Page 13

Chapter thirteen

R uby

The bell over the bakery door chimed just as I stepped in, and every head in the room snapped in my direction like I was carrying a flaming torch instead of my purse.

I blinked.

Three women near the pastry case leaned closer together, their whispers loud enough to count as commentary.

Two teenagers nudged each other, then immediately pretended to be interested in bagels.

And at the back booth, old Mr. Langley actually lifted his bifocals to get a better look at me—then nodded like he’d just solved a mystery.

Oh no.

This wasn’t about the gala awards. This was about something else entirely.

“Morning, sugar,” Eleanor sang from behind the counter, wearing her signature floral apron and the exact kind of knowing smile that made me want to reverse into a potted plant. “Fancy seeing you out in the daylight.”

I slid my sunglasses off, already regretting my outfit—a cute sundress that now felt like walking proof I’d had a very good night.

“Just here for a croissant,” I said too brightly.

Eleanor chuckled as she poured coffee into a floral to-go cup. “Sure, you are.”

“Seriously.” I pointed to the pastry display. “See? That one with the little chocolate drizzle? He’s my real soulmate.”

She handed me the cup but didn’t let go. Her eyes sparkled. “You know, I always hoped you’d find a man who looked at you like a bouquet he never wants to unpick.”

I choked on air.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“You heard me.” She winked. “And I heard you told him you loved him. In front of a ballroom full of people. That’s some Nora Ephron-level courage, honey.”

I pressed a hand to my forehead, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Oh, great. So, this is just... public record now?”

“Small town, darling. Gossip travels faster than a sneeze in a Sunday pew.”

I groaned. “Pretty sure Damien still thinks I’m a human hurricane.”

Eleanor leaned on the counter, her tone softening. “Darlin’, sometimes hurricanes clear space for sunshine.”

I paused.

Of course, she’d say something like that—wrapped in sugar and wisdom, tucked into a buttery bakery bun. And maybe she was right. Maybe Damien didn’t mind a little chaos. Maybe he needed it.

Maybe… we both did.

I took a sip of coffee, needing the heat to anchor me. “So, everyone knows we’re… whatever we are?”

She tilted her head. “Let me put it this way: if he kisses you under the flower arch during next week’s Founders Festival, the mayor will probably declare a holiday.”

I groaned again and reached for my croissant. “Please tell me they’re at least still talking about who won the community spirit award.”

“Oh, they are,” Eleanor said cheerfully. “But only because you and Damien basically reinvented what it means.”

My cheeks flamed.

I turned, ready to make my escape, but just as I reached the door, she called after me, “Ruby?”

I glanced back.

Her expression turned fond, almost maternal. “Don’t run from the good stuff, okay? Sometimes love feels bigger than we’re ready for. But that doesn’t mean we’re not built to hold it.”

I smiled, heart swelling. “Thanks, Eleanor.”

Outside, the morning sun spilled across the sidewalk, and the town of Cedar Springs bustled like nothing had changed. But I had. Damien had. We had.

And no amount of small-town whispers or future fears could change that.

We were still standing—messy, vulnerable, and together.

And for once, I wasn’t bracing for the storm.

I was the storm.

But maybe, just maybe… I was also the beginning of something beautiful.

I don’t know why I thought cooking dinner together would be romantic.

Maybe it was the way Damien looked in a plain black T-shirt, sleeves hugging those surgeon arms like they’d been tailored for distraction. Or maybe it was because every sappy rom-com said the best relationships were built in messy kitchens with soft lighting and flour-dusted kisses.

What those movies failed to mention? The soft lighting turns harsh real fast when the smoke detector starts screaming bloody murder.

“Okay, don’t panic!” I shouted, waving a dishtowel under the smoke alarm as Damien opened the window over the sink.

“I’m not panicking,” he replied, far too calmly, like the sizzling pan of now-charred garlic bread wasn’t still spitting sparks behind him. “I’m just questioning your definition of ‘medium heat.’”

I narrowed my eyes. “It was medium. The oven’s just dramatic.”

He raised one dark brow. “That bread is less ‘toasted’ and more ‘sacrificed to the underworld.’”

I stomped over to the stove and snatched the pan off the burner. “Fine. You handle the garlic bread, Dr. Fire Marshall. I’ll finish the sauce.”

“About that,” he said, suddenly sheepish. “I may have accidentally added twice the chili flakes.”

I blinked. “You what?”

“I thought they were dried basil.”

I looked at the sauce. Red. Angry. Bubbling like a potion from a Grimm fairytale.

“Damien!”

He held up his hands. “In my defense, the labels were faded, and you keep them in mismatched jars like you’re running a medieval apothecary.”

I jabbed a wooden spoon toward his chest. “You don’t get to insult my spice system and ruin my marinara.”

He stepped closer, arms crossed. “You’re the one who invited me to help. Helping is what I do. Efficiently.”

“Oh, I see. So now it’s my fault for letting you near a stove?”

He grinned. “Well, if we’re assigning blame—”

“You know what?” I said, slicing a carrot aggressively. “Just because I chop veggies at an angle doesn’t mean I’m wrong!”

“Actually,” he said, smug as ever, “that’s exactly what it means.”

I whipped around, brandishing the carrot like a weapon. “Say that again. I dare you.”

Instead of answering, he laughed—really laughed—eyes crinkling, shoulders shaking like he couldn’t believe the mess we’d made.

And just like that, my frustration fizzled.

I tried to hold onto the indignation, but it was hard when his smile was that disarming. And when I realized we were arguing about chili flakes and carrot geometry in a kitchen filled with half-cooked chaos, I couldn’t help it.

I burst out laughing.

“Okay,” I admitted, dropping the carrot and leaning against the counter. “We’re officially a disaster.”

“A functional one,” he offered, closing the gap between us.

I looked up at him. “Functionally flammable.”

He dipped his head, forehead almost brushing mine. “At least the company’s hot.”

A groan escaped my lips. “You did not just make a fire pun.”

“I regret nothing,” he said, brushing a smudge of flour off my cheek. His fingers lingered. “Although I think you’re still winning the flour fight.”

“Oh really?” I reached up and dabbed a finger into the bag of flour on the counter, smearing a streak across his jaw like a war stripe. “Now we’re even.”

He leaned in, eyes flicking to my lips. “You sure?”

I nodded slowly. “Positive.”

He kissed me then—soft and sweet at first, like an apology for all the bickering. Then deeper, as if tasting the storm beneath the laughter. I melted into him, arms looping around his neck, the kitchen forgotten for a few seconds that stretched like silk.

Then the smoke detector went off. Again.

We both groaned and burst out laughing mid-kiss.

“Okay, that’s it,” Damien said, reaching for a chair to silence the alarm. “I’m ordering pizza before we set the whole neighborhood ablaze.”

“Good call.” I grabbed the sauce pot and marched it to the sink. “This is officially unredeemable.”

“Much like your cutting technique,” he called over his shoulder.

I threw a potholder at him. He ducked, still grinning.

We were messy. Loud. Slightly combustible.

But for the first time, I wasn’t trying to fix that. For the first time, I was starting to believe maybe someone could love the chaos.

Maybe someone already did.

I stood in the doorway of the back room, a cup of steaming tea in one hand and a bundle of blueprints in the other. Damien sat at the worktable, sleeves rolled, glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through a medical journal, he’d “accidentally” left in my shop for the third time this week.

“You ready for the grand tour?” I asked, lifting the rolled sketches like they were sacred scrolls.

He looked up, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Of your imagination?”

“Exactly,” I said, moving to the table and unrolling the plans with a flourish. “Welcome to the future rooftop garden of Bloom & Wild.”

He leaned in, studying my messy sketches with genuine focus. “You want to build this on the roof?”

“Picture it,” I said, pointing. “Raised flower beds, a pergola covered in climbing jasmine, and this section—” I circled an uneven square “—would be a little seating area for small events. Book readings, tea parties, maybe grief therapy sessions with a touch of green healing.”

He stayed quiet, and for a second, my heart skittered.

Then he reached out, tracing one of the pencil-drawn flower beds with his fingertip. “You’ve thought this through.”

“Maybe a little obsessively.” I bit my lip. “But I’ve been craving something more than just... arranging bouquets for birthdays and apologies. I want this place to mean something. I want it to help people bloom again—literally and emotionally.”

Damien looked up, his gaze soft. “You’ve already done that. For this town. For me.”

Warmth rushed to my cheeks. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Cole.”

“No promises.” He leaned back, thinking. “You know, your rooftop idea... it could work hand-in-hand with something I’ve been sketching in my head.”

“Oh?”

He reached for a napkin and pulled a pen from his pocket—because of course he always carried one—and started drawing.

“What if we created a wellness outreach center? Something small, local. A place where people could get checkups, learn stress management, maybe even blend medical advice with holistic support.”

I blinked. “Wait—you mean like—my flowers and your brain in one building?”

He chuckled. “Well, maybe not my brain exactly, but yes. Medical guidance without the hospital sterility. Pair that with your therapeutic garden space...”

“And we have a whole-person healing haven,” I finished, heart thumping.

We sat side by side, candles flickering on the table, the scent of fresh eucalyptus and lavender filling the air. My shop had never felt so alive. Between our coffee mugs, flower clippings were scattered like confetti—peony petals, sprigs of rosemary, a rogue daisy stem or two.

It didn’t feel like work. It felt like building something that could change lives.

Something we were building.

Damien passed me the pen, and I added little lanterns to his sketch. “You think people would come?”

He met my eyes. “If you’re there? Absolutely.”

I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close we were. His arm brushed mine. His knee knocked gently against mine beneath the table. The room was quiet except for the soft scratch of pen on paper and the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the wall.

He looked at me like I was something precious. Like my chaos didn’t scare him anymore.

And for the first time, I believed I didn’t have to tone it down to be loved.

“You ever think,” I whispered, “that maybe all those things we used to chase were just distractions from what we actually wanted?”

He nodded. “Every day since I met you.”

I grinned. “You’re a lot mushier than you let on.”

“Only for you,” he murmured.

The candles burned low. The ink on our napkin-plans smudged where I’d leaned too far over the table. We were tangled together in purpose and something bigger than either of us had dared to hope for.

And just before I blew out the last candle, I thought—this is it. This is how it begins. With pen and paper. With laughter and ideas. With someone who believes in your dreams enough to draw new ones beside them.

I woke early the next morning to the soft shuffle of paper under the door.

The shop was quiet, morning sun just beginning to paint gold across the wooden floor. I padded across the room barefoot, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

A single envelope peeked out from beneath the door.

No return address. Just Damien’s name written in crisp, bold lettering.

My stomach tightened.

I bent down, picked it up, and turned it over in my hand.

And frowned.