Page 23 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“She doesn’t have to like it,” Eleanor said. “She just has to let it happen.”

Marge patted my arm on her way out the door. “You’re a good man, Damien Cole.”

I wasn’t so sure.

But for the first time in a long time, I was certain of what needed to be done.

This time, I wasn’t walking away.

…

It started with a clipboard.

A real one. Not metaphorical. Not digital. A thick, old-school, clipboard Marge dug out of a drawer beneath the inn’s lost-and-found bin, complete with a glittery sticker that read Do Epic Stuff.

Marge had handed it to me like a sword. “You're in charge now, General.”

From there, it escalated quickly.

Word spread through Cedar Springs faster than a spring pollen alert. By noon, Hazel was organizing supply bins. By two, Brandon—fresh off a plane and full of sarcasm—was hauling buckets of salvageable flowers like he hadn’t just performed open-heart surgery three states away yesterday.

“Are you sure this is legal?” he muttered, eyeing the crowd gathered outside Ruby Bloom.

“Fixing a flower shop?” I deadpanned. “Pretty sure we’re not breaking any federal statutes.”

“Still weird to see you like this,” he said, stretching his arms above his head. “You, outside. With people. Talking.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Hazel passed by with a tray of muffins and a megaphone. “Brandon! Stop distracting Damien. He’s in planning mode!”

He winked at me and jogged off to help her.

The doors to Ruby Bloom were propped open, fresh air flowing through the now mostly-dry interior. The burst pipe had been patched up that morning—thanks to Eleanor’s nephew, a very chatty plumber named Gus who kept calling me “Doctor Dreamboat” under his breath like I didn’t have working ears.

Tables were being reassembled. Arrangements remade. Fabric dried, inventory reorganized. The smell of musty drywall was finally losing the war against eucalyptus and citrus oil diffusers.

It was controlled chaos—but the kind I knew how to lead.

“Willow,” I said, pointing to the teenager holding a label maker like a weapon of mass destruction. “You’re on inventory. Start with shelf two. Label what you save.”

“Got it, Dr. Cole.”

“Hazel,” I said, without missing a beat. “We need floral foam in bins three and four. And scissors that don’t look like they belong in a haunted dollhouse.”

“Already on it, Captain Sternface.”

Around me, the shop hummed with life. With purpose. With people who weren’t here for recognition but because they believed in Ruby Shea. Her shop. Her chaotic, color-drenched dream.

And apparently, so did I.

I moved from station to station, calling out supply runs, approving layout adjustments, checking wiring on new lighting Hazel insisted was romantic and rustic, not retail. I kept things moving. Like an OR, but louder. And messier.

Still, the rhythm felt familiar.

I knew how to lead in a crisis.

What I didn’t know how to do was let people help.

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