Page 1 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
Chapter One
MARC
Ruby River, Rhode Island’s Main Street had one major design flaw: it forced you to face the people you’d vowed to avoid.
My person stood directly across from me, in front of a purple door, setting down a large pot with an overflowing purple plant a shade lighter than the purple streaking the tips of her black hair.
Delaney Hart.
This woman was the human embodiment of unsolicited spiritual advice, yoga, and energy healing. I dealt in facts, vaccines, and animals who occasionally bit or pooped on me but at least they didn’t try to realign my chakras first.
Delaney ran Sacred Serenity, the New Age shop that peddled crystals and conversations with the dead. I’d stick with patients who couldn’t argue their treatment plans. Animals had always been far easier for me to understand than people.
Her leggings-clad thighs peeked out from under a long sweater and thin jacket. No matter how diametrically opposed we were—spiritually, scientifically, philosophically—I couldn’tignore how fucking stunning she was. How beautiful I’dalwaysthought she was, even when we were kids and she told me she couldn’t ‘see my aura.’
Which felt deeply unfair.
We were practically enemies at this point after years of fighting.
I forced myself to look away before I got caught ogling her. With my luck, the gossip chain—fueled entirely by my grandmother, AKA ‘Glamma,’ and her squad of friends—would have us engaged by lunch, arguing about flower arrangements by dinner, and married by bedtime. Glamma would probably have just enough time to get my great-grandmother’s engagement ring polished and a venue picked out.
Delaney fished out a key from her jacket pocket and unlocked the front door of Sacred Serenity as if she hadn’t personally tortured my sanity for the last twenty years since I was twelve and she was ten.
Something happened that summer. I don’t even know what started our feud. I just know that one day we were getting to know each other and sharing our thoughts about camp, and the next she was telling me how much she hated me and that my negative energy made plants wilt.
The ladder beneath me shifted under my feet, throwing me off balance, and reminding me it was older than most of the buildings on Main Street and that it held a personal grudge against my family. My brothers swore it had bucked them, too. If I hadn’t lent out my good ladder to my brother, I wouldn’t have been caught dead on this one. With one hand, I grabbed the top rung to steady myself. I needed to focus and finish getting this sign up.
May was “Adopt-a-Friend Month,” which meant I’d be seeing twice as many new pet parents who were convinced their lifestyle was compatible with a husky while they lived in a five-hundred square foot studio apartment. Despite the morning chill, I was sweating as I balanced on the temperamental ladder.
“Get back to work,” I muttered to myself. Staring at Delaney was not a productive life choice. It ranked right up there with my decision to go to veterinary school just outside Rhode Island, specifically so I could come back here and torture myself daily.
The torment had only gotten worse since she moved back three months ago to take over her aunt’s shop, and my world had been off-kilter ever since.
Just as the ladder shifted again, I heard it.
A faint bleat.
The kind of sound that immediately raises questions you do not want answers to.
We were rural, but we didn’t often have farm animals roaming the streets. I assumed it was a child’s toy or someone being funny. The wind blew, catching my sign, and I hurried to attach another corner before it was ripped out of my hands.
Then another bleat sounded nearby. Louder this time. Closer.
I searched the street, looking past the quaint Main Street decor of old-fashioned lamps and baskets of pansies and violas staying strong despite the waffling spring weather. I could see that Adele’s bookstore, Plot Twist, already had customers at this early hour. That shouldn’t be surprising. People trusted Adele, and she was likely solving many residents’ problems, even at 9:00 a.m.
To my amazement, a tiny Nigerian Dwarf goat—tan markings, brown shaggy coat, and radiating confidence—trotted down the sidewalk on Delaney’s side of the street like he owned every storefront he passed. I’d seen him yesterday during my lunch break by the river, but he’d taken off when I approached him. Apparently, he’d decided to become a Main Street resident instead.
The goat paused at Delaney’s storefront window, which currently displayed a variety of crystals.
“Aw, hi, sweet boy. Aren’t you a pretty baby?” Delaney cooed as he regarded her.
The goat made another sound and cocked its head. Its eyes were laser-focused on her.
She inched toward it like some celestial goat-whisperer. A bright smile stretched across her face. Even her demeanor shifted, radiating a softness about her I rarely saw. “Look at you. You’ve got suchgreatenergy.” She slowly reached her hand out as her voice carried across the street. Delaney was not a quiet talker.
“It’s a goat,” I yelled. “Its energy is blades of grass and head-butting.”
She shot me a glare sharp enough to perform surgery with. “You are an aggressively closed-minded individual, Marcus Kingsley. Not that I should be surprised when your worldview ends at what you can see under a microscope?—”
