Page 117 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Then Hazel’s voice broke through. “Ahem. I hate to ruin the romance—actually, that’s a lie, I live for it—but you’ve got mail.”

Ruby turned, brows furrowed. “Mail?”

Hazel twirled a long envelope between two fingers. “It came through the old PO box. Looked too fancy to be a bill, so I peeked. You’re welcome.”

Ruby snatched it with a laugh and tore the seal. As she read, her expression morphed from confusion to disbelief to... amusement.

I tilted my head. “What is it?”

She handed it to me. “Guess who’s coming to visit, sunshine?”

I read the name once. Then twice.

Nathan. Ruby’s old admirer. And apparently, he’d be staying through the grand opening.

I blinked. “Well... this just got interesting.”

Ruby grinned, folding her arms. “Don’t worry, Doctor. This garden’s already got a keeper.”

I smirked. “Good. Because I don’t plan on losing my plot.”

She laughed and tucked her hand into mine again. The kind of laughter that rooted itself deep and bloomed wide.

No storm, no surprise visitor, no zoning hiccup could change what we’d built.

Together.

Chapter thirty-one

Ruby

The scent of fresh paint and lavender mingled in the morning air as I stepped through the arched entrance of the Hearts in Bloom Center. The custom wooden sign, carved and painted by local artists, gleamed in soft pastels overhead. Where Medicine and Magic Meet. It didn’t just feel like a place anymore. It felt like a promise.

I clipped my clipboard against my hip and scanned the courtyard. The final flower delivery had just arrived, bursting with late spring daisies, foxglove, and peonies in shades that would make a sunset jealous. Hazel was bossing around two teenage volunteers as they arranged potted lavender by the welcome desk. Eleanor was bent over a crate of poetry booklets she insisted everyone receive at the door. And Marge—God bless Marge—was attempting to hang fairy lights without a ladder, balancing on a wobbly folding chair and pure stubbornness.

“Marge,” I called, jogging over. “Either get down or grow wings.”

She snorted but let me steady the chair. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’ve got cat-like reflexes.”

Hazel popped her head up from the planter display. “Those reflexes are retired, Marge. Just like you.”

The banter made me smile, and for the first time in what felt like years, I let myself breathe without waiting for something to go wrong. No crisis. No deadline crashing down. Just... peace.

Damien had already left earlier with the welcome kits. We’d spent the morning elbow to elbow, stuffing reusable totes with pamphlets, stress balls, seed packets, and tiny vials of rosemary essential oil. His handwriting had scrawled the tags: “For your mind, your heart, and your roots.”

He was different now. Not just softer—but fuller. Like all the jagged edges had finally settled into place.

I knelt beside Hazel, adjusting the soil around one of the lavender pots.

“Think they’ll come?” I asked, nodding toward the hill where the town square met the woods. We’d invited everyone from the hospital, the city, old friends and new ones alike.

“They’ll come,” Hazel said. “They’ve been watching this place bloom brick by brick. They want to see the petals open.”

“Poetic,” I said.

She shrugged. “I’m full of it today.”

Across the courtyard, Eleanor straightened and shouted, “Do we need name tags? I could make name tags.”

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