Page 3

Chapter three

R uby

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.

A few minutes later, the dim glow of lantern lights appeared through the downpour as we pulled up to the Cedar Springs Vintage Inn.

Its ivy-covered porch and clapboard siding made it look like something out of a storybook—if the story involved two completely incompatible people about to be stuck in a room together during a Category Five rain tantrum.

Damien parked and killed the engine. “We’ll wait out the storm here.”

“Wait,” I said, frowning. “You’ve been heading here on purpose?”

“I figured it was smarter than rescuing you off the side of the road again.”

I bit back a retort and followed him up the porch, stomping through puddles as rain plastered my cardigan to my spine. The warm, cinnamon-scented air hit me like a hug when we stepped inside.

Marge appeared from behind the reception desk, her silver curls pinned in a messy bun and her smile wide. “Well, if it isn’t Cedar Springs’ newest comedy duo.”

“Marge,” I said breathlessly, “please tell me you’ve got a room.”

Her eyes twinkled. “You’re in luck. One left.”

Relief poured through me until Damien stepped forward, voice firm. “We’ll take separate keys, please.”

Marge gave a slow blink, then clucked her tongue. “Oh, honey. I said one room. Not two.”

I froze. “What do you mean one room?”

“It’s storm season, love. We’re full up. Booked solid.” She gestured to the ledger with its tidy rows of names and smiley faces. “Only thing left is the Magnolia Suite. Cozy. Romantic. Fireplace. Big bed.”

Damien and I both said at the same time, “That’s not going to work.”

Marge didn’t even blink. “Well, it’s that or the barn.”

I looked at Damien. He looked at me. The storm outside wailed louder.

“Fine,” we muttered in unison.

Marge grinned. “Excellent. You’ll love it. Snuggle Season just started.”

“Snuggle what?” Damien said, narrowing his eyes.

But Marge was already bustling away with the key, calling over her shoulder, “Check out’s at ten! Breakfast is lemon poppyseed scones!”

We climbed the stairs in silence. I refused to feel self-conscious about the squish-squish of my soaked shoes or the way my cardigan clung like an uncooperative toddler.

The Magnolia Suite was at the end of the hall.

Damien opened the door, and we both stepped inside.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

The room was warm and glowy, the fireplace crackling like it belonged in a holiday movie. There were soft blankets draped over a velvet settee, a stack of board games in the corner, and—because life is nothing if not ironic—exactly one enormous bed in the middle of the room.

A bed covered in throw pillows with phrases like “Snuggle Season,” “Cuddle Weather,” and “Let’s Stay In.”

I turned slowly to face him.

“No,” I said immediately.

“Agreed.”

“We can make a pillow wall.”

“Absolutely.”

He dropped his keys on the dresser and started to unbutton his rain-soaked shirt like this was no big deal. Like sharing a room—a bed—with his worst floral nightmare was just another Wednesday night.

I spun around. “Whoa. Hello. Changing over there?”

He didn’t even look up. “I’m not sleeping in wet clothes.”

“Still. A little warning next time before you start peeling layers like a thunderstorm-themed strip show.”

He chuckled under his breath, and I tried really hard not to notice the way his abs looked like they belonged in a firefighter calendar.

Focus, Ruby.

This was a temporary situation.

A weather-induced fluke.

I tossed my tote bag on the floor and flopped onto the bed dramatically, ignoring the flutter in my stomach.

We’d get through this night.

We had to.

As long as I didn’t strangle him first.

…

“So,” I said, arms crossed, toe tapping against the floral rug like it might explode from sheer awkward energy. “How do you feel about pillow barricades?”

Damien stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, eyes scanning the room like he was calculating the distance between the mattress and the moral high ground. He looked like a man facing war, not goose-down throw pillows.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said finally.

I snorted. “On that ?” I pointed to the wooden planks beneath us. “Those are original floorboards. Probably older than Marge. You’ll wake up crankier than usual—and that’s saying something.”

“I’ve slept in worse conditions.”

“Sure. And tomorrow you’ll walk into the gala meeting shaped like a question mark.” I plucked a pillow labeled Let’s Cuddle off the bed and flung it to the side. “Look. We’re adults. Rational human beings. This bed is big enough to avoid accidental limb contact.”

He arched a brow. “You say that like it’s a guarantee.”

“We’ll build a wall,” I said, grabbing more pillows. “Like a fortress of fluff. You stay on your side; I stay on mine. Neutral territory in between.”

“You make it sound like a Cold War.”

“If the Cold War had a fire-lit inn, a traitor mattress, and me trying not to kick you in my sleep—then yeah. Exactly.”

To my surprise, the corner of his mouth tugged upward in the tiniest almost-smile. Not full-blown. But close enough that I saw the ghost of dimples before he masked it with his usual granite expression.

“Fine,” he said. “We split the bed.”

“And the pillows,” I added. “Fifty-fifty.”

He nodded. “No crossing the DMZ.”

“Deal.”

…

Later, after changing into dry clothes (okay, fine—one of Damien’s oversized T-shirts Marge loaned me, which hung down to my knees and smelled like cedar and control issues), we made our way to the inn’s tiny lounge for dinner.

The space was pure storybook: dim sconces, a fire crackling in the hearth, old armchairs that looked like they’d seen generations of secret rendezvous and long games of chess.

Marge served up bowls of butternut squash soup and warm bread that smelled like home. We settled into the nook beside the window—rain still streaking down the glass, wind whistling just beyond the cozy cocoon of the inn.

I wrapped my hands around the soup bowl and inhaled. “I always forget how good it feels to stop.”

Damien glanced over. “You don’t stop often?”

I shook my head. “Not really. Not ever, actually. My brain’s like… a sparkler. Fun, unpredictable, kind of a fire hazard.”

He hummed, clearly not surprised.

I dipped a chunk of bread into my soup, hesitated, and then said it out loud—because maybe the thunderstorm had fried my filter.

“I used to think being a mess meant I’d never be taken seriously.

Like if I wasn’t perfect—if I didn’t have every ribbon and invoice and bouquet lined up just so—no one would believe I could do something real . ”

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

So, I kept going.

“Growing up, I was always the ‘pretty mess.’ The girl who doodled instead of taking notes. Who wore two different shoes to prom. Everyone smiled and shook their heads like, Oh, that’s Ruby, but no one ever looked at me like I was dependable.

Capable.” I forced a laugh. “So now I run a business, and I’ve got lists and spreadsheets and backup plans…

but the glitter still sticks, you know?”

I didn’t mean for it to come out so raw. I stared into my soup like it held some kind of answer.

Damien’s voice was quiet. “Hospitals are machines.”

I looked up.

He stared into the fire, eyes unfocused, like he wasn’t really here. “Every part has a job. Mine was the scalpel. Sharp. Precise. You don’t get to feel things when people’s lives are in your hands. You shut it off. You become useful, not human.”

I blinked.

He glanced over. “I didn’t walk away because I couldn’t handle the pressure. I walked away because I couldn’t remember who I was outside of it.”

Silence settled between us—not heavy, but full. Shared.

“You’re not a scalpel,” I said finally. “You’re just a guy who thinks fairy lights are a crime against humanity.”

His lips twitched. “They’re impractical.”

“And you’re allergic to joy.”

“I prefer functionality.”

“And I prefer sparkle,” I said, raising my spoon. “Guess we balance each other out.”

He looked at me then—really looked.

And something in the air shifted.

Like the room had narrowed around us. Like the crackle in the fire jumped into the space between our knees, our shoulders, our breath.

I wasn’t sure who smiled first, but soon we were both laughing.

Not sarcastic. Not forced.

Just… laughing.

Easy. Warm. Unexpected.

The storm outside howled.

But in here, something softer bloomed.

Something dangerously close to connection.

The storm had quieted, but inside the Magnolia Suite, everything felt louder.

The tick of the antique wall clock.The soft crackle of the fireplace.The inhale and exhale of two people trying not to admit that sharing a bed wasn’t nearly as awkward as it should’ve been.

We lay back-to-back, a pillow wall between us like the last line of defense in a war neither of us really wanted to fight anymore.

I stared at the ceiling, counting the faint flickers of candlelight dancing across the molding. The room smelled like lavender and cedar, like sleep and tension. Outside, wind still tugged gently at the shutters, but the downpour had mellowed to a soft drizzle.

Damien hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

I hadn’t moved in ten.

Still, my brain refused to shut up.

There was something about being wrapped in warm blankets next to the one person who drove you crazy…

and made your heart feel like it might break through your ribs all at once.

Something about the way he had listened earlier, really listened, and shared his story like he didn’t even realize it mattered to me.

I stared at the wall and whispered into the quiet, “You ever wonder if you’re just… too much work to love?”

Silence stretched.

Then—

“Only every day.”

His voice was low. Unfiltered. Like the truth had slipped out before he could guard it behind that calm, careful armor.

I turned.

Slowly, hesitantly, I rolled over and peeked over the pillow wall.

Damien was already facing me.

The glow from the fireplace lit his face in soft gold, tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. He looked nothing like the smug control freak who had argued with me over string lights and everything like the man who’d confessed he once felt more tool than human.

I reached out, brushing my fingers over the pillow that separated us.

He did the same.

The barrier crumpled between us like it had never been there at all.

We lay there, inches apart, and I let myself look—really look—at him.

The furrow in his brow.The pain he didn’t speak of.The part of him that didn’t run from my chaos, even when it clearly terrified him.

And something inside me softened. Broke open.

His hand found mine between the sheets. Rough palm, warm skin, slow grip.

My breath hitched as he leaned closer.

No words.

Just the steady, magnetic pull of two people too tired to fight whatever this was anymore.

The kiss started slow—like we both needed to be sure the world wouldn’t spin out of control.

His lips were warm, soft but firm, patient. No rush, no performance. Just... real .

He kissed me like someone who had waited a long time to feel anything again.

And I kissed him like someone who never thought anyone would want to.

There was longing in it. A shared ache. A tremble of something too fragile to name and too powerful to ignore.

His hand slipped to the side of my neck, thumb brushing just under my jaw. I pressed closer, heartbeat thudding so loud I was sure he could feel it.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against my lips, voice hoarse with something that felt like truth:

“This was never just rivalry, was it?”

I shook my head, unable to speak.

He kissed me again—deeper this time, like a promise. Like a shift in gravity.

The fireplace crackled.

The rain fell soft against the window.

And for once, my thoughts finally quieted.

…

Sunlight warmed my cheek.

I blinked against it, stretching in the oversized bed, limbs tangled in the cozy chaos of soft blankets and fuzzy socks. The pillow beside me was still dented, the scent of cedar and rain clinging to the linen like a memory.

But Damien was gone.

No sound.

Just the imprint of where he’d been—and the cold, empty space where he wasn’t.