Page 2

Chapter two

D amien

The sound of my boots on the hardwood echoed through the quiet stillness of my home. No city sirens. No nurses paging me every thirty seconds. No one bleeding out in front of me.

Just the calm whisper of wind off the lake and the scent of cedar from the trees outside my window.

This place—my lakeside cottage on the outskirts of Cedar Springs—was the first real silence I’d allowed myself in over a decade. And I’d curated it to stay that way. Minimalist, monochrome, clean lines and order. A space where everything had a purpose and everything stayed in its place.

Which was why it drove me absolutely insane that Ruby Shea had waltzed into my morning like a human glitter bomb, knocked coffee onto my shirt, insulted my temperament, and then was rewarded with a starring role in my professional nightmare: co-hosting a gala.

I loosened the top button of my shirt and walked into the kitchen, scanning the spotless countertop as if Ruby might’ve somehow left behind flower petals or a pink Post-it with doodles and sunshine stickers.

She hadn’t, of course. That would’ve required her stepping foot into this controlled bubble I’d built.

Still, she was in my head. And I hated that.

The chaos. The unpredictability. The way she talked with her hands and lit up like a neon sign even while she was arguing.

She reminded me too much of the world I’d left behind.

Years ago, I’d lived in a world where life hung on scalpels and seconds. As a heart surgeon in one of Chicago’s busiest hospitals, I’d thrived on adrenaline, precision, the high of saving lives with nothing but skill and steel.

And then I cracked.

I still remembered the last moment—standing in the OR, gloves soaked, the monitors flatlining, and a nurse whispering, “That’s three in one week, Dr. Cole.”

Three patients. Three losses. All young. All gone.

I walked out that night and never went back.

No dramatic goodbye. No farewell tour.

Just…gone.

Cedar Springs had offered a quieter kind of life. Consulting from afar. Donating to the local clinic. Building a practice in logic and spreadsheets, not scalpels and chaos.

So of course, fate decided to pair me with a woman who radiated chaos.

…

I arrived at the town hall thirty minutes early, laptop bag in hand, pressed shirt wrinkle-free. The planning committee had reserved the meeting room for the gala prep, and I’d already laid out sample budgets, vendor spreadsheets, and a three-phase implementation timeline. I even brought printouts.

I was halfway through syncing the slideshow to the flat-screen TV when the door flew open.

“Sorry! Sorry! Don’t look at me, I know I’m late!

” Ruby burst in like a confetti cannon—arms full of foam board, ribbon, and some kind of sparkly binder that looked like it had been designed by a sugar-high unicorn.

Her hair was in a loose bun, wild curls escaping in every direction, and—was that glitter in her bangs?

She stopped when she saw me at the head of the table.

“Oh. You again.” Her tone was breezy. Too breezy.

“You’re late,” I said without looking up.

“You’re early,” she shot back, like it was a personal affront.

“I prefer to be prepared.”

“I prefer to breathe.”

I watched as she dumped her materials onto the table, scattering swatches, a handful of fairy light samples, and something that looked dangerously like a mood board held together by washi tape and hope.

I gestured to the screen. “I’ve compiled budget scenarios A through D, based on projected attendance, venue availability, and vendor ratings.”

She blinked. “You made… spreadsheets.”

“Yes,” I said, dryly. “That’s how normal people plan things.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Normal? Okay, well, I brought visuals.” She flipped open her binder with a flourish. “I’m thinking a floral arch at the entrance, string lights across the dance floor, and a cozy garden theme. Very romantic. Very Cedar Springs.”

“This isn’t a middle school prom,” I said.

“And you’re not my eighth-grade math teacher,” she snapped. “So maybe let people enjoy things?”

Around us, the other committee members shifted awkwardly. Marge the innkeeper looked far too entertained, and old Mr. Crenshaw from the hardware store had a knowing smirk on his face like he was watching a soap opera come to life.

Ruby leaned in, eyes dancing with challenge. “You really can’t handle not being in control, can you?”

“Not when the alternative is… whatever this is.” I gestured vaguely to her mood board, where a cartoon heart was glued between pressed violets.

She stood straighter. “This is called vision. Passion. Something you might want to look up sometime.”

“And this—” I tapped my laptop “—is called a plan.”

Eleanor James stepped in before the argument could evolve into a full declaration of war. “Why don’t we combine both?” she suggested sweetly. “Damien, your structure. Ruby, your creative spark. Balance, darlings. That’s what makes an event memorable.”

Ruby grinned like she’d just won.

I closed my laptop with a snap. “Fine.”

“Fine,” she echoed.

We both sat down.

But the tension hung in the room like fog on the lake—thick, electric, and refusing to lift.

That night, as I sat by the fireplace nursing a glass of sparkling water, my phone buzzed.

Brandon Tucker. My oldest friend. Still working in the surgical trenches I’d left behind.

I picked up. “Brandon.”

“Just heard from Eleanor,” he said with a chuckle. “She asked me to sponsor the gala; told me you were co-hosting with someone named Ruby Shea.”

“She’s impossible,” I said flatly.

“So… still breathing, huh?”

I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Barely.”

“You know, sounds like she’s the only one in that town who makes your blood pressure rise,” he said. “Want me to send you a prescription for that?”

I hung up.

But the echo of Ruby’s voice lingered in my head far longer than I wanted it to.

…

The weather app on my phone pinged with an alert as I stepped out of the town hall.

Severe Storm Warning: High winds, heavy rainfall, and potential power outages expected within the hour.

Cedar Springs didn’t mess around with storm forecasts. The town might’ve been quaint and cozy, but nature had a way of reminding us who was really in charge out here.

I tucked my phone into my coat pocket and glanced at the darkening sky. What had started as a warm, breezy afternoon was shifting fast—clouds now thick and heavy, the scent of rain clinging to the air like a promise. Or a threat.

A voice behind me broke the moment.

“You really don’t believe in the concept of compromise, do you?”

I turned just in time to see Ruby marching toward me, her arms full of florals, fabric swatches, and what I could only assume was a clipboard covered in rhinestones.

She stopped beside me under the awning; cheeks flushed with irritation—or maybe just from walking uphill in heels that had no business being worn in a town with cobblestone sidewalks.

“Compromise,” I said, “implies that both parties are operating with logic. That’s been… inconsistent in our case.”

She gasped like I’d insulted her cat. “Excuse me?”

“You brought glitter to a planning meeting.”

She held up a finger. “That glitter was biodegradable and thematic. It was part of the 'Enchanted Garden' vision. Which, might I add, got three whole nods of approval from the committee.”

I folded my arms. “So did your suggestion to install a floating lantern pond. That doesn’t mean it’s realistic.”

“It’s called whimsy,” she said, glaring up at me. “Maybe look it up sometime in your dictionary of doom.”

The wind whipped her curls into her face, and she huffed as she pushed them back. A raindrop splattered between us.

I looked up.

The clouds were no longer threatening—they were moving in with force.

“You should get home,” I said, turning toward the parking lot. “This storm isn’t going to wait for you to finish defending confetti.”

“And you should consider lightening up before your face turns into granite.” She stormed off—pun absolutely intended—toward her ancient little hatchback parked near the edge of the lot.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky behind her, and I paused mid-step.

She wasn’t going to make it far in that car. I knew it. Anyone who drove a vehicle that rattled louder than a shopping cart in gravel wasn’t equipped for a flash flood.

Still, I got into my truck. Slammed the door harder than necessary. The rain started seconds later, coming down fast and unforgiving. I wiped my windshield once, twice, before turning onto the road that led toward the main drag of Cedar Springs.

And that’s when I saw her.

Ruby, sitting behind the wheel of her car, the hood up and a defeated expression on her face. She slapped the steering wheel, said something that looked a lot like a curse, and dropped her forehead against the window with the universal sigh of why me?

I pulled up beside her, lowered the passenger window, and called out over the rain, “Get in.”

She blinked at me, confused.

I gestured. “Now. Before the road floods.”

She stared at me like I’d offered her a kidney and insulted her flower arrangements at the same time.

“Are you serious?” she shouted over the storm.

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“Honestly?” she shouted back. “I can’t tell with that face.”

A crack of thunder exploded overhead.

“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.