

She’s hunched over her desk, one hand tangled in her curls, the other scribbling something with that ridiculous candy-cane pen she always uses.

Her desk is a war zone. Papers, ribbon samples, and a tangled string of gold beads. Her laptop’s open to an event planning spreadsheet.

There’s a second monitor pulled from the back closet, flickering with some old budgeting software I haven’t touched in a decade.

She’s trying. She’s clearly overwhelmed.

But she’s trying.

The fury curdles into more. Messier. Heavier. I feel it settle in my chest, behind my ribs. I should be storming in there, shutting this down.

Demanding answers. Demanding control.

But instead, I watch her for a beat longer.

She’s chewing her bottom lip, eyes scanning numbers she clearly doesn’t trust. There’s a scratchpad next to her with half-erased calculations, arrows pointing to crossed-out totals.

She’s in over her head and doesn’t want anyone to know. And damn it if I don’t know exactly what that feels like.

I step into the doorway, my frustration simmering beneath the surface. But the sight of her in this way, scattered and determined, hits me harder than I expect.

She’s surrounded by half-unwrapped decorations, disheveled files, and color-coded planning charts that appear more a roadmap to bedlam than a Christmas celebration.

I take a slow breath, pushing past the impulse to scold her. I suddenly feel how late we’re running, how far behind everything is.

“Sunny.” My voice is flat, controlled. “We need to talk about this gala.”

She doesn’t look up, her attention still firmly locked on her scattered papers, though I can tell by the stiffening of her shoulders that she knows exactly what’s coming.

“The budget isn’t realistic,” I begin, steady despite the anger creeping in. “The hotel is already on thin ice. You can’t just throw this kind of event together and expect it to save us. I’ve been through the numbers. The costs of this are astronomical. You’re talking lights, decorations, live music, all of it adds up. Plus, the overtime for the staff?—”