Page 10

Chapter ten

D amien

I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of my charcoal-gray suit for the third time. The jacket hugged my shoulders like it had been stitched from memory. Tailored. Crisp. Immaculate.

It looked perfect.

And felt like a lie.

This wasn’t me—not really. Not anymore.

I ran a hand over my jaw, the familiar prick of stubble grounding me. Somewhere beneath the polished surface was the man who used to perform triple bypasses without blinking. Who used to chase perfection like it owed him something. Who used to believe that control meant safety.

The man who once stood in a sterile OR while the press hounded the hospital lobby for a glimpse of “the miracle surgeon.”

I remembered that surgery. A teenage heart transplant. Cameras outside. Reporters waiting. My mentor’s voice crackling through my earpiece as I scrubbed in: “They’re calling you the golden scalpel now.”

As if that was a compliment. As if it didn’t make me feel like a tool instead of a man.

The kid survived. The headlines praised me. The board offered bonuses. And that night, I went home and stared at my ceiling in silence, wondering why I felt absolutely nothing.

I adjusted my collar. Loosened it. Tightened it again.

My phone buzzed from the dresser.

Brandon: Whatever you do tonight—don’t just play it safe. Play it honest.

I stared at the message.

Honest.

Like telling Ruby I’d been on the verge of leaving again.

Like admitting that I wasn’t sure if I knew how to stay.

The shop door had creaked when I stepped inside earlier that day. She’d been mid-laugh with Hazel, the sunlight turning her hair gold, a spray of eucalyptus in one hand. She’d turned, surprised. Her smile had faltered.

I didn’t blame her. I’d been halfway out the door of her life since the moment I stepped into it.

And still, she’d said, Then don’t.

The smallest invitation. The biggest risk.

Now here I was, in a suit I hated, heading to a gala I’d helped plan, torn between a future that fit neatly on a Manhattan skyline and a messy, beautiful life blooming here in Cedar Springs.

My heart beat faster. Not from anxiety.

From choice.

I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

The town hall was unrecognizable. Warm light spilled through the stained-glass windows, and music drifted into the street. I caught my reflection in a window as I walked up the steps—sharp lines, serious face, shoulders too tight.

I’d worn this same expression to funerals and fundraisers. But tonight, I wanted something different.

I wanted to feel alive.

Inside, laughter and music mingled. Couples danced beneath strings of twinkling lights. Centerpieces of wildflowers and herbs sat on every table, their scent fresh and grounding. Ruby’s touch was everywhere—chaotic and vibrant, like her.

I spotted Eleanor chatting with the mayor. Brandon was refilling punch. Hazel wore a sunflower-yellow dress that probably doubled as a personality.

And then I saw her.

Ruby stood across the room in a deep violet dress, soft fabric cinched at her waist, her hair in loose waves pinned with tiny pearls. Her cheeks glowed with something that wasn’t just blush.

She looked like herself. Fully, unapologetically herself.

And it nearly brought me to my knees.

She caught me staring. Her gaze held for a beat—long enough to make my chest ache—then she turned to shake hands with the mayor. I’d missed that spark. That ease. That way she filled a room like light catching on glass.

And I had no idea if I still had a place in her orbit.

“Dr. Cole,” said a woman with a clipboard, snapping me back to Earth. “They’d like the co-hosts near the flower arch in five.”

“Copy that,” I said automatically.

I found Ruby waiting by the arch, holding a champagne flute she wasn’t drinking. The crowd milled behind us, but in this moment, it felt like we were the only two people tethered in place while the rest of the world swirled on.

“You ready?” I asked.

She smiled, but it was the kind she used when she wanted people to stop asking questions. “Fake it till you make it, right?”

I shook my head, voice low. “I’m tired of faking anything around you.”

She stilled.

Just for a second. Then she turned toward the flash of the photographer, lifting her glass with another radiant, practiced smile.

But her fingers were trembling.

We greeted guests’ side by side, smiling for photos, shaking hands. Her laughter floated up too high. Mine was too flat. We were polished. Posed.

And one glance was all it took to know we were both unraveling beneath the surface.

Later, she disappeared briefly before the speeches. The mayor kicked things off with a few words about small-town unity and progress, then introduced Ruby to the stage.

The moment she stepped under the spotlight, the room quieted. Her heels clicked softly on the hardwood, echoing through the hush.

“Hi,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Ruby Shea, which basically means I’ve probably dropped a flower bucket near you at some point.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

She smiled. Real, this time.

“When I came back to Cedar Springs, I didn’t think I’d stay long. I thought I’d fix up the shop, maybe heal a little, then get out before anyone noticed the glitter in my hair or the fact that I talk to plants.”

More laughter.

“But you did notice. And instead of shoving me out, this town opened its arms. You showed up. Again, and again. For flowers, for hugs, for gossip and cookies. And last week, when disaster hit my shop… you didn’t just show up. You held me together.”

Her voice wavered. She looked out at the crowd, then down at her shoes, blinking fast.

“I used to think being a ‘mess’ meant you weren’t enough. But I’ve learned that sometimes, messes bloom into something beautiful. And if you’re lucky, someone sees that beauty even before you do.”

Her eyes flicked to me.

Not long enough for anyone else to notice.

Long enough for me to feel it in my ribs.

The crowd erupted in applause. She curtsied—actually curtsied—and gave an awkward laugh as she left the stage. As she passed me, her hand brushed mine. Deliberate. Barely a whisper of skin.

But it steadied me more than any scalpel ever had.

I watched her melt into a group of guests, cheeks pink, hands fluttering as people praised her speech. I stood back, watching from the edge like I always had.

Only this time, I didn’t feel like an outsider.

I felt like someone trying not to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him.

And that was new.

And terrifying.

And maybe… worth everything.

The soft hum of a string quartet floated through the courtyard doors, casting notes of something slow and aching into the night air. Inside, couples swayed beneath a sky of fairy lights and tulle, the glow of the gala wrapping everything in gold. But I wasn’t inside.

I was out here—because Ruby was.

I spotted her pacing along the garden path, heels in one hand, her violet dress brushing her ankles like a restless breeze. The moon caught on her bare shoulders. Her braid was unraveling, soft curls escaping around her face. She looked like a fever dream I didn’t know how to wake up from.

She paused when she saw me, shoulders tensing. “You here to dance?” she asked, voice too casual.

“No,” I said honestly, stepping into the light. “I came out to find you.”

Her jaw worked. “Of course. Just in time to almost say something.”

That caught me off guard. “What does that mean?”

She turned to face me fully. “It means you keep almost choosing me, Damien. At the inn. At the shop. In the clinic. You keep getting so close—saying things, touching me like you mean it—and then you pull away like I’m a risk you can’t afford to take.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

She let out a laugh that was anything but amused. “You know what’s ironic? I was never afraid of you hurting me. I was afraid you’d make me hope again. And you did.”

“Ruby—”

“You make me want things, Damien. And then you leave me standing in the middle of them alone.”

“I never meant to leave you.”

“But you do. Over and over. With silence. With doubt. With that look you get like you’re already halfway gone.”

I swallowed hard. “Because I’m terrified.”

She blinked.

“You scare me,” I said, stepping closer. “You make me want things I swore I didn’t need anymore. A life. A home. Someone to wake up beside who doesn’t just admire what I do—but sees me. All of me. And still stays.”

She whispered, “I do see you.”

My heart felt like it might split open in my chest.

“I’ve spent years being the guy with answers. In hospitals. In surgery. In grief. I knew my purpose. I was useful. Predictable. Respected.”

She tilted her chin. “But not happy.”

“No,” I admitted. “Not happy.”

The night wind rustled the ivy-covered trellis behind her. The smell of roses and something citrusy—hers—hung in the air between us.

“I love you, Damien.”

My breath caught.

She said it like it had been waiting to break free. Like it hurt to say. Like it hurt more not to.

“I do,” she continued, voice shaking. “And if you leave, I’ll survive. I’ve survived worse. But if you stay…” She took a step forward. “If you stay, maybe—just maybe—we both get to stop surviving and actually start living.”

I stood frozen, words caught behind the tidal wave rising in my throat. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Her eyes searched mine for something—hope, maybe. Or the courage I hadn’t yet found.

But I didn’t give it to her.

So, she gave me a sad, soft smile instead—the kind you give someone right before goodbye.

And then she walked past me, barefoot on the flagstone path, into the soft shadows of the courtyard, and disappeared back inside the party.

I didn’t stop her.

I turned toward the roses and braced my hands on the wrought-iron railing, her words echoing in my ears like a vow and a dare all at once.

I love you. I do. But if you stay…

Behind me, the music swelled into the slow dance. A song I didn’t recognize. A rhythm I couldn’t follow.

Because the only beat I could hear now was the echo of her footsteps, walking away.