Page 5 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

I watched as she dumped her materials onto the table, scattering swatches, a handful of fairy light samples, and something that looked dangerously like a mood board held together by washi tape and hope.

I gestured to the screen. “I’ve compiled budget scenarios A through D, based on projected attendance, venue availability, and vendor ratings.”

She blinked. “You made… spreadsheets.”

“Yes,” I said, dryly. “That’s how normal people plan things.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Normal? Okay, well, I brought visuals.” She flipped open her binder with a flourish. “I’m thinking a floral arch at the entrance, string lights across the dance floor, and a cozy garden theme. Very romantic. Very Cedar Springs.”

“This isn’t a middle school prom,” I said.

“And you’re not my eighth-grade math teacher,” she snapped. “So maybe let people enjoy things?”

Around us, the other committee members shifted awkwardly. Marge the innkeeper looked far too entertained, and old Mr. Crenshaw from the hardware store had a knowing smirk on his face like he was watching a soap opera come to life.

Ruby leaned in, eyes dancing with challenge. “You really can’t handle not being in control, can you?”

“Not when the alternative is… whateverthisis.” I gestured vaguely to her mood board, where a cartoon heart was glued between pressed violets.

She stood straighter. “This is called vision. Passion. Something you might want to look up sometime.”

“And this—” I tapped my laptop “—is called a plan.”

Eleanor James stepped in before the argument could evolve into a full declaration of war. “Why don’t we combine both?” she suggested sweetly. “Damien, your structure. Ruby, your creative spark. Balance, darlings. That’s what makes an event memorable.”

Ruby grinned like she’d just won.

I closed my laptop with a snap. “Fine.”

“Fine,” she echoed.

We both sat down.

But the tension hung in the room like fog on the lake—thick, electric, and refusing to lift.

That night, as I sat by the fireplace nursing a glass of sparkling water, my phone buzzed.

Brandon Tucker. My oldest friend. Still working in the surgical trenches I’d left behind.

I picked up. “Brandon.”

“Just heard from Eleanor,” he said with a chuckle. “She asked me to sponsor the gala; told meyouwere co-hosting with someone named Ruby Shea.”

“She’s impossible,” I said flatly.

“So… still breathing, huh?”

I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Barely.”

“You know, sounds like she’s the only one in that town who makes your blood pressure rise,” he said. “Want me to send you a prescription for that?”

I hung up.

But the echo of Ruby’s voice lingered in my head far longer than I wanted it to.

…

The weather app on my phone pinged with an alert as I stepped out of the town hall.

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