Page 6

Chapter six

D amien

I’d told myself I wasn’t going to get involved. That stepping back was the mature, measured, self-preserving thing to do. That whatever happened between Ruby and me at the inn had been a storm-fueled fluke—a detour, not a destination.

Then I saw her on that bench.

Collapsed in on herself. Shoulders trembling. Fingers pressed to her face like she was trying to hold everything in—tears, breath, grief, maybe even the pieces of whatever she’d built that was now crumbling around her.

I didn’t call out to her.

Didn’t move from where I stood on the bridge, half-hidden in the morning fog.

Because I recognized that look—the one that said I’m trying to be okay, but I’m losing. I’d seen it once before. When I was nine years old.

My mother had been crumpled on the floor of a hospital corridor, knees tucked to her chest, arms around herself like they were the only things keeping her from shattering. Dad had been in surgery. Complications. Hours of waiting with no updates.

She hadn’t seen me standing there, watching.

But I remembered everything. The sterile smell. The flickering fluorescent light. The quiet sobs she thought no one could hear.

That morning had changed me.

It was the first time I’d sworn I’d never feel helpless again.

And now, here I was—watching someone else I cared about break… and doing exactly the thing I promised myself I never would.

Nothing.

I turned around.

Walked off that bridge.

And didn’t stop until I reached the center of town.

The bell over Eleanor’s café gave a cheerful jingle as I stepped inside. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

It was too early for the usual brunch crowd, but Eleanor was already behind the counter in her signature blue cardigan and reading glasses perched halfway down her nose.

Marge was at the corner table with a half-finished crossword and a steaming mug of what I assumed was her infamous rose-hip tea.

Both women looked up at the same time.

Eleanor narrowed her eyes slightly. “Well, well. Dr. Cole. You’re out before nine and not dressed like you’re going to court. Should we be worried?”

“I need your help,” I said.

Marge set down her pen. Eleanor folded her hands on the counter, curiosity immediately sharpening into something more focused.

“It’s Ruby,” I said.

Eleanor didn’t blink. “Go on.”

“Her shop was damaged. A pipe burst. Half her inventory is waterlogged. She’s trying to fix it herself, but…” I hesitated. “She was at the riverside this morning. Alone. Crying.”

Marge’s face fell. “Oh no.”

“She won’t ask for help,” I added. “But she needs it. And I don’t want her to lose what she’s built. I’ve seen what happens when someone breaks and no one’s there to catch them.”

The words came out harder than I intended.

But they were the truth.

I braced myself for questions. For sideways glances. For a lecture about pride or vulnerability or whatever it was I clearly lacked in the emotional follow-through department.

Instead, Eleanor’s smile spread slow and knowing.

“Finally,” she murmured.

I blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been walking around this town like a pressure cooker with a tie. We’ve all been waiting for you to admit she matters to you.”

“She—” I stopped. Exhaled. “Yes. She does.”

Marge pushed back from the table, already rummaging through her purse. “You came to the right place. We’ve got volunteers who owe us favors and flower-lovers who’d sell their prize-winning tomatoes just to get Ruby back on her feet.”

I looked between them. “You’d really organize that? On short notice?”

Eleanor smirked. “Damien. We ran an entire Founders Day Festival with two weeks’ prep and no electricity. This? This is a restoration mission. With glitter.”

“And community spirit,” Marge added brightly. “But mostly glitter.”

I didn’t smile.

But something in my chest eased.

“She won’t like it,” I warned.

“She doesn’t have to like it,” Eleanor said. “She just has to let it happen.”

Marge patted my arm on her way out the door. “You’re a good man, Damien Cole.”

I wasn’t so sure.

But for the first time in a long time, I was certain of what needed to be done.

This time, I wasn’t walking away.

…

It started with a clipboard.

A real one. Not metaphorical. Not digital. A thick, old-school, clipboard Marge dug out of a drawer beneath the inn’s lost-and-found bin, complete with a glittery sticker that read Do Epic Stuff.

Marge had handed it to me like a sword. “You're in charge now, General.”

From there, it escalated quickly.

Word spread through Cedar Springs faster than a spring pollen alert. By noon, Hazel was organizing supply bins. By two, Brandon—fresh off a plane and full of sarcasm—was hauling buckets of salvageable flowers like he hadn’t just performed open-heart surgery three states away yesterday.

“Are you sure this is legal?” he muttered, eyeing the crowd gathered outside Ruby Bloom.

“Fixing a flower shop?” I deadpanned. “Pretty sure we’re not breaking any federal statutes.”

“Still weird to see you like this,” he said, stretching his arms above his head. “You, outside. With people. Talking.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Hazel passed by with a tray of muffins and a megaphone. “Brandon! Stop distracting Damien. He’s in planning mode!”

He winked at me and jogged off to help her.

The doors to Ruby Bloom were propped open, fresh air flowing through the now mostly-dry interior. The burst pipe had been patched up that morning—thanks to Eleanor’s nephew, a very chatty plumber named Gus who kept calling me “Doctor Dreamboat” under his breath like I didn’t have working ears.

Tables were being reassembled. Arrangements remade. Fabric dried, inventory reorganized. The smell of musty drywall was finally losing the war against eucalyptus and citrus oil diffusers.

It was controlled chaos—but the kind I knew how to lead.

“Willow,” I said, pointing to the teenager holding a label maker like a weapon of mass destruction. “You’re on inventory. Start with shelf two. Label what you save.”

“Got it, Dr. Cole.”

“Hazel,” I said, without missing a beat. “We need floral foam in bins three and four. And scissors that don’t look like they belong in a haunted dollhouse.”

“Already on it, Captain Sternface.”

Around me, the shop hummed with life. With purpose. With people who weren’t here for recognition but because they believed in Ruby Shea. Her shop. Her chaotic, color-drenched dream.

And apparently, so did I.

I moved from station to station, calling out supply runs, approving layout adjustments, checking wiring on new lighting Hazel insisted was romantic and rustic, not retail. I kept things moving. Like an OR, but louder. And messier.

Still, the rhythm felt familiar.

I knew how to lead in a crisis.

What I didn’t know how to do was let people help.

But this wasn’t my place to own. This was Ruby’s. Her vision. Her fight. I was just making sure she had the army she didn’t know how to ask for.

Someone handed me a fresh cup of coffee. A teen I didn’t recognize called me “Commander Cool.” Someone else started a rumor that I used to model in medical supply catalogs.

I let it all roll off.

Until I overheard the whisper from two townsfolk near the hydrangeas.

“Never seen the doc smile before,” one said.

“Is he actually… human?”

I glanced up, startled to realize my face did ache a little.

From smiling.

Somewhere in the middle of pipe repairs and flower rehab, I’d forgotten to be the emotionally sealed-off man who avoided messes.

Because I was too busy trying to save hers.

And maybe, without meaning to, save myself a little too.

…

I was elbow-deep in a bucket of wet ribbon spools when the front bell chimed.

I didn’t look up right away. Thought it was another volunteer, or maybe Hazel with more muffins and a fresh to-do list. But then I heard it—the pause. The quiet inhale. The unmistakable rhythm of her footsteps, halting at first. Then stopping entirely.

I turned.

Ruby stood just inside the doorway, frozen.

The shop buzzed around her. Teens rewrapping bouquets, townsfolk wiping down shelves, someone in the corner blasting a Motown playlist while petals practically floated through the air like confetti.

And her.

In jeans and a sweatshirt three sizes too big, eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief.

She looked like someone who’d come expecting a funeral and stumbled into a parade.

I set the ribbon down and crossed the space slowly, giving her time. Letting the moment stretch so she could take it all in.

When I reached her, I said the only thing that made sense.

“You didn’t think I’d just let it fall apart, did you?”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, glassy and full. “I—I thought I’d have to fix it alone.”

“You don’t.”

She nodded once, like she was still trying to swallow the truth of it.

Hazel passed behind her with a clipboard and gave me the tiniest smirk before disappearing into the back room.

The shop was glowing again—no longer perfect, maybe never perfect—but full of life. Of laughter. Of community. And Ruby stood in the center of it, not as a victim of chaos but the very reason this place still had a heartbeat.

She blinked back tears and whispered, “You did all this?”

“I just organized it,” I said. “They came for you.”

A beat passed.

Then she reached for my hand.

Her fingers were cold, calloused, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.

We slipped into the back room, where the music was quieter and the chaos didn’t reach.

She leaned against the prep table and took a breath.

“I don’t need rescuing,” she said, voice low and steady. “I’ve never wanted someone to fix my messes for me.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“But,” she added, “thank you for not making me face it alone.”

I stepped closer.

Close enough to smell the faintest trace of her shampoo, to see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, to watch her mouth as it curved around the word thank you.

“You never have to be alone again,” I said. “Not if you don’t want to be.”

Her breath caught. Her lips parted like she might say something—or maybe kiss me.

Then Hazel shouted from the front of the store, “Someone just donated thirty orchids! They’re stunning and completely unplanned!”

Ruby let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. The spell broke, but not completely.

We both stood still, suspended in a moment that wasn’t quite finished.

She looked at me, voice barely above a whisper. “What are we doing, Damien?”

I reached for her hand again, curling her fingers into mine.

“Something I don’t want to undo.”