Page 87 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

My fingers tightened around the bouquet someone had thrust into my hands—bright peonies and wild forget-me-nots. Damien’s favorite kind of mess.

“Maybe he’s busy,” I said too quickly. “Maybe he’s working through it. I mean, we’ve both had a lot going on.”

Hazel gave me a look I’d seen since we were kids. The one that said, Ruby, you can lie to anyone else, but don’t try it with me.

I sighed. “Okay, maybe I’m panicking just a little.”

She linked arms with me. “You don’t have to. You’re home now. Let things bloom.”

I let her words settle as we strolled down the path toward my shop. Everything looked the same, but I didn’t. That was the strange part. I’d grown in just a few weeks—roots deeper, colors brighter—and now I wasn’t sure how to fit back into the pot I’d left behind.

Inside the shop, everything was in perfect order. My assistant had clearly done wonders while I was away. Ribbons lined up in rows. Tools polished. Petals fresh and perky in their buckets. Even the back corner chalkboard had a doodled quote: “Grow through what you go through.”

I ran my fingers over it, tracing the loops. I missed him. And the not knowing—it scraped like sandpaper inside my chest.

I placed my suitcase down and wandered to the garden behind the shop. The beds were thriving. Someone had pruned the dahlias. The rosemary had been freshly clipped. The wooden swing under the arbor creaked in the breeze. I could picture Damien there, legs stretched, a book open in his lap, pretending not to watch the door in case I came outside.

But the bench was empty now.

I sat on the swing anyway.

Maybe he needed space. Maybe the hospital job offer was still looming over him like a storm cloud. Maybe he was scared of what this all meant—what I meant.

I thought back to his note, the one tucked in my bag: “You are the color in my grayscale world…”

How did a man write something like that and then vanish?

The swing rocked back and forth in the silence. I closed my eyes and let the wind rustle through my hair. Maybe Hazel was right. Maybe I just needed to let things bloom, even if the soil felt shaky.

Because that’s what flowers do, right?

They bloom anyway.

And maybe—just maybe—so could we. If we were both brave enough to meet in the middle.

But when I stood, the emptiness didn’t quite leave my chest.

Because no matter how much confetti the town tossed, no matter how many hands I shook or smiles I faked—

The one person I wanted to see at the finish line… wasn’t there.

And somehow, that absence said everything.

The afternoon sun glinted off the new windows of the Hearts in Bloom event space, casting golden slants across the polished floors. Marge held the front door open with the dramatic flair of a stage assistant revealing a prize behind curtain number three.

“Voilà!” she declared. “Our very own bloom barn.”

Eleanor followed with a satisfied nod. “We kept the rustic beams, just like you wanted. And added proper ventilation, plumbing, and—” she gestured grandly, “a storage room that doesn’t require spelunking.”

I stepped inside slowly, my shoes tapping against the freshly sanded wood, and took in the space. It was… stunning. The open ceilings stretched high above my head. Skylights poured in gentle light. The walls were painted a soft linen cream, and along one side, a row of cedar planter boxes waited like empty canvases.

It was everything I’d dreamed.

And yet…

I didn’t say anything right away. I just walked the length of the room, fingers trailing across the wall, pulse fluttering like tissue paper.

“This is incredible,” I finally managed. “Really.”

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