Page 5

Chapter five

R uby

I stabbed a daisy into a floral foam block with more aggression than any daisy had ever deserved.

The poor thing flopped over sideways, its delicate petals wilting like they, too, couldn’t handle the emotional whiplash of the last seventy-two hours.

Hazel leaned against the counter, sipping a chai latte and giving me the kind of side-eye usually reserved for soap opera plot twists and stolen cookies.

“So…” she said slowly, dragging out the syllable like it owed her rent, “you gonna tell me why you’re sighing like a teenager at a boyband concert?”

I didn’t look up. “I’m not sighing.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow. “Ruby. You’ve sighed five times since I walked in. That’s once every forty-two seconds.”

“That’s not—” I paused mid-snapdragon placement “—an accurate average.”

She smirked and set down her cup. “Then spill. You’ve been acting like someone who had a very specific kind of night in a very romantic inn with a very brooding man who probably smells like expensive soap and moral conflict.”

I winced.

She grinned. “Ah. So, I was right.”

I exhaled, loud and frustrated. “Nothing happened.”

Hazel snorted. “Please. Your version of ‘nothing’ sounds suspiciously like ‘everything.’”

“We talked. That’s all.”

Hazel folded her arms. “And kissed.”

I hesitated. “Once.”

Hazel waited.

“Okay, twice. Maybe three times if you count the fireplace part.”

“Ruby,” she said flatly, “that’s not nothing. That’s Chapter Twelve in a romance novel.”

I set the bouquet down and dropped onto the stool behind the workbench. “Yeah, well, it didn’t come with a happy ending. I woke up and he was gone.”

Hazel’s expression softened. “No note?”

I pulled the crumpled menu from the pocket of my cardigan and held it up. “‘Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for last night. —D.’”

She read it, then slowly lowered the paper. “Oof.”

“Right?” I leaned forward, resting my forehead on the counter. “It’s so polite. So brief. It’s like he performed emotional CPR, then ghosted.”

“Are we sure he ghosted?” Hazel asked gently. “Maybe he just freaked out. Or maybe he’s giving you space.”

“Maybe,” I said, muffled against the countertop. “Or maybe it was just a storm thing. Like, hey, we’re trapped together, let’s share trauma and a few kisses and then never speak of it again.”

Hazel was quiet for a beat, then said, “You don’t actually believe that.”

I sat up. “Don’t I?”

She gave me a look that said, I’ve known you since you wore glitter combat boots in high school, and I’m not buying it.

I crossed my arms. “Look, it’s fine. Really. It’s not like I thought we were going to ride off into the sunset in his truck and start co-parenting succulents.”

“Hmm.”

“Stop ‘hmm’ing.”

“You’ve been rearranging that bouquet for an hour.”

“It’s an intricate design.”

“It’s a sympathy arrangement.”

I scowled.

Hazel reached out and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re allowed to be disappointed, Ruby. You let him see real parts of you. That’s not something you do often.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did,” she said quietly. “Because maybe, deep down, you hoped he’d stay.”

The truth of that hit me like a floral cart with a broken brake. I’d hoped. I hadn’t even realized how much until I’d rolled over to an empty bed and a note that felt more like a receipt than a goodbye.

I got up and busied myself behind the register, trying to pretend I wasn’t still carrying the weight of that moment like an uninvited guest.

The shop door jingled as a customer walked in. I pasted on my customer smile, but Hazel mouthed something behind the display.

Talk to him.

I looked away.

Because for all my bold colors and big ideas, I had no clue what to say when something real started to bloom—and then vanished before I could figure out if it was even mine to keep.

…

I hadn’t expected him to be early.

Damien Cole—Mr. Schedule, Mr. Precision, Mr. Probably-Measured-the-Exact-Number-of-Steps-from-the-Door-to-the-Podium—was already at the town council room table when I walked in.

Of course he was.

I paused in the doorway for a second too long. Long enough to register the crisp lines of his navy sweater, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way he didn’t even look up when the door creaked open.

Not that I was looking at him.

Okay, fine. I was definitely looking at him.

Just long enough to confirm that yes, he looked perfectly put-together and emotionally untouchable.

Meanwhile, I’d barely slept last night, had poked myself twice with florist wire that morning, and had only remembered halfway through the drive that I had a glitter heart stuck to my cheek. I’d left it there out of spite.

I slid into the seat across from him, avoiding eye contact like it might turn me to stone.

“Morning,” I said.

It came out too bright, like someone who was definitely not still wondering why the man across the table had vanished from her bed without a trace of warmth or explanation.

He glanced up. “Morning.”

That was it.

Not Hey. Not Can we talk? Not I regret everything about my very emotionally repressed exit strategy.

Just morning.

We were surrounded by folding chairs, planning binders, and three suspiciously similar muffin baskets from local sponsors, but the air between us crackled like an exposed wire. The tension was electric. Stiff. Unmistakable.

I busied myself with my notes, pretending to care deeply about centerpiece logistics and balloon color palettes.

Damien flipped through his packet with all the animation of a computer loading screen. Efficient. Cold. Unreadable.

“You changed the vendor spreadsheet,” he said flatly.

“I reorganized it,” I replied. “It needed more… sparkle.”

“It didn’t need sparkle. It needed accuracy.”

“Well, now it has both.”

A long pause.

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue.

Across the room, Eleanor James raised a brow as she slowly unwrapped a lemon poppyseed muffin.

“You two okay?” she asked, voice casual—but not really. “I was hoping for fireworks at the gala, not ice storms.”

Damien didn’t flinch. I smiled—too quickly, too fake.

“We’re fine,” I chirped. “Totally fine.”

Eleanor’s gaze lingered. Her expression said she didn’t believe me for a second, but she moved on anyway, diving into a lengthy explanation about table arrangements and the logistics of chair sashes.

I nodded at all the right times, took notes I wouldn’t read later, and tried not to let my eyes drift toward the man across the table who had kissed me like I was the only soft place in the world—and then disappeared like none of it mattered.

He hadn’t followed up. No call. No text. Not even a “Hey, remember when we emotionally undressed each other by a fireplace? LOL.”

And now we were here, pretending to be professionals while the truth buzzed between us like a wasp in a bottle.

I focused on my color swatches instead, trying to find peace in blush tones and muted sage.

Beside me, Marge leaned over with a whisper. “He looks tense. Did you try offering him a cinnamon roll?”

“I’d rather throw one at him.”

She chuckled. “Ah. So, things are going well.”

The meeting dragged on.

Every second felt like a decade.

By the time Eleanor wrapped things up with a cheery, “Let’s make this the most romantic gala Cedar Springs has ever seen,” I was already halfway out the door.

I didn’t look back.

Because looking at Damien meant remembering the heat of his hand on mine, the softness of his voice when he let his walls down, and the way I’d actually believed, for one stupid night, that we’d found something real in the middle of the storm.

But whatever that something was… it was gone now.

And I wasn’t going to be the one to dig through silence trying to find it again.

I unlocked the shop door just after six, still clutching my thermos like it was a lifeline. The air outside was crisp with early morning fog, the kind that settled over Cedar Springs like a blanket soaked in nostalgia.

Inside Ruby Bloom , I expected the usual. The soft scent of eucalyptus, the faint hum of the cooler, the creak of the floorboard by the hydrangeas.

Instead, I got mold.

Not the romantic, woodsy kind of earthy scent either—but something damp, sharp, and wrong.

I froze in the doorway, blinking through the murky half-light. Something dripped—steady, rhythmic. The shop was dark except for a faint pool of glow from the emergency light by the register.

Then I stepped forward.

My boot splashed.

No. No, no, no.

I flicked on the main light, and the full horror hit me like a punch to the chest.

Water. Everywhere.

Petals floated in puddles. Buckets had overflowed. The floor was slick, warped in places. Stems drooped against toppled shelving. An entire corner of my cooler’s wall had darkened with spreading damp, the paint bubbling like it had a secret it no longer wanted to keep.

A pipe. Somewhere behind the prep station wall. The copper one I'd been meaning to replace but kept putting off because of budget and timing and life.

I dropped my thermos and ran, heart racing, slipping slightly as I rounded the back.

The pipe had burst clean through the drywall.

Water gushed from the crack like a nightmare faucet. Cardboard boxes were soaked through. My signature ribbon stash—twenty shades of perfection—was now a watercolor disaster bleeding into each other.

I dropped to my knees in the wreckage, hands flying over fallen blooms, trying to save what I could. Gerbera daisies. Tulips. Ranunculus. My fingers trembled as I sorted, tossed, sobbed—half-cursing, half-praying.

I didn’t even hear Hazel come in until I felt her hand on my shoulder.

“Ruby?” she breathed. “Oh my—what happened?”

I shook my head. Couldn’t form words. Could barely breathe around the tight knot in my throat.

Hazel took one look at the water damage, at me on the floor surrounded by flowers gasping their last, and dropped beside me.

“I worked so hard,” I said. My voice cracked right down the middle. “Hazel, I worked so hard .”

“I know,” she whispered.

“This week was supposed to be big. Memorial service. Gala. Business of the Year. I had orders lined up, backups scheduled—”

“I know.”

“Now it’s all ruined.”

She wrapped her arms around me. Her cardigan was damp before I even realized I was crying into it.

“It’s not ruined,” she said softly. “It’s just… a really crappy plot twist.”

I choked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob.

She pulled back and cupped my face in her palms. “Ruby. You are scrappy, brilliant, and borderline dangerous with a glue gun. This is not the end. It’s a setback.”

“A wet, expensive, flower-murdering setback.”

Hazel offered a smile. “The worst kind.”

I nodded, blinking away more tears. My hands were shaking. My shirt stuck to my skin. I suddenly felt like a little girl who’d tried to build something beautiful and watched it collapse all over again.

“I just need air,” I murmured.

Hazel nodded. “Go. I’ll stay here. Call the plumber. Start sorting.”

I didn’t argue. I grabbed my jacket and fled.

…

The riverwalk was empty, quiet in that early-morning kind of way where every step echoed.

I wandered past the footbridge and followed the curve of the riverbank until I found my favorite bench, the one tucked beneath the willow tree that leaned like it was always listening.

I sat hard, chest heaving, the cold air slicing through the fog of panic I hadn’t been able to shake.

And then, finally, I broke.

Tears spilled fast and silent, my shoulders shaking as I buried my face in my hands. The river whispered behind me. A breeze rustled the reeds. I let myself cry—ugly, messy, no-holding-back tears.

Because it wasn’t just about the water damage.

It was about everything.

Trying to prove I belonged. Trying to be taken seriously. Trying not to fall apart when someone like Damien kissed me like I meant something… and left like I didn’t.

I didn’t hear the footsteps on the bridge.

Didn’t see the shadow that paused.

Didn’t know that across the wooden railing, hidden by early fog and his own hesitation, Damien stood watching.

His jaw was clenched. His eyes locked on me, unreadable. Haunted.

But I didn’t see any of it.

Because I was too busy falling apart—completely unaware that the one person I’d tried so hard not to need… was the only one who couldn’t look away.