Page 52 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“You ever think,” I whispered, “that maybe all those things we used to chase were just distractions from what we actually wanted?”

He nodded. “Every day since I met you.”

I grinned. “You’re a lot mushier than you let on.”

“Only for you,” he murmured.

The candles burned low. The ink on our napkin-plans smudged where I’d leaned too far over the table. We were tangled together in purpose and something bigger than either of us had dared to hope for.

And just before I blew out the last candle, I thought—this is it. This is how it begins. With pen and paper. With laughter and ideas. With someone who believes in your dreams enough to draw new ones beside them.

I woke early the next morning to the soft shuffle of paper under the door.

The shop was quiet, morning sun just beginning to paint gold across the wooden floor. I padded across the room barefoot, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

A single envelope peeked out from beneath the door.

No return address. Just Damien’s name written in crisp, bold lettering.

My stomach tightened.

I bent down, picked it up, and turned it over in my hand.

And frowned.

Chapter fourteen

Damien

The envelope was thick, crisp, and clinical—like everything that came out of Manhattan General. My name was typed neatly on the front, no return address necessary. I already knew who it was from the moment I saw it on the floor of Ruby’s shop, half-shadowed by a bouquet of yellow snapdragons.

I didn’t open it right away.

When I finally tore the seal, I could almost hear my old life breathing through the pages.

"We’d like to formally offer you the position of Lead Investigator for the New Horizons Cardiac Research Initiative. This role is designed with hybrid flexibility, allowing part-time remote engagement from any location of your choosing. Your contributions to the field make you uniquely suited for this opportunity.”

I stopped reading.

My jaw flexed, heart drumming in a rhythm too familiar. The kind that used to fuel me through fourteen-hour surgeries and red-eye flights to medical summits.

This offer wasn’t just a job—it was the dream. The one I’d bled for. Burned out for. Left behind when my hands started shaking and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt human.

I stared out at the lake, its surface still and honest. No paparazzi. No white coats. Just the scent of pine, the call of a loon in the distance, and the echo of Ruby’s laughter from the night before.

“I thought I closed this door,” I muttered, folding the letter in half. “Why does it still creak open?”

The porch steps groaned lightly behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was her.

She padded up beside me barefoot, a hoodie zipped over her pajamas, mug in hand. The sight of her—messy hair, sleepy eyes, soft smile—hit me harder than the letter had.

“Morning,” she said, voice raspy with sleep.

I nodded and scooted over slightly, leaving room for her beside me. She didn’t sit. Instead, she held out her mug. “Chamomile. Don’t worry—I didn’t poison it.”

I took it, grateful, and she crossed her arms, staring out over the lake with me.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.

---