Page 49 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“Small town, darling. Gossip travels faster than a sneeze in a Sunday pew.”

I groaned. “Pretty sure Damien still thinks I’m a human hurricane.”

Eleanor leaned on the counter, her tone softening. “Darlin’, sometimes hurricanes clear space for sunshine.”

I paused.

Of course, she’d say something like that—wrapped in sugar and wisdom, tucked into a buttery bakery bun. And maybe she was right. Maybe Damien didn’t mind a little chaos. Maybe he needed it.

Maybe… we both did.

I took a sip of coffee, needing the heat to anchor me. “So, everyone knows we’re… whatever we are?”

She tilted her head. “Let me put it this way: if he kisses you under the flower arch during next week’s Founders Festival, the mayor will probably declare a holiday.”

I groaned again and reached for my croissant. “Please tell me they’re at least still talking about who won the community spirit award.”

“Oh, they are,” Eleanor said cheerfully. “But only because you and Damien basically reinvented what it means.”

My cheeks flamed.

I turned, ready to make my escape, but just as I reached the door, she called after me, “Ruby?”

I glanced back.

Her expression turned fond, almost maternal. “Don’t run from the good stuff, okay? Sometimes love feels bigger than we’re ready for. But that doesn’t mean we’re not built to hold it.”

I smiled, heart swelling. “Thanks, Eleanor.”

Outside, the morning sun spilled across the sidewalk, and the town of Cedar Springs bustled like nothing had changed. But I had. Damien had. We had.

And no amount of small-town whispers or future fears could change that.

We were still standing—messy, vulnerable, and together.

And for once, I wasn’t bracing for the storm.

I was the storm.

But maybe, just maybe… I was also the beginning of something beautiful.

I don’t know why I thought cooking dinner together would be romantic.

Maybe it was the way Damien looked in a plain black T-shirt, sleeves hugging those surgeon arms like they’d been tailored for distraction. Or maybe it was because every sappy rom-com said the best relationships were built in messy kitchens with soft lighting and flour-dusted kisses.

What those movies failed to mention? The soft lighting turns harsh real fast when the smoke detector starts screaming bloody murder.

“Okay, don’t panic!” I shouted, waving a dishtowel under the smoke alarm as Damien opened the window over the sink.

“I’m not panicking,” he replied, far too calmly, like the sizzling pan of now-charred garlic bread wasn’t still spitting sparks behind him. “I’m just questioning your definition of ‘medium heat.’”

I narrowed my eyes. “It was medium. The oven’s just dramatic.”

He raised one dark brow. “That bread is less ‘toasted’ and more ‘sacrificed to the underworld.’”

I stomped over to the stove and snatched the pan off the burner. “Fine. You handle the garlic bread, Dr. Fire Marshall. I’ll finish the sauce.”

“About that,” he said, suddenly sheepish. “I may have accidentally added twice the chili flakes.”

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