Page 82 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

It was the chairwoman’s voice echoing through the PA system.

“And now, before we wrap this year’s competition, we’re thrilled to announce an exciting new opportunity, sponsored by the North American Floral Arts Council.”

Chatter quieted. All eyes turned to the podium. My fingers gripped my napkin like it might keep me grounded.

“This year,” she continued, her smile glowing as bright as the chandelier above, “three artists have been selected to participate in a national showcase tour—where their work will be exhibited in major botanical centers across the country.”

A murmur rippled through the room. My stomach flipped.

Please let Hazel be filming this. Please let this be real.

The chairwoman glanced at her card, then beamed. “Our featured artists are… Javier Esteban from New York City… Maisie Rhodes from Vancouver… and Ruby Shea from Cedar Springs!”

Everything around me blurred.

People clapped. Some even stood.

But I barely heard them.

I felt it more than I heard it—a rush of warmth, of disbelief, of something I couldn’t quite name yet. Not pride. Not exactly. Something deeper.

I stood on shaky legs as applause rose again. A few competitors turned to smile at me, others offered polite nods. A judge from earlier—silver-haired, sharp-eyed—leaned over and whispered, “Your piece made people feel. That’s rarer than you think.”

I muttered a thank you, barely coherent.

A handler gestured for me to join the other winners near the stage for photos. I posed numbly, smile trembling as cameras flashed. People called my name, asked for my card, gushed about my installation like it had just reshaped how they saw grief and growth.

But all I could think about was Damien.

Because as thrilling as this was, as career-changing and surreal as it felt, none of it meant as much if I couldn’t share it with him.

The moment the crowd dispersed, I slipped out to the hallway, phone clutched in my hand. My heels clicked against the marble until I stopped near a potted fern in a quiet corner.

I hit Damien on speed dial.

It rang once. Twice.

Then voicemail.

My heart squeezed.

I was about to try again when a message pinged across my screen.

Damien: Call me when you can. I have news too. It’s… big.

I stared at the words, pulse thudding louder than the music still playing in the ballroom.

Something inside me twisted—hope, fear, maybe both tangled up in the possibilities of that one little ellipsis.

Big could mean anything. A breakthrough. A breakdown. A decision he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

I ran my thumb over the screen, hesitating. Part of me wanted to drop everything, find a quiet room, and call him back immediately.

But I didn’t.

Not because I didn’t care.

Because I did. So much, it physically hurt.

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