Page 7 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“Ruby.”

She hesitated a second longer, then grabbed her purse and climbed out of her car. Rain soaked her within seconds, clinging to her cardigan and making her hair an even bigger explosion of curls. She yanked open the passenger door of my truck, dropped into the seat, and slammed it shut.

Water dripped onto my floor mats. She was dripping everywhere.

She glared at me as she buckled her seatbelt. “Bossy much?”

I pulled back onto the road. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You were thinking it.”

She scoffed and crossed her arms.

Outside, the rain fell harder, drumming against the windshield like a hundred tiny hammers. Inside, the silence between us crackled, thick with storm tension and something else I didn’t want to name.

Not yet.

Chapter three

Ruby

Rain hammered the windshield like it had a personal grudge against humanity. Or maybe just against me.

The storm outside was full-on theatrical now—sheets of water slashing sideways, wind howling through the trees like a pack of furious ghosts. Damien kept both hands steady on the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes laser-focused on the road as his wipers struggled to keep up.

We’d been driving in near silence for fifteen minutes.

Fifteen. Minutes.

And not the good kind of silence, either. The awkward, pressurized kind that buzzed between us like a kettle about to boil over.

I tried not to fidget, but every bump in the road made me jolt. I hated storms. Always had. Blame it on childhood camping trips with leaky tents and thunder that rattled my bones.

Lightning split the sky above us in a jagged flash, so close I felt it in my teeth.

“AHHH!” I shrieked, throwing both hands up instinctively.

Damien didn’t flinch.

He did, however, smirk.

“City girl nerves?” he asked without looking at me, voice maddeningly calm.

I pushed soggy curls out of my face and shot him a glare. “Florist reflexes.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Florist reflexes?”

“Yes,” I said with as much dignity as I could summon while soaking wet in a borrowed truck. “We’re trained to react when delicate things are threatened.”

He snorted. Snorted. The man who could deliver a surgical takedown with nothing but a raised brow actually made a noise of amusement.

“Delicate things,” he repeated, clearly fighting a smile. “Like... yourself?”

“Like flowers,” I snapped. “But sure, include me on that list. I’m delicate adjacent.”

Another rumble of thunder vibrated through the truck. I clutched my tote bag tighter and stared out the window, determined not to give him the satisfaction of another squeak.

---