Page 60 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

By lunchtime, my phone was buzzing with messages. By midafternoon, people were stopping by the shop not to buy bouquets, but to offer help.

Eleanor brought a mason jar full of change from her bakery tip jar. “It’s for the benches,” she said, setting it down with a wink. “Every good garden needs a gossip corner.”

Hazel came next, arms full of clipboards and her trademark energy. “We’re doing a dedication. Saturday. I’ve already called three vendors. You’re welcome.”

“Hazel, I—”

“Nope,” she said, steamrolling right over me. “You’re going to need bunting, a ribbon, probably a brass plaque. Oh, and lemonade. Nothing says hope like lemonade.”

I blinked. “Did you plan a grand opening in the time it takes most people to check their email?”

“Sweetheart,” she said, tugging me into a one-armed hug, “I’ve been waiting years for something in this town to feel like new beginnings. You and that garden? You’re it.”

By the time the sun dipped low, the whole town seemed to hum with excitement. The rooftop was swept. Vendors were booked. Someone—probably Hazel—hung twinkle lights around the wooden arch Damien and I had built that morning.

And then there we were—sitting beneath the glow of those lights, shoulder to shoulder on the garden’s edge. My hand curled around his. His thumb brushed my knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I can’t believe this,” I whispered.

Damien tilted his head, watching the lights flicker above us. “What? That we planted something without burning it down?”

I laughed, resting my cheek against his arm. “That this place… us… is becoming real.”

He was quiet for a beat, then said, “It’s always been real. You’re just finally letting yourself believe it.”

The rooftop buzzed with soft music from someone’s portable speaker below. The scent of night-blooming jasmine floated in on the breeze, tangled with the faint trace of soil still under our nails. For the first time in what felt like forever, the world wasn’t too loud or too much.

Just enough.

“Do you think we’re crazy?” I asked suddenly, my voice almost shy. “For believing we can build something that actually lasts?”

Damien turned toward me, our joined hands resting on his knee. His gaze held steady.

“No,” he said. “We’d be crazy for thinking we couldn’t.”

I blinked at him, warmth rising in my chest like spring after frost.

Because I did believe. In him. In us. In the messy, beautiful risk we were taking by not just loving each other—but building a life around that love.

He shifted slightly, and I felt it—the subtle change in his breath, the tension in his arm. Then he reached into his jacket pocket.

My heart skipped.

Damien pulled out a small velvet box.

I stilled.

He didn’t open it.

His fingers curled around it like it held something delicate. Sacred.

“One day,” he said softly, eyes locked on mine. “Soon. Just not yet.”

I swallowed, my eyes suddenly prickling.

Not yet.

Not a no.

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