Page 123 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Just then, Damien emerged from the building, the flower crown now drooping over one eye, but his grin was fully intact. He found me across the lawn, paused, then walked toward me like I was the only person in the crowd.

“Hey,” he said, tucking the crown back into place like it was just another stethoscope.

“Nice headgear,” I teased.

“Jealous?”

“Furious,” I replied.

We stood together, watching the swirl of people, the laughter, the kids playing hopscotch with painted bricks. Our center wasn’t just a building. It was a beginning.

Damien looked at me, and his smile softened.

“We did it, Ruby.”

“Yeah. We did.”

The sun glinted off the mosaic tiles lining the walkway, sending tiny flashes of color across the garden paths. Children laughed in the background, weaving between raised beds and picnic tables while Hazel played her ukulele under the cherry tree. I could barely breathe, not because of nerves, but because I couldn’t believe how much beauty had bloomed from a blueprint and a maybe.

I turned toward the stage, where Damien was standing, adjusting the mic with all the poise of a man more used to scalpels than speeches. His white shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, his tie was off, and a crown of sunflowers sat crooked on his dark head—courtesy of Ava, who had declared him “King of the Garden.”

When his eyes found mine, I felt it like a heartbeat skipping in my chest. Steady. Certain.

“Can I steal the mic for a second?” he asked Eleanor, who had just wrapped up a passionate speech about civic pride and geranium propagation.

Eleanor stepped aside with an approving grin, handing Damien the mic as if she knew exactly what was about to happen.

Damien looked out at the crowd—locals, volunteers, families, kids—and then turned to me, holding out his hand. “Ruby.”

I blinked. “Me?”

He nodded, eyes unwavering. “You.”

I walked up slowly, heart pounding. When I reached him, he took my hand and held it between both of his, grounding me. The entire crowd hushed. Even Hazel’s ukulele fell silent.

“This woman,” he began, voice low but strong, “dragged me out of darkness. She argued with me over tulip colors and paintswatches, challenged every plan I thought was perfect, and loved me anyway.”

I blinked fast, trying not to cry in front of two hundred people. His thumb brushed mine, steady and warm.

“She didn’t just help me build a center. She helped me rebuild myself.”

A soft murmur passed through the crowd. Hazel sniffled somewhere behind us.

Damien turned to me fully, the mic forgotten in one hand as he kept the other around mine. “We built something that will outlive us. Something made from our stubbornness and hope and maybe too many daisies.”

Laughter trickled through the audience.

“Damien Cole,” I said, voice shaky, “you grumpy, brilliant, ridiculous man…”

He leaned in. “That’s my favorite title, you know.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. Especially if it comes with you.”

I kissed him then. Right there in front of everyone. A real kiss—sweet and sure, with laughter pressed between our lips. And when we pulled apart, the applause nearly knocked the petals off the roses.

Kids clapped with sticky fingers. Elders stood, cheering. Someone popped a confetti cannon. And Hazel, bless her chaotic soul, started playing “Can’t Help Falling in Love” with just enough twang to make it feel like home.

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