Page 72 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

I nodded, throat tight. “Thank you?”

She pursed her lips and clicked away.

I took my spot and exhaled slowly, placing my vases one by one. A sprig of lavender fell onto the floor. I bent to pick it up and caught a glimpse of the competition’s frontrunner—Chantal, a French floral prodigy known for installations that made grown men cry. She was adjusting the angle of a single tulip like it owed her money.

A voice beside me snorted. “What is that, a scarecrow centerpiece?”

I turned. A woman in fuchsia heels and a blazer that sparkled under the overhead lights was squinting at my setup like it was a crime scene.

“It’s inspired by a summer storm,” I said, forcing a smile. “Unruly, but intentional.”

“So... messy.” She sipped her green smoothie like it was laced with disdain.

By the time she walked off, my confidence was somewhere under the rug with the spilled mulch.

I took a step back and stared at my setup. It was messy. Wild. Nothing about it screamed couture. The daisies weren’t exotic. The tin watering can centerpiece had literal rust on the side.

What was I doing here?

I reached into my tote bag for my sketchpad, hoping to distract myself with something familiar—and that’s when my fingers brushed against the envelope.

Damien.

I pulled it out slowly. Cream-colored, soft. My name was written in his blocky, overcautious handwriting. I opened the flap.

Inside was a single pressed daisy. Its petals were slightly browned at the edges, like it had been carried too long in someone’s pocket. Tucked behind it was a small note, folded twice.

“You’re the only bouquet that ever rooted something in me.”

I stared at the words. At the flower. And my breath caught so hard it startled me.

I pressed the daisy to my chest and closed my eyes.

This wasn’t about the judges. Or the critics. Or the women in couture heels who rolled their eyes at twine. It was about standing in a room full of perfect arrangements and choosing to believe my kind of beautiful belonged here too.

I straightened my spine.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s make magic.”

I pulled out my wildflower bundles and loosened the stems, letting the colors spill across the table. Sunflower golds, indigo thistles, bursts of poppy red. I wove in mint sprigs, clover, a single crooked tulip.

The watering can centerpiece stayed. The rust was part of the charm.

Around me, competitors eyed my work with puzzled expressions. It didn’t bother me anymore.

Because Damien had reminded me who I was.

The girl who planted hope in forgotten corners.

The woman who turned chaos into something that bloomed.

I glanced up at the overhead banner— “Where Passion Takes Root.”

And smiled.

Let them scoff.

I had roots here, too.

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