Page 56 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“What?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

I reached over, ran my knuckles along her jaw, and murmured, “You’re my best decision.”

Her breath caught slightly, her fingers tightening around the book before she slowly closed it and set it aside.

“You mean that?” she asked.

“More than anything I’ve ever meant in my life.”

She smiled, soft and real, then leaned in. I kissed her forehead, letting it linger. Then her cheek. Her skin was warm beneath my lips, her pulse fluttering beneath her jaw.

When our mouths met, it was slow—like we were building something, not breaking anything.

No urgency. Just the quiet certainty that this mattered.

She moved closer, shifting onto my lap as her hands framed my face. The kiss deepened. I pulled her closer, one arm wrapped securely around her waist, the other resting against her back. Her fingers tangled in my hair, and her breath hitched as our mouths moved in sync, slow and tender and full of everything we hadn’t said yet.

She pulled back just enough to whisper against my lips, “I want this.”

Her voice was steady, but her eyes were shining.

“Not just tonight,” she added. “Us.”

I kissed her again—gentle and sure—and said, “Then you’ve got me. All of me.”

She smiled through it, her hands resting on my chest as I stood and lifted her into my arms.

The book slid to the floor with a soft thump.

I carried her down the hall, the dim light catching in her hair as she rested her head against my shoulder.

And when the bedroom door clicked shut behind us, the world outside faded away.

The morning light was still soft and pale when I eased out of bed, careful not to wake her. Ruby was tangled in the covers, onearm draped over my pillow, her mouth slightly parted in sleep. I paused at the edge of the bed, watching her for a moment.

How she looked so peaceful in a world so loud, I’d never know.

I pulled on a hoodie, scribbled a quick note, and stepped outside, closing the door behind me as quietly as I could.

The garden bed was already half-dug behind her porch—a project I’d started on a whim, unsure if I’d have the courage to finish it. But after last night, I knew I needed to.

Not for her.

Forus.

I worked silently, the early birds chirping, the smell of fresh soil rising in the breeze. By the time the sun crested over the treetops, I’d smoothed the last scoop of dirt and placed a hand-painted sign at the center of the bed.

The words were simple, written in my terrible, blocky handwriting.

“For every bloom you’ve ever planted in me.”

It wasn’t poetry.

But it was honest.

And sometimes, honesty bloomed brightest of all.

Chapter fifteen

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