Page 42 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

I hesitated. “You sure I shouldn’t crawl under the nearest table and fake a sprained ankle?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Ruby Shea, if you can survive a surprise flower shop flood, three public arguments with a grumpy ex-doctor, and one very public almost-kiss, you can definitely survive a few townsfolk and a tray of mini lemon tarts.”

I wiped under my eyes. “Fine. But if anyone tries to slow dance with me, I’m pretending to faint.”

“Deal.” She looped her arm through mine. “But if Damien walks over, maybe give him five seconds before you hit the floor.”

As we stepped back into the warm glow of the gala, the music lifted and twirled around us like possibility. My eyes swept the crowd instinctively—seeking tall, brooding, emotionally unavailable figures in tailored suits.

But Damien wasn’t there.

Not yet.

Still, my pulse steadied.

Because for the first time in a long time, I hadn’t run.

And maybe—just maybe—that was the beginning of something.

Even if it wasn’t the end I’d pictured.

The gala was still in full swing when I ducked out the side door of the community center, heels clicking against the cobblestone path. The night air was cool and scented with roses from the flower arch Eleanor insisted we build near the entrance. Somewhere behind me, laughter rippled, music drifted, and someone shouted about a silent auction bid war on a pie.

I just needed five minutes. Maybe ten. One bouquet. That’s all I was here for.

The shop lights glowed soft and golden as I stepped inside. The familiar scent of lavender and eucalyptus wrapped around me like a welcome-home hug. My heels sank into the worn rug by the counter, the hush of the space a stark contrast to the energy pulsing just a block away.

I headed to the cooler for the special arrangement—white lilies, purple freesia, and a single orchid tucked in the center. It was meant for the final award reveal of the night. Eleanor had insisted on something dramatic. “We’re celebrating heart and beauty,” she’d said. “Make it sing.”

As I reached the counter, I stopped short.

Damien’s suit jacket was draped over the stool. Abandoned like he’d tossed it there without a second thought, like this place had become casual to him. Familiar.

Comfortable.

The thought stirred something sharp and warm in my chest.

I reached for the bouquet—but my eyes landed on his phone, resting face-up on the counter.

It buzzed.

I froze.

The screen lit up with a preview of an email:

“RE: Final Offer—Cardiac Research Initiative, New York”

Still starred. Still unread.

I stared.

I knew I shouldn’t. I knew it.

But my fingers moved anyway, picking up the phone like it was radioactive. I tapped the screen.

The message opened instantly. No password. Just... there.

Like he wasn’t hiding it.

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