Page 27 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Maybe love wasn’t about perfect timing or guarantees.

Maybe it was just about choosing each other—over and over—through the mess.

Even when it was terrifying.

…

The town square was bathed in late afternoon light, the kind that made everything look slightly more magical than it had any right to be—brick sidewalks warmer, lamp posts more charming, and hydrangeas fluffier than usual.

Damien stood beside me, clipboard in hand, dressed in his usual uniform of dark jeans, clean button-down, and silent judgment. I stood opposite him, arms full of my glittery, over-the-top, completely perfect gala mood board.

It had ribbon samples, a pop-up cutout of a gazebo, and one very sparkly section dedicated solely to the fairy light installation I was determined to make happen.

The war of formality vs. fabulous was alive and well.

“So,” I said, adjusting the board so he could fully appreciate its glory, “imagine the archway right here. Guests walk through this tunnel of lights and blossoms like they’re stepping into a dream.”

He glanced at the sketch I’d drawn in metallic ink. “That tunnel looks like a fire hazard.”

“It’s a fantasy, Damien.”

“It’s a flammable fantasy.”

I gasped. “Just admit it—you’re terrified of fairy lights.”

He gave me a long-suffering look. “I’m not terrified. I just don’t believe electricity and dry garlands belong together.”

“Coward,” I said sweetly.

“Pyromaniac,” he replied, deadpan.

Our banter drew the attention of two older women walking past, both of whom paused to smile knowingly. One of them leaned in and whispered something to the other. I caught the words “adorable” and “about time.”

I cleared my throat and looked away.

“Anyway,” I said, pointing to a chalk outline I’d drawn on the pavement for the centerpiece fountain, “we’ll surround the base with potted lavender, which guests can take home as favors.”

Damien studied the outline. “That’s actually… not a bad idea.”

I tilted my head. “Wow. Did Damien Cole just compliment one of my plans without a spreadsheet attached?”

He rolled his eyes and made a tick mark on his clipboard. “Don’t get used to it.”

I couldn’t help smiling. This—us—had changed. Our back-and-forth had lost its bite. The way he looked at me now didn’t come with suspicion or strategy. It was warmer. Softer around the edges. Like he wasn’t just tolerating me—he was enjoying this.

Enjoying me.

He walked with me down the cobblestone path where we planned to set up dessert carts, nodding occasionally as I rattled off plans for signage, bunting, and “elegant rustic whimsy.”

“I still don’t understand what rustic whimsy means,” he said.

“It means,” I said patiently, “that we have mason jars filled with lemon slices and wildflowers, not LED backlighting and corporate swag bags.”

He made a face. “I’d forgotten how exhausting you are.”

I nudged him with my hip. “And yet you keep showing up.”

He didn’t reply to that.

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