Page 51 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“Much like your cutting technique,” he called over his shoulder.

I threw a potholder at him. He ducked, still grinning.

We were messy. Loud. Slightly combustible.

But for the first time, I wasn’t trying to fix that. For the first time, I was starting to believe maybe someone could love the chaos.

Maybe someone already did.

I stood in the doorway of the back room, a cup of steaming tea in one hand and a bundle of blueprints in the other. Damien sat at the worktable, sleeves rolled, glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through a medical journal, he’d “accidentally” left in my shop for the third time this week.

“You ready for the grand tour?” I asked, lifting the rolled sketches like they were sacred scrolls.

He looked up, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Of your imagination?”

“Exactly,” I said, moving to the table and unrolling the plans with a flourish. “Welcome to the future rooftop garden of Bloom & Wild.”

He leaned in, studying my messy sketches with genuine focus. “You want to build this on the roof?”

“Picture it,” I said, pointing. “Raised flower beds, a pergola covered in climbing jasmine, and this section—” I circled anuneven square “—would be a little seating area for small events. Book readings, tea parties, maybe grief therapy sessions with a touch of green healing.”

He stayed quiet, and for a second, my heart skittered.

Then he reached out, tracing one of the pencil-drawn flower beds with his fingertip. “You’ve thought this through.”

“Maybe a little obsessively.” I bit my lip. “But I’ve been craving something more than just... arranging bouquets for birthdays and apologies. I want this place to mean something. I want it to help people bloom again—literally and emotionally.”

Damien looked up, his gaze soft. “You’ve already done that. For this town. For me.”

Warmth rushed to my cheeks. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Cole.”

“No promises.” He leaned back, thinking. “You know, your rooftop idea... it could work hand-in-hand with something I’ve been sketching in my head.”

“Oh?”

He reached for a napkin and pulled a pen from his pocket—because of course he always carried one—and started drawing. “What if we created a wellness outreach center? Something small, local. A place where people could get checkups, learn stress management, maybe even blend medical advice with holistic support.”

I blinked. “Wait—you mean like—my flowers and your brain in one building?”

He chuckled. “Well, maybe not my brain exactly, but yes. Medical guidance without the hospital sterility. Pair that with your therapeutic garden space...”

“And we have a whole-person healing haven,” I finished, heart thumping.

We sat side by side, candles flickering on the table, the scent of fresh eucalyptus and lavender filling the air. My shop had neverfelt so alive. Between our coffee mugs, flower clippings were scattered like confetti—peony petals, sprigs of rosemary, a rogue daisy stem or two.

It didn’t feel like work. It felt like building something that could change lives.

Something we were building.

Damien passed me the pen, and I added little lanterns to his sketch. “You think people would come?”

He met my eyes. “If you’re there? Absolutely.”

I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close we were. His arm brushed mine. His knee knocked gently against mine beneath the table. The room was quiet except for the soft scratch of pen on paper and the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the wall.

He looked at me like I was something precious. Like my chaos didn’t scare him anymore.

And for the first time, I believed I didn’t have to tone it down to be loved.

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