Page 4 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

This gala was going to be war.

Chapter two

Damien

The sound of my boots on the hardwood echoed through the quiet stillness of my home. No city sirens. No nurses paging me every thirty seconds. No one bleeding out in front of me.

Just the calm whisper of wind off the lake and the scent of cedar from the trees outside my window.

This place—my lakeside cottage on the outskirts of Cedar Springs—was the first real silence I’d allowed myself in over a decade. And I’d curated it to stay that way. Minimalist, monochrome, clean lines and order. A space where everything had a purpose and everything stayed in its place.

Which was why it drove meabsolutely insanethat Ruby Shea had waltzed into my morning like a human glitter bomb, knocked coffee onto my shirt, insulted my temperament, and then was rewarded with a starring role in my professional nightmare: co-hosting a gala.

I loosened the top button of my shirt and walked into the kitchen, scanning the spotless countertop as if Ruby might’ve somehow left behind flower petals or a pink Post-it with doodlesand sunshine stickers. She hadn’t, of course. That would’ve required her stepping foot into this controlled bubble I’d built.

Still, she was in my head. And I hated that.

The chaos. The unpredictability. The way she talked with her hands and lit up like a neon sign even while she was arguing.

She reminded me too much of the world I’d left behind.

Years ago, I’d lived in a world where life hung on scalpels and seconds. As a heart surgeon in one of Chicago’s busiest hospitals, I’d thrived on adrenaline, precision, the high of saving lives with nothing but skill and steel.

And then I cracked.

I still remembered the last moment—standing in the OR, gloves soaked, the monitors flatlining, and a nurse whispering, “That’s three in one week, Dr. Cole.”

Three patients. Three losses. All young. All gone.

I walked out that night and never went back.

No dramatic goodbye. No farewell tour.

Just…gone.

Cedar Springs had offered a quieter kind of life. Consulting from afar. Donating to the local clinic. Building a practice in logic and spreadsheets, not scalpels and chaos.

So of course, fate decided to pair me with a woman whoradiatedchaos.

…

I arrived at the town hall thirty minutes early, laptop bag in hand, pressed shirt wrinkle-free. The planning committee had reserved the meeting room for the gala prep, and I’d already laid out sample budgets, vendor spreadsheets, and a three-phase implementation timeline. I even brought printouts.

I was halfway through syncing the slideshow to the flat-screen TV when the door flew open.

“Sorry! Sorry! Don’t look at me, I know I’m late!” Ruby burst in like a confetti cannon—arms full of foam board, ribbon,and some kind of sparkly binder that looked like it had been designed by a sugar-high unicorn. Her hair was in a loose bun, wild curls escaping in every direction, and—was that glitter in her bangs?

She stopped when she saw me at the head of the table.

“Oh. You again.” Her tone was breezy. Too breezy.

“You’re late,” I said without looking up.

“You’re early,” she shot back, like it was a personal affront.

“I prefer to be prepared.”

“I prefer to breathe.”

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