Page 76 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“Not exactly,” she said, breathless. “It’s Ruby. Her shipment of rare freesias didn’t show. She’s trying not to panic, but… you know her. She built her whole piece around them.”

I was already grabbing my keys.

“Where is she now?”

“At the competition. Trying to figure out a Plan B. But if there’s any way—I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks, Hazel. I’m on it.”

I ended the call and shot a quick text to the clinic manager: Emergency came up. Cancel my schedule today. I’ll make it up.

There are moments when logic takes a backseat, when your heart throws off the seatbelt and climbs behind the wheel. This was one of those moments.

I slid into my truck, pulled up the wholesale directory I hadn’t touched since my hospital fundraiser days, and started calling every flower supplier within a hundred-mile radius.

Most didn’t pick up. A few answered with polite rejections or out-of-stock apologies.

And then—

“I might have what you’re looking for,” said a gravelly voice from BloomCo Farms, somewhere out near Willow Bend. “Rare variety, white-edged freesia. Just came in from a delayed shipment. But I can only hold them for two hours.”

“I’ll be there in ninety minutes,” I said without hesitation.

“Cash only.”

“Done.”

I gunned it down the highway like the flowers were a beating heart that needed saving.

The drive blurred into adrenaline and purpose. My mind kept flashing back to Ruby’s face the morning she left—hopeful, brave, and trembling under it all. She hadn’t said it, but I knew. This competition wasn’t just a dream.

It was her proving ground.

By the time I pulled into the dusty lot of BloomCo Farms, my shirt was sticking to my back, and the clock had five minutes to spare.

The owner, a wiry man with sun-scorched skin and a ball cap that had seen better decades, led me into the chilled greenhouse.

And there they were.

A dozen pristine bunches of freesia, glowing in soft whites and lavender, petals curled like whispered promises.

“They’re yours,” he said as I handed over the cash. “Never seen a man drive this far for flowers. Lucky girl.”

“She’s more than lucky,” I said. “She’s unforgettable.”

I carefully packed the crates into the back of the truck, double-checked the AC vents, and floored it back toward the highway.I had one more stop to make—a local courier hub. With a little charm and a lot of persuasion, I convinced them to rush a direct delivery to Ruby’s venue with a hand-signed card attached.

The note read: Even without these, you’d still outshine every bloom here. But I know how much they mean to you. So here they are. All in. Always. —D

As I watched the delivery van disappear into the distance, something swelled in my chest.

Love, I realized, doesn’t always look like grand gestures or sweeping speeches. Sometimes it looks like mud on your tires, calluses on your hands, and the road behind you that you didn’t think twice about driving.

…

The loading dock behind the exhibition hall was a blur of movement—delivery trucks backing in, interns racing with carts, clipboard-wielding coordinators barking into walkie-talkies. I stood there holding a carefully packed crate of fresh freesia, the petals still dewy from the early morning chill, and felt completely out of place.

A gruff man with a lanyard spotted me. “You can’t be back here without clearance.”

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