Page 99 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
She pursed her lips, stood, and stalked out of the room.
I sat there, paddle in my hand, staring at the stage where Marc Kingsley was watching me. His gaze was steady, intent, direct—there was a new glint in his eyes, a possessiveness that had sweat trickling down my back and my heart rate picking up.
The applause was still going. Chaos was now trying to eat the microphone stand. Glamma was gently extricating it from his mouth while maintaining full composure.
I had just spent seven hundred and twenty-five dollars I did not have on a date with a man who made me feel like maybe my hatred had been misplaced. That my carefully maintained grudge was starting to shift and crack and become something else entirely.
Cheryl leaned over. “You’re going to be fine.”
“I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re going to befine,”she repeated, with cheerful certainty. But she was not in my body, the body that was currently full of anxiety and regretting every decision I’d made tonight.
My eyes returned to my program.
Marc Kingsley. Veterinarian.Below his name, in neat small print:Chaos. 6-month-old Nigerian Dwarf Goat. Playful, food-motivated escape artist. Looking for his forever home.
I set the program face-down on the table, picked up my drink, and gave myself very clear instructions to not let my gaze settle back on the stage.
I did it anyway.
Marc was still there.
He wasn’t smiling, exactly. But the controlled neutrality he’d been maintaining since he walked out onto the stage changed to something more intense, and I would spend the entire drive home telling myself I’d imagined it.
Chapter Seventeen
MARC
My gaze swept my open-concept kitchen, dining, and living room—the table set with actual cloth napkins, and a wildflower arrangement in the center.
“Did you set the table?” Mom’s voice came through the video app on my phone.
I picked up my phone and swung it around so she could see.
“Oh, Marc, the flowers are a sweet touch.”
I’d gotten them from the florist this morning. A solid five minutes passed while I debated whether to give them to Delaney directly—and then caught myself.
That was date behavior. This wasn’t a date.
I set the phone back on the stand and wiped my hands down the front of my apron, a nervous habit I hadn’t had since my residency days.
“Okay, how much more time do you have until she arrives?” Mom asked.
I checked the clock. “About fifteen minutes.”
“And you’re sure she likes chicken?”
“Mom.” I stared at the chicken piccata warming in the oven.”It’s a little too late for that now.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m excited for you.”
“This isn’t a date,” I reminded her.
“Not yet it’s not.” She winked.
I thought back to this morning’s texts, the ones that had made me feel simultaneously more confident and completely out of my depth.
