Page 31 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
I stared at her.
She tilted her head. “Marc. Please tell me you didn’t buy a farmhouse outside of town without considering the possibility of animals.”
I did not buy itforanimals. I bought it because it was quiet, had land, and no neighbors close enough to bother me with small talk. “I have a barn and a small fenced-in area. It’s old, but?—”
Jane clapped her hands together. “Perfect. The goat goes to your farm. The goat gets a spa day. The goat and you become besties and you two live happily-ever-after. Everybody wins.”
“Goats don’t do spa days.” Why I fixated on that sentence among all the crazy talk she was spouting, I had no idea.
Jane grinned. “Tell that to Delaney. I bet she’d give him a bath with milk and honey, complete with crystals lining it for good vibes and soothing music playing in the background.”
The image was so ridiculous, my mouth twitched.
And honestly? I could see Delaney doing exactly that, arguing with me that it was in the goat’s best interest.
Jane’s eyes comically widened. “Oh, my God. Was that a smile?”
“It was not.”
“Marc smiled,” she sing-songed, then said it again louder.
“I’m going to fire you,” I warned, turning away before she could see the heat creeping up my neck.
She laughed before going to greet the next patient.
Chapter Six
MARC
The rest of the afternoon blurred—vaccines, nail trims, a very defiantly dramatic dachshund with an ear infection, and one elderly cat who refused to make eye contact with anyone and acted like being at the vet was a personal betrayal of the highest order. She reminded me of Stormy, my brother Drew’s and his fiancée Ellie’s cat.
By five, my shoulders were tight, my head ached, and I was running on fumes.
I picked up the goat and loaded him—still in his crate—into my car, and drove out of town toward my house.
The road curled around trees and open fields as the sky faded into that hazy blue-gray that always made Ruby River feel like a postcard. Gratitude washed over me. Even on the days I hated small-town living—the gossip, the lack of privacy, and everyone knowing your business—there was no other place I’d rather be than here.
My farmhouse sat at the end of a gravel drive that desperately needed paving before next winter, half-hiddenbehind old maple trees. The property had been a working farm once, but now it was mostly unused land—a fenced pasture, a barn that needed repairs, a porch that creaked in exactly three places, and enough space to breathe without someone watching.
It was beautiful in a way that didn’t demand attention. And it spoke of the history of our town. It was solid. Private. Safe.
The goat chose that moment to announce our arrival to the entire county.
“Keep it down,” I muttered as I parked.
He did not “keep it down.”
I carried the crate into the barn, set it on the ground in a stall I’d cleaned out last summer, spread fresh hay across the floor, and opened the latch.
The goat didn’t move.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
“Oh, now you don’t want to get out?” I asked. “Now you’re nervous? You weren’t nervous yesterday when you were trying to destroy Delaney’s entire shop.”
The goat blinked slowly, like he was considering his options.
