Page 65 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“That’s not remotely helpful.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “You need flowers, focus, and flair. Better?”

I grinned. “Barely.”

She pulled open the storage cabinet. “Let’s make some mock arrangements. You’re going to blow those judges away, Ruby Shea.”

And just like that, the nerves didn’t vanish—but they found a rhythm. I could do this. Maybe I wouldn’t be the most polished. But I’d be the most me.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The shop looked like a florist’s fever dream exploded across every surface—vibrant mood boards lined the walls, piles of color swatches fanned across the counter, and fabric samples hung from the light fixtures like tiny banners of ambition.

I stood in the middle of it all, one hand in my hair and the other holding a pair of scissors I couldn’t remember picking up.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself. “Maybe less is more. Or maybe more is more, but only if the more matches the tone of the—”

“Ruby,” Damien called from the back office, where he’d set up a temporary desk with three binders, a laptop, and a never-ending stream of phone calls.

“Yeah?” I called back.

“Have you seen my clinic mock-up? The draft I left on the counter?”

I looked down. It was buried under a sheet of pressed lavender and my third failed attempt at a concept sketch titled Resilience in Bloom.

“Found it,” I said sheepishly, peeling the paper free. “Sorry.”

He stepped into the main room, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and exhaustion etched into every line of his face. He accepted the paper with a distracted kiss to my temple and a glance at my chaos-strewn workspace.

“Looks like you’re in the zone,” he said, voice kind but distant.

I offered a strained smile. “Something like that.”

We’d been like this all week. Orbiting the same space, touching down just long enough to exchange logistical updatesor lukewarm coffee. Our dinners had morphed into working sessions—him scrolling through funding proposals while I sorted ribbon spools and second-guessed every floral theme I brainstormed.

Last night, I’d fallen asleep mid-sentence while telling him about my vision for a cascading bouquet that represented transformation. When I woke up, the couch beside me was empty and the kitchen light was off.

This morning, I found his clinic sketches on the porch table. A sticky note read, Ran out to meet the architect. You’re amazing. Love you.

It should’ve made my heart flutter. Instead, it just made it ache.

I set down the scissors and stared at the half-finished board. Dozens of ideas—brilliant, colorful, loud. All competing for space. Kind of like the way my thoughts had been lately.

The bell above the shop door jingled, and I jumped.

Eleanor stepped inside, wrapped in a navy shawl that matched the twinkle in her eye. “You look like a woman three seconds away from drowning in glitter.”

I exhaled a laugh. “That’s optimistic. I think I already went under.”

She didn’t wait for an invitation, just walked straight to the kettle and set it to boil like she’d been running the place longer than I had.

“Hazel told me about the competition,” she said, sliding onto the stool beside mine. “I’m proud of you.”

I gave her a grateful smile, then stared down at my mess. “I should be excited, right? But every time I think I’ve got something, it feels... off. Too much. Not enough. Damien and I are both running full tilt and barely looking up long enough to catch our breath, let alone each other.”

Eleanor nodded, folding her hands in her lap. “That man’s got a good heart. But even hearts can forget how to rest.”

I hesitated. “It’s not just him. I’ve been so caught up in proving I belong in that room—with the judges, the designers—I think I forgot why I started this.”

---