Page 115 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“Alright,” I said, clearing my throat. “Who here knows what to do if someone cuts their hand while gardening?”

A few adults stepped closer. Ruby nudged a folding chair my way, then winked. “You’re up, Doc.”

I grabbed the zucchini from the demo table and the hose from Hazel. “First, you stay calm. Then you wrap the wound to slow the bleeding. And if you’re lucky enough to have a garden hose handy—”

I wrapped the zucchini with gauze, looping the hose like a tourniquet. The kids cracked up. The seniors nodded. And someone clapped.

When I looked up, Ruby stood across from me, hands on her hips, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining.

“You’re a natural,” she said.

I shook my head. “Hardly. But I like this classroom a lot better.”

By midday, the site buzzed with energy. Picnic blankets dotted the hill, music drifted from Hazel’s speaker, and Eleanor passed out cookies shaped like anatomical hearts. Ruby leaned into me as we watched from a bench beneath a willow tree we’d saved during the clearing process.

“We really did it,” she whispered.

“We’re just getting started,” I replied.

And I meant it. Because this wasn’t just a building. It was the beating heart of something new—something we’d built not from ambition or obligation, but from love.

The call came just after lunch, when the scent of fresh basil from Ruby’s new herb beds still lingered on my shirt. I stepped away from the crowd of volunteers painting the fence in mismatched pastels and answered with a casual, "This is Damien."

“Dr. Cole,” the contractor said, voice tight. “We’ve had a delay with the custom flooring shipment. Manufacturer issue. It’s going to set us back about a week. Maybe more. I’m really sorry.”

A year ago, that kind of news would’ve had me snapping like a dry branch. Back then, I would’ve launched into damage control—emails, escalation, firing threats.

Instead, I looked over at Ruby. She was helping a group of kids stencil wildflowers onto ceramic tiles. One of them had paint in his hair and a grin the size of Texas. Ruby glanced up and caught my eye, raising a brow in that teasing, questioning way that said, “Are we okay?”

I smiled.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I told the contractor. “We’ll pivot. Just keep me updated.”

He exhaled in relief. “You got it. Again, I’m sorry.”

I pocketed my phone and walked over to Ruby, slipping an arm around her waist. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned into me.

“Was that the flooring guy?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“And?”

“Shipment’s delayed. Opening’s pushed back a week.”

She winced. “Yikes.”

I nodded, then shrugged. “We pivot.”

Her smile bloomed instantly. “You just used my favorite word.”

“Pivot?” I asked, pretending to frown. “Not ‘efficiency’ or ‘scalpel’?”

“Nope,” she said, looping her arms around my neck. “We.”

That one word hit harder than I expected. She didn’t mean it as a throwaway. It was the difference between who I used to be and who I was now. Not a solo force. Not a fortress. But a partner. A teammate. A man willing to pivot.

I kissed her temple and whispered, “You make ‘we’ feel easy.”

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