Page 5 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
Delaney took a step back, apparently recognizing the malicious intent building within the tiny, furry menace.
The goat lowered its head. Its tiny budding horns, pointing directly at us. At Delaney specifically. A charging stance if I wasn’t mistaken—and I rarely was.
“Move!” I snapped.
Delaney froze again. Her fight-or-flight instincts sucked.
I quickly stepped in front of her, my body shielding hers, just as the deranged animal launched.
It collided with the back of my knee with the force and precision of an animal that had done this before. Pain shot up my leg, which was surprising, given the goat probably weighed only thirty pounds soaking wet. I grunted, stumbling forward into Delaney, my arms instinctively caging her between them as I tried not to crush her against the side of the building. Our bodies pressed together again, her spine flat to the brick wall outside her store, which felt like the universe was actively mocking me. I was anything but serene.
Everything went dangerously quiet.
She looked up as I gazed down at her, and I noticed for the first time—or maybe the hundredth time I pretended not to notice—that she had a tiny, barely noticeable scar to the side of her left eyebrow. Her eyes flicked to my mouth. My brain misfired, sending urgent signals to parts of my anatomy that had no business participating in this conversation.
Her lips parted slightly.
Don’t even think about it.I gritted my teeth.Count to ten.
Review the new prices for the equipment you were going over before you went outside to put up the sign. Think about literally anything else before you do something catastrophically stupid like kiss her or give her ammunition for the next twenty years.
Goat hooves scraped the cement behind us.
We separated like we’d been electrocuted, jumping apart with enough force that I nearly tripped over my own feet.
As we turned, the goat shook its head and freaking pranced through the half-open door of Sacred Serenity as if it owned the place.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Delaney groaned.
And a second later.
Crash.
Chimes tinkled. A scream echoed in the store. Delaney bolted inside, yelling, “I’ll be right there, Cheryl!”
I limped after her, my knee throbbing in time with my pulse. Crystals were scattered across the floor like someone tossed a rainbow grenade. Tarot cards were strewn like confetti.The goat—a male, approximately six months old, and clearly suffering from Oppositional Defiant Disorder—tiptoed across a low table, tracking what appeared to be glitter dust across the polished surface.
I swear he was grinning at us. An evil, self-satisfied grin that said it knew exactly what it was doing and had calculated the maximum property damage per square foot. I cringed each time its hooves scraped against the natural stone tabletop.
Delaney grabbed a bowl and ran the rubber mallet along the rim. A low, soothing hum filled the shop.
The goat stared at her as if she’d just suggested they discuss their feelings.
Delaney grinned and stepped closer, holding the bowl out as an offering. “Do you like that? Yes, you do.” Her voice had a sing-song quality to it, the kind parents used to coax toddlers to eat their vegetables.
When she got close enough, the goat reared back and headbutted the bowl with remarkable accuracy.
“Hey!” Delaney jumped, nearly dropping the bowl.
“That worked great,” I said. “Were you hoping he’d join in and dance out of the store? Or maybe achieve inner enlightenment?”
“Shut up.” She glared at me with enough intensity that I briefly wondered if she could actually curse people. “You try something then, since you’re so smart.”
I should shut my mouth. I knew I should shut my mouth. But her tone—that specific sarcasm dripping from “you’re so smart”—hit somewhere tender, somewhere I’d spent my whole life protecting as I navigated trying to make friends.
“I charge $150 an hour for house calls. Do you plan to pay in crystals for me to remove the goat, or should I send an invoice?”
It came out harsher than I meant. Meaner. Not one of my usual carefully constructed responses, but something messier. Something that bypassed all the social scripts I’d built and went straight for the jugular, because she’d gone for mine first.
