Page 7

Chapter seven

R uby

Sunlight spilled across the front counter of Ruby Bloom, warming the floorboards and setting the display window aglow like it had missed the spotlight.

The shop still smelled faintly of plaster dust and lemon oil, but the flowers were back in place—fresh, vibrant, stubbornly blooming like they had something to prove.

Kind of like me.

I stood in the center of the nearly restored space, brushing my fingers along the edge of a bouquet I hadn’t planned but couldn’t resist arranging: creamy white peonies nestled beside wild thistle and soft sprigs of eucalyptus. It wasn’t flashy. Just... sincere.

The same kind Damien had helped me design when he wasn't barking orders like a bossy field general with a clipboard.

I smiled, but it slipped as fast as it came.

My fingers lingered on a petal.

“Why did he have to be so...” I whispered, shaking my head, “good at fixing things?”

“Still talking about flower arrangements?” Hazel’s voice floated in from behind.

I jumped slightly as she walked through the front door holding two coffees and a bag that suspiciously smelled like cinnamon rolls.

“I brought bribes,” she said, handing me a cup. “But clearly you’ve already spiraled into philosophical flower angst.”

I accepted the coffee with a huff and collapsed onto the stool by the wrapping table. “He reorganized the storage shelves by color and bloom life. Who does that?”

Hazel sipped her drink. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m venting.”

“You’re hiding.”

I scowled into the steam rising from my cup. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m… reflecting.”

Hazel pulled up the stool beside me and arched a brow in that way she always did when I was trying too hard to sound casual and not enough like someone halfway to emotionally unraveling.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted quietly. “He helped me rebuild this place. He didn’t just show up—he led the charge. He rallied the town. He saved things I didn’t even realize I needed saving from.”

Hazel leaned forward, voice gentle. “And?”

“And now I feel like I’m falling for him,” I said, eyes locked on the bouquet. “And I’m scared out of my freaking mind.”

She waited, saying nothing, just letting it hang in the air until I filled the silence with everything, I was too stubborn to say before.

“I’m scared because I’ve spent so much of my life proving I could do it on my own,” I said. “Survive on my own. Build this place from the ground up. Be chaotic and messy and creative and still enough. And now…”

“Now?” she asked softly.

“Now he walks in with his steady hands and annoying eyebrows and calm voice, and suddenly I feel like maybe I don’t want to do it all alone. And that terrifies me.”

Hazel’s face softened. “Ruby…”

I bit my lip. “What if I fall for him, and he leaves? What if I expect him to stay—and he doesn’t?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just reached for the bouquet in front of us, plucked a single eucalyptus stem, and spun it between her fingers like it held the answer.

“Maybe love isn’t about expectations,” she said at last. “Maybe it’s about showing up—even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s hard.”

I blinked at her. “That’s suspiciously wise.”

She grinned. “I’ve been binge-reading romance novels behind the register.”

I laughed—half sigh, half relief. “Of course you have.”

Hazel set the stem down and met my eyes again. “Look, I get it. You’ve been through enough to know that not everyone stays. But Damien? He didn’t have to come back. He didn’t have to fix anything. But he did. He chose to.”

I looked at the bouquet again, suddenly realizing something that hadn’t clicked until now.

Damien hadn’t rearranged the flowers for me. He’d rearranged them with me.

Like he wanted to be part of the chaos.

Not solve it.

I took a shaky breath and whispered, “So now what?”

Hazel smiled. “Now? You stop pretending you don’t care. And maybe, just maybe, you let yourself fall a little.”

I stared at the bouquet one last time before pulling it gently into my arms.

Because she was right.

Maybe love wasn’t about perfect timing or guarantees.

Maybe it was just about choosing each other—over and over—through the mess.

Even when it was terrifying.

…

The town square was bathed in late afternoon light, the kind that made everything look slightly more magical than it had any right to be—brick sidewalks warmer, lamp posts more charming, and hydrangeas fluffier than usual.

Damien stood beside me, clipboard in hand, dressed in his usual uniform of dark jeans, clean button-down, and silent judgment. I stood opposite him, arms full of my glittery, over-the-top, completely perfect gala mood board.

It had ribbon samples, a pop-up cutout of a gazebo, and one very sparkly section dedicated solely to the fairy light installation I was determined to make happen.

The war of formality vs. fabulous was alive and well.

“So,” I said, adjusting the board so he could fully appreciate its glory, “imagine the archway right here. Guests walk through this tunnel of lights and blossoms like they’re stepping into a dream.”

He glanced at the sketch I’d drawn in metallic ink. “That tunnel looks like a fire hazard.”

“It’s a fantasy, Damien.”

“It’s a flammable fantasy.”

I gasped. “Just admit it—you’re terrified of fairy lights.”

He gave me a long-suffering look. “I’m not terrified. I just don’t believe electricity and dry garlands belong together.”

“Coward,” I said sweetly.

“Pyromaniac,” he replied, deadpan.

Our banter drew the attention of two older women walking past, both of whom paused to smile knowingly. One of them leaned in and whispered something to the other. I caught the words “adorable” and “about time.”

I cleared my throat and looked away.

“Anyway,” I said, pointing to a chalk outline I’d drawn on the pavement for the centerpiece fountain, “we’ll surround the base with potted lavender, which guests can take home as favors.”

Damien studied the outline. “That’s actually… not a bad idea.”

I tilted my head. “Wow. Did Damien Cole just compliment one of my plans without a spreadsheet attached?”

He rolled his eyes and made a tick mark on his clipboard. “Don’t get used to it.”

I couldn’t help smiling. This—us—had changed. Our back-and-forth had lost its bite. The way he looked at me now didn’t come with suspicion or strategy. It was warmer. Softer around the edges. Like he wasn’t just tolerating me—he was enjoying this.

Enjoying me.

He walked with me down the cobblestone path where we planned to set up dessert carts, nodding occasionally as I rattled off plans for signage, bunting, and “elegant rustic whimsy.”

“I still don’t understand what rustic whimsy means,” he said.

“It means,” I said patiently, “that we have mason jars filled with lemon slices and wildflowers, not LED backlighting and corporate swag bags.”

He made a face. “I’d forgotten how exhausting you are.”

I nudged him with my hip. “And yet you keep showing up.”

He didn’t reply to that.

But as we walked past Eleanor’s bakery, warm bread and sugar drifting through the open door, something unexpected happened.

Damien reached out and—so casually it almost didn’t register—gave a soft tug to the end of my braid.

It was instinctive. Unthinking. Familiar.

I stopped walking. Blinked at him. My breath hitched in the quiet space between us.

He immediately dropped his hand and cleared his throat, suddenly fascinated with the bakery window display. “Sorry. Didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” I said, too quickly.

We stood there, both staring at a tray of scones like it had the answers to life’s biggest questions.

My heart thumped in my chest like it had found a new rhythm—faster, uncertain, hopeful.

Because that one small gesture said more than his carefully constructed sentences ever could.

He wanted to be close.

Even if he didn’t quite know what to do with that feeling yet.

I looked over at him. He looked over at the same time.

And we both looked away again, flustered.

It was ridiculous.

It was awkward.

It was perfect.

“Okay,” I said, pulling my glitter board tight to my chest like a shield. “Let’s go figure out how many twinkle lights we can get away with before you start hyperventilating.”

Damien smirked. “The fire marshal’s number is already on speed dial.”

And somehow, walking side by side into the town square, the gala plans in motion and feelings tangled like fairy lights, I knew this was only the beginning.

Not of a project.

But of us.

Cedar Springs’ town hall was packed.

The weekly meeting usually drew a modest mix of business owners, council regulars, and folks who came for the free coffee and polite gossip. But tonight, the place buzzed. The folding chairs were all full, and even the standing-room spots near the back were crowded with people leaning in.

I stood at the front beside Damien; hands folded neatly in front of me like I knew what I was doing. My stomach was doing a full three-act panic play, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at me.

Damien, of course, looked like he’d been born to stand in front of a crowd. Calm. Unflappable. Navy sweater. That infuriatingly composed expression.

Eleanor James stepped up to the mic, wearing one of her signature floral scarves and a glint in her eye that said she had something planned.

She tapped the mic twice. “Ladies and gentlemen of Cedar Springs, I’ll keep this short—but tonight, we have something worth pausing for.”

The room quieted. Coffee cups stilled. Even Hazel—two rows back—perked up with a suspiciously proud smirk.

“As you all know,” Eleanor continued, “our beloved Ruby Bloom suffered a setback recently. A very wet, flower-murdering setback.”

A soft chuckle rolled through the crowd. My cheeks burned.

“But thanks to this community,” Eleanor went on, “and to two very dedicated people, the shop is blooming again—literally and figuratively.”

She gestured to me, then to Damien.

I blinked.

Wait… what?

“Please join me in thanking Ruby Shea and Dr. Damien Cole for showing us that a little chaos and a lot of heart can bring something truly beautiful back to life.”

Applause erupted.

Loud. Sincere. A few whistles.

I managed a stunned smile as hands clapped and heads nodded and someone in the back shouted, “Team Ruby-D!”

Oh no.

Damien chuckled quietly beside me. The traitor.

We stood there in the spotlight, surrounded by applause neither of us asked for, forced to smile and pretend like it wasn’t turning us into flustered statues.

My heart pounded.

Not from the attention.

From the way his hand brushed mine.

By accident, maybe.

But then again—maybe not.

Our eyes met. Held.

The noise faded around us, muffled by a sudden awareness that stretched tight between us.

“People think we’re a team now,” I whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe we are.”

Something fluttered in my stomach.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because the way he said it—low and certain—wasn’t a throwaway line. It was a quiet declaration.

Like he’d decided something.

And now I had to decide something too.

Eleanor waved us offstage, clearly delighted with herself. We stepped down, weaving through the crowd toward the exit, smiling and nodding, accepting handshakes and good-natured comments.

“Look at you two,” Marge beamed. “Planning the gala and saving the shop. What’s next—mayor and first lady?”

“Not likely,” I laughed, but it sounded thinner than I intended.

The moment we reached the edge of the crowd, I felt it.

His hand.

It skimmed my lower back. Light. Brief. But firm enough to ground me.

My breath caught.

It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t accidental.

It was intentional—a silent touch that said, I’m here. I’ve got you.

It lingered for one second too long.

And I felt every inch of it.

We didn’t speak.

But the question settled between us, hanging heavy and electric in the air.

What happens now?