Page 18 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“It’s a sympathy arrangement.”

I scowled.

Hazel reached out and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re allowed to be disappointed, Ruby. You let him see real parts of you. That’s not something you do often.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did,” she said quietly. “Because maybe, deep down, you hoped he’d stay.”

The truth of that hit me like a floral cart with a broken brake. I’d hoped. I hadn’t even realized how much until I’d rolled over to an empty bed and a note that felt more like a receipt than a goodbye.

I got up and busied myself behind the register, trying to pretend I wasn’t still carrying the weight of that moment like an uninvited guest.

The shop door jingled as a customer walked in. I pasted on my customer smile, but Hazel mouthed something behind the display.

Talk to him.

I looked away.

Because for all my bold colors and big ideas, I had no clue what to say when something real started to bloom—and then vanished before I could figure out if it was even mine to keep.

…

I hadn’t expected him to be early.

Damien Cole—Mr. Schedule, Mr. Precision, Mr. Probably-Measured-the-Exact-Number-of-Steps-from-the-Door-to-the-Podium—was already at the town council room table when I walked in.

Of course he was.

I paused in the doorway for a second too long. Long enough to register the crisp lines of his navy sweater, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way he didn’t even look up when the door creaked open.

Not that I was looking at him.

Okay, fine. I was definitely looking at him.

Just long enough to confirm that yes, he looked perfectly put-together and emotionally untouchable.

Meanwhile, I’d barely slept last night, had poked myself twice with florist wire that morning, and had only remembered halfway through the drive that I had a glitter heart stuck to my cheek. I’d left it there out of spite.

I slid into the seat across from him, avoiding eye contact like it might turn me to stone.

“Morning,” I said.

It came out too bright, like someone who was definitely not still wondering why the man across the table had vanished from her bed without a trace of warmth or explanation.

He glanced up. “Morning.”

That was it.

Not Hey. Not Can we talk? Not I regret everything about my very emotionally repressed exit strategy.

Just morning.

We were surrounded by folding chairs, planning binders, and three suspiciously similar muffin baskets from local sponsors,but the air between us crackled like an exposed wire. The tension was electric. Stiff. Unmistakable.

I busied myself with my notes, pretending to care deeply about centerpiece logistics and balloon color palettes.

Damien flipped through his packet with all the animation of a computer loading screen. Efficient. Cold. Unreadable.

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