Page 75 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on, come on…”

But there was nothing. Just splinters and silence.

My fingers curled against the edge of the crate. I felt the tears rise like steam—hot, fast, and humiliating.

“You’ll figure it out,” she’d said.

Easy to say when your whole design hadn’t been built around a flower that now existed only in a tracking number with no destination.

I sat down hard on the floor, legs folding beneath me, and leaned against the crate. The room buzzed around me—other designers adjusting final touches, volunteers setting up barriers—but it all blurred into background noise.

I had been so sure.

So confident.

And now I felt like I was unraveling in front of everyone.

That’s when my phone buzzed again, rattling against the wood.

I didn’t want to look at it. I didn’t want a schedule update or a perky email from the competition committee telling me to “breathe and believe.”

But something made me swipe it open anyway.

Damien: Don’t let a few missing petals fool you into thinking your garden’s any less beautiful.

My breath hitched.

It wasn’t the solution to the problem. But it cracked something open inside me.

Because it was him.

And he saw me.

Not just the put-together parts. Not just the storm of color and confidence I tried to project. He saw the panic and the doubt and still thought I was something beautiful.

And maybe I didn’t have the freesia.

But I had built this garden—this experience—with my hands, my instincts, and my heart.

I swallowed hard and rose slowly, wiping the back of my hand across my cheek.

Okay.

Let’s rethink.

Let’s get scrappy.

Let’s bloom anyway.

Because storms don’t wait for ideal conditions. And neither do I.

Chapter twenty

Damien

I was halfway through reorganizing files at the clinic when Hazel’s name lit up my phone. I almost let it go to voicemail—Mondays were brutal—but something about the timing made me answer.

“Hey Hazel. Everything okay?”

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