Page 17 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“So…” she said slowly, dragging out the syllable like it owed her rent, “you gonna tell me why you’re sighing like a teenager at a boyband concert?”

I didn’t look up. “I’m not sighing.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow. “Ruby. You’ve sighed five times since I walked in. That’s once every forty-two seconds.”

“That’s not—” I paused mid-snapdragon placement “—an accurate average.”

She smirked and set down her cup. “Then spill. You’ve been acting like someone who had a very specific kind of night ina very romantic inn with a very brooding man who probably smells like expensive soap and moral conflict.”

I winced.

She grinned. “Ah. So, I was right.”

I exhaled, loud and frustrated. “Nothing happened.”

Hazel snorted. “Please. Your version of ‘nothing’ sounds suspiciously like ‘everything.’”

“We talked. That’s all.”

Hazel folded her arms. “And kissed.”

I hesitated. “Once.”

Hazel waited.

“Okay, twice. Maybe three times if you count the fireplace part.”

“Ruby,” she said flatly, “that’s not nothing. That’s Chapter Twelve in a romance novel.”

I set the bouquet down and dropped onto the stool behind the workbench. “Yeah, well, it didn’t come with a happy ending. I woke up and he was gone.”

Hazel’s expression softened. “No note?”

I pulled the crumpled menu from the pocket of my cardigan and held it up. “‘Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for last night. —D.’”

She read it, then slowly lowered the paper. “Oof.”

“Right?” I leaned forward, resting my forehead on the counter. “It’s so polite. So brief. It’s like he performed emotional CPR, then ghosted.”

“Are we sure he ghosted?” Hazel asked gently. “Maybe he just freaked out. Or maybe he’s giving you space.”

“Maybe,” I said, muffled against the countertop. “Or maybe it was just a storm thing. Like, hey, we’re trapped together, let’s share trauma and a few kisses and then never speak of it again.”

Hazel was quiet for a beat, then said, “You don’t actually believe that.”

I sat up. “Don’t I?”

She gave me a look that said, I’ve known you since you wore glitter combat boots in high school, and I’m not buying it.

I crossed my arms. “Look, it’s fine. Really. It’s not like I thought we were going to ride off into the sunset in his truck and start co-parenting succulents.”

“Hmm.”

“Stop ‘hmm’ing.”

“You’ve been rearranging that bouquet for an hour.”

“It’s an intricate design.”

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