Page 14 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Too much.

And I had no idea what came next.

The coffee had long gone cold in my hand, but I didn’t move. I just sat at the edge of the kitchen stool, staring into the mug like it might offer answers I hadn’t been able to find anywhere else.

The clock on the wall ticked like a metronome, too loud in the quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes after you leave something behind and aren’t sure if you’re meant to go back for it.

I blinked once, and without warning, last night returned in full detail—like flipping open the cover of a book you weren’t done reading.

…

The fire had burned low, casting flickering gold across the Magnolia Suite. The room smelled like melting wax and lavender, the storm outside finally giving up its tantrum and quieting to a low hiss against the windows.

We sat on the floor, legs stretched out, side by side in front of the hearth. Ruby had pulled a bottle of red wine from the inn’s guest basket and poured it into mismatched mugs that saidMr. RightandMrs. Always Right. She handed me the former with a smirk.

"Don’t read into the mugs," she said, cheeks slightly flushed—maybe from the wine, maybe from the kiss we’d just shared. "Marge has a sense of humor and zero boundaries."

I took a sip, then leaned back on one elbow. “You’re really not what I expected.”

She looked over, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Whatdidyou expect?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone who took floral arrangements as seriously as I take surgical prep.”

She grinned. “You mean with scalpels and spreadsheets?”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” She leaned her head back against the armchair behind us, gazing into the fire. “Truth is… I never really wanted to just sell flowers. I mean, Ilovethem—don’t get me wrong. But I always dreamed of something bigger. Something like… a wellness space. A full-blown floral therapy boutique. Rooftop garden. Community classes. Maybe even a little greenhouse retreat with coffee and yoga and beeswax candles and—”

I let out a low laugh, and she paused.

“Too much?” she asked, sheepish.

“Not enough,” I said, surprised at my own voice.

She blinked, then gave me a small smile that tugged at something in my chest.

“I always thought,” she continued softly, “that if I could build something beautiful enough, meaningful enough, people would stop seeing me as a walking disaster and start seeing me as… capable. Like I actually belonged here. Like I mattered.”

There it was again—that openness. That unfiltered truth she shared without trying to dress it up or protect herself.

It was the opposite of how I’d lived my life.

And somehow, it was what made me speak next.

“Sometimes,” I said slowly, “I think the only time I ever really connected with someone… was last night with you.”

She turned to me, eyes wide, soft.

I looked away.

“I spent so many years saving lives with steady hands and an unshakable heart. But I don’t think I everfeltanything when I did. Not like this. Not like—”

“Like connection,” she finished quietly.

I nodded.

The fire cracked and shifted.

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