Page 36 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“Ruby!” Eleanor’s voice rang out over the low hum of chatter and laughter.

I turned, startled. She stood on the stage in her signature purple blazer, holding a mic and beaming.

“I know we’re all eager to dance and eat too many cookies, but before we dive into the sugar coma, I want to take a moment to recognize someone who’s brought a whole lot of heart—and actual flowers—into our town.”

Oh no.

“Ruby Shea, would you step forward?”

I froze. Around me, people clapped and smiled. Hazel gave me a little shove from behind. “Go.”

Heart pounding, I walked toward the stage, my heels suddenly too loud against the hardwood floor.

“Ruby,” Eleanor continued, “your creativity, your spirit, and your flower shop have breathed new life into Cedar Springs. You remind us that beauty can grow out of anything—even a cracked sidewalk or a busted pipe.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“But most of all,” Eleanor added, her voice thickening with emotion, “you’ve reminded us that hope blooms where it’s planted. And we’re lucky you planted here.”

The applause swelled. My face burned. I gave a little bow, blinking fast as I stepped back down.

Then I saw him.

Damien stood near the back of the room, just beyond the light, in his usual dark button-down and jeans that somehow managed to look both rugged and annoyingly perfect. He wasn’t clapping. He wasn’t smiling.

He was just watching me.

And I couldn’t read a single thing on his face.

I turned away, my heart thudding too loud in my chest.

The music resumed. People drifted to the dance floor. I tried to lose myself in checking candles and flower placements and cupcake trays—but I kept glancing toward the door. And every time I looked, he was still there.

Still watching.

Until he wasn’t.

“Hazel,” I whispered, scanning the room. “Where did he—”

The back door to the alley opened behind me.

I spun.

Damien stepped into the dim light of the shop, his broad frame momentarily outlined by the string lights along the loading dock.

My breath caught.

We stood like statues, the scent of roses and citrus swirling between us.

He didn’t speak at first. His gaze swept the room—my shop, now glowing, reborn.

“I didn’t reply to the email,” he said finally.

I felt the words hit me like a tremor. “Why not?”

He stepped closer. “Because I haven’t made up my mind.”

The air thickened.

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