Page 1

Chapter one

R uby

With one arm full of mismatched wildflower bundles wrapped in brown paper and the other balancing a dangerously full to-go latte, I tried to shoulder my way out of the back door of the shop.

Naturally, the bell above the door snagged in my hair, jolting me mid-step and sending a stem of baby’s breath flying into the wind.

“Great,” I muttered, swiping at the flyaway curls clinging to my lip gloss. “Exactly the ‘I’ve got it all together’ look I was going for.”

Today was supposed to be important. No—monumental.

My shop, Ruby Bloom, had been nominated for the Cedar Springs “Business of the Year” award, and for the first time in my life, people weren’t whispering bless her heart after every mention of my name.

This event could finally prove I was more than the messy girl who forgot to send in her tax forms last quarter and once stapled her cardigan sleeve to a customer’s receipt.

This was my shot to prove I wasn’t just a creative disaster. I was a businesswoman. A professional. A florist with actual systems now, thank you very much—ones that included color-coded Post-its and everything.

I just had to survive this morning.

Which meant getting to Hazel’s café, grabbing the custom lavender scones for the VIP shelf display, and getting back to the shop before the mayor’s wife arrived to browse her weekly peonies. Easy.

I speed-walked down Main Street like a caffeine-fueled tornado in yoga pants and mismatched socks, my latte splashing dangerously close to my thumb. The flower bundles bobbed with every uneven step, making me look like a deranged woodland creature hauling springtime chaos.

The bell above Hazel’s café jingled as I shoved the door open with my hip, head down and breathless. “Hazel! Tell me you remembered the—”

Crash. Splash. Swear.

A tidal wave of hot latte erupted from my cup and splattered across a human wall of white cotton.

I gasped and stumbled back, narrowly saving the bouquet from its doom. The man I’d just baptized in espresso stood completely still, his jaw tight, his now-drenched dress shirt clinging to a clearly defined chest.

He looked like someone who belonged in a Manhattan boardroom, not standing in the middle of Hazel’s cozy café with flower petals stuck to his sleeve. Salt-and-pepper stubble lined his jaw, and his steel-gray eyes narrowed at me with military-grade precision.

“Oops.” I cringed, and then, because panic tends to bring out my inner weirdo, I grinned. “Looks like you’ve officially been flower-baptized into Cedar Springs.”

A slow blink. “Do people here assault strangers as part of their morning routine, or is this just your specialty?”

I straightened, determined not to let the heat in my cheeks turn into full-on embarrassment. “It’s not my specialty,” I said with forced cheer. “More like…an occasional bonus.”

He glanced down at his shirt, jaw clenched. “It’s scalding. And it smells like vanilla bean and regret.”

“That’s the limited-edition blend.” I paused. “You’re welcome?”

Hazel peeked from behind the counter, her brows lifting when she spotted the human collision zone. “Ruby! I told you I’d bring the scones to you.”

“Too late now,” I whispered, still locked in an awkward stare-off with Mr. Sizzling Fury. “I’ve already baptized a customer.”

He stepped back and tugged a damp napkin from the counter, dabbing at his shirt with surgical precision. His expression never changed—cool, unreadable, mildly homicidal.

“Next time,” he said, voice dry as toast, “maybe keep the coffee in the cup and the chaos in your shop.”

“That’s a big assumption,” I muttered. “You think my chaos stays in the shop?”

He turned, clearly done with me, and strode toward the exit like a man who had more important places to be than in the orbit of a frazzled florist with questionable coordination.

And yet, just before he pushed the door open, he looked over his shoulder.

Just one sharp, lingering glance.

And oh no. There it was.

The spark.

That undeniable zing of chemistry, wrapped in annoyance and low-level mutual disdain. The kind of look that screamed: We are absolutely going to ruin each other’s lives, aren’t we?

The door shut behind him, leaving only the faintest scent of burnt coffee and trouble.

Hazel walked over, balancing a tray of perfectly wrapped lavender scones and shaking her head. “Ruby,” she said, amused. “Do you have any idea who that was?”

“I don’t know, Hazel,” I said, eyes still locked on the door. “But I’m guessing he’s not a hugger.”

She laughed softly. “That’s Dr. Damien Cole. Heart surgeon. Billionaire. Former big city bad boy. Moved here last year. Keeps to himself.”

I blinked. “Wait. That Damien Cole? The guy renovating the old Hawthorne estate?”

Hazel nodded. “The very one. He donated a whole wing to the town clinic, and rumor has it he’s one of the judges for the Business of the Year award.”

My mouth fell open. “Of course he is.”

Of course, the one man I managed to douse in coffee this morning was the same man who might determine whether I finally get taken seriously.

I grabbed the tray of scones with a sigh. “Well, this should be fun.”

Hazel patted my arm. “Ruby, I have a feeling you and Dr. Cole are going to get very…familiar.”

I didn’t respond.

Because deep down, I had that same, horrible feeling too.

…

I shoved open the door to Ruby Bloom with my hip, balancing the box of lavender scones and pretending I hadn’t just coffee-bombed Cedar Springs’ most eligible grump.

The little bell over the doorway jingled like nothing in the world was off-kilter, which felt downright rude given my current emotional state.

Hazel stood behind the counter, arranging a tray of mini succulents into a heart-shaped pattern. I was about to comment on her overachieving plant feng shui when she looked up and smirked.

"Well, if it isn’t the floral assassin herself," she said, hands on hips. "How’s your victim?"

"Moody. Impeccably dressed. Still not a fan of hot beverages or small talk." I set the box down with more force than necessary and wiped a stray smear of frosting off my cheek. “And annoyingly symmetrical. I mean, who looks that put together at eight a.m.? It’s unnatural.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow. "I don’t know, Ruby. I’m starting to think you liked what you saw under that latte."

I threw her a look. “Oh, please. The man practically had steam coming out of his ears. I spilled one overpriced drink and suddenly I’m on his hit list.”

“Well,” she said, reaching for a peony that had drooped slightly in the display, “in his defense, you did baptize him in vanilla bean.”

“An accident,” I said. “A very unfortunate, very caffeinated accident.”

Hazel gave a dramatic sigh and tossed a bloom into the compost bin. “At least you’ll never see him again.”

I snorted. “Hazel, I live in Cedar Springs. You know what that means?”

She raised both brows.

“Everyone knows everyone. And now everyone will know me as the girl who scalded the town recluse with an oat milk latte.”

She chuckled. “Better than that time you tripped and landed in the mayor’s birthday cake.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three,” she corrected.

I flopped onto the stool near the register and bit into a scone like it had personally wronged me. “Let’s just survive the council meeting, then we can start plotting my rebranding campaign.”

Hazel winked. “I hear Hot Mess to Business Success is trending.”

…

The council chamber always smelled like lemon polish and overambition.

I took my usual seat near the front with Hazel beside me and tried not to fidget.

Around us, Cedar Springs’ local business owners were buzzing with pre-announcement chatter.

The annual Business of the Year gala was a big deal, and this year, rumor had it there’d be some “new energy” injected into the planning.

Translation: someone probably suggested karaoke.

From the podium, Eleanor James tapped her gavel gently, her pearl earrings catching the light as she smiled over the room. “Welcome, everyone. I won’t keep you long. I know you all have shops to open, clients to see, and bouquets to deliver—” her eyes landed on me “—and perhaps apologies to make.”

The room chuckled.

I smiled politely and took a careful sip of my tea.

“As you know,” Eleanor continued, “we’re preparing for this year’s Business of the Year gala, a night that celebrates everything our little town does so well.

And I’m thrilled to announce this year’s event will be co-hosted by two individuals who embody Cedar Springs’ charm, creativity, and—let’s just say—opposing styles. ”

My stomach did a slow, uneasy roll.

“Ruby Shea,” she said with a proud nod in my direction, “and Dr. Damien Cole.”

I choked mid-sip.

Hazel smacked my back as I coughed uncontrollably, tea dribbling down my chin like a slow-motion horror show. I looked up, eyes watering, to find every head turned toward me—and one particular jawline clenched so tight I could practically hear it grind.

Damien Cole sat across the room, his back ramrod straight, one brow arched ever so slightly. If murder could be committed with a glance, I’d be a chalk outline on the council carpet.

Eleanor, ever unbothered, clasped her hands like she’d just orchestrated the town’s next great love story. “I thought it fitting. Dr. Cole, with his experience and organization, and Ruby, with her creativity and passion, will create an event to remember.”

He didn’t speak.

I, unfortunately, did.

“There must be a mistake,” I said, still coughing. “Or a... miscommunication. Or a cosmic joke gone too far.”

“I assure you, dear,” Eleanor replied sweetly, “the only joke here is how long it’s taken for this partnership to happen.”

The room tittered again. I side-eyed Hazel, who looked like she was fighting a smile.

Damien stood slowly, eyes never leaving mine as he made his way to the podium. He adjusted the mic with practiced ease and spoke in that clipped, smooth tone that made you feel like you’d just been handed a prescription and a deadline.

“I’m happy to serve Cedar Springs,” he said, voice calm. “Despite unexpected…collaborations.”

Then he turned, walked back to his seat, and paused beside me just long enough to mutter under his breath—

“Try not to spill anything at the podium.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I whispered back, sugary sweet. “Next time, I’ll aim lower.”

His smirk was faint. Infuriating. And maybe—just maybe—intrigued.

He walked away, leaving a storm of questions swirling in my chest.

And one very uncomfortable realization:

This gala was going to be war.