Page 104 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Eleanor came up behind me, her cane tapping softly against the brick as she offered a paper cup of cider. “Faith,” she said with a sage smile, “is like planting a seed—you water it with hope.”

I gave a short laugh, not quite able to meet her eyes. “Well, mine’s about to shrivel from overwatering.”

She chuckled, patting my arm. “Then maybe it’s just resting before the bloom.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe the text Damien had sent—Back by sunset—meant he was actually coming. That he hadn’t changed his mind in the middle of some highway, or worse, decided that the city with its glossy hospitals and sharp corners was where he truly belonged.

A horn honked somewhere in the distance and every head turned. But it was just Marge’s husband, pulling up with a tray of cupcakes balanced precariously on the passenger seat.

“Maybe there was traffic,” Hazel offered.

“Maybe he stopped for gas,” Marge added, fluffing a flower crown like it might summon him.

“Or maybe,” I said quietly, “he needed time to be sure.”

Because the truth was, I wasn’t the same girl he met in the garden weeks ago. And he wasn’t the same man who walked into my shop with thunder in his eyes and a chip on his shoulder. We’d both grown, fractured, healed—and changed. Maybe that change meant finding our way back to each other. Or maybe it meant... not.

I tried to push that thought out of my mind, but it lingered like a weed in the middle of a perfect bouquet.

Hazel reached for my hand and squeezed. “You know what I think?”

I tilted my head toward her.

“I think if he was going to walk away, he wouldn’t have sent a text. He would’ve sent silence.”

That hit something in me I wasn’t ready to name. So, I just nodded, gripping her hand a little tighter.

The sun began its slow descent behind the hills, painting the sky in strokes of apricot and lavender. The townsfolk started to fidget. Kids sat on hay bales, yawning. Mr. Becker adjusted the light strings for the third time.

Then someone said what everyone was thinking.

“Maybe he’s not coming.”

It wasn’t cruel—just honest.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying not to show how much that sentence hurt. Trying not to let it crack open the fear I’d buried beneath hope and flower petals and a banner that fluttered like a promise in the breeze.

And just when I was about to turn away—when I almost whispered to Hazel that maybe we should pack up and try again tomorrow—headlights appeared over the crest of the hill.

A collective gasp rippled through the square. Then—cheers. Wild, beautiful, ridiculous cheers.

His truck.

The same beat-up truck with mismatched mirrors and a dent in the door that I secretly loved because it was so... him.

It pulled into the square slow and steady. Like it knew exactly what it was doing. Like it had taken the long road home on purpose.

My breath hitched. My heart forgot how to pace itself. My hands trembled—until I felt Eleanor’s steady grip on one shoulder and Hazel’s on the other.

The engine cut off. The door opened.

And there he was.

Damien Cole. In jeans and a button-up rolled at the sleeves, a soft shadow of stubble across his jaw. He looked tired. And maybe a little scared.

But mostly?

He looked like he’d come home.

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