Page 7 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
Fuck, that hurt.
The price tag fluttered under the goat’s hooves, and I got a better look at it in the morning light.
$1,600.
Holy shit.The price was outrageous for something that didn’t serve a valuable purpose. That was a spay-neuter surgery. That was three dentals. That was—that was me being completely fucked because even if I paid her back, it didn’t take away from the fact that I’d ruined a piece of art she worked so hard on.
There might be times I didn’t get social cues or nuances, but right now, I understood Delaney’s rage on a whole other level.
I made a mental note to give Cheryl the money for it once Delaney stepped out for her lunch break. She often left between noon and one o’clock—not that I’d been tracking her schedule or anything. She’d either head to Plot Twist to visit with Adele or to the bakery to hang out with Penny.
The goat’s head settled in the crook of my arm as he gave out a tired bleat and closed his eyes.
I sighed. “Did causing mischief wear you out?”
He ignored me, already half asleep.
The furry beast really was cute. Except for his smell, which was somewhere between wet dog and fermented hay. Maybe I could give him a bath later, and if I was lucky, try to get some of the matted fur taken care of. He’d probably kick me in the face, but at least he’d be staying true to character.
I entered my clinic and silently reminded myself that the goat was going to the animal rescue in town if they had room. I did not have time in my life to care for a goat. I had a practice to run, a routine to maintain, and a complete inability to stop thinking about how Delaney’s lips parted when she stared at me.
Jane looked up from her computer screen at the check-in desk the second the door banged shut. Her hazel eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled. She tucked back a piece of chestnuthair that had slipped from her low messy bun. “Well, what do we have here?”
With a heavy sigh, I explained what had happened in the street and inside Delaney’s shop, leaving out the parts where I’d held Delaney against me and contemplated making terrible life choices. “If I put him in one of the overnight spaces with food and water, could you keep an eye on him? I have to finish hanging the sign outside.”
“Of course.” She was already standing, reaching for the goat. “You only have about fifteen minutes until your next appointment, though.”
“I only have one corner to secure, so I’ll be right back.”
The phone rang, and she gave me a quick nod before picking up and greeting the caller.
I scooted past her to get the goat settled, and hoped the afternoon would be a little less eventful than this morning.
I liked things to be orderly. And I liked my routine. Today threw that all out of whack, and already I felt the stress of it tightening the muscles in my neck.
Between my routine being obliterated, my knee throbbing, my hip aching, and my brain refusing to forget the exact pressure of Delaney’s body against mine, I had a sinking feeling this wasn’t just a bad morning.
I glanced at the goat, who stared back at me from inside the crate with a clear look of satisfaction on his face.
“You’re going to the shelter,” I told him firmly.
He bleated. It sounded like laughter, like he was mocking me and knew better than to take my threat seriously.
Yeah. I had a sneaking suspicion this was the beginning of something much worse.
Chapter Two
DELANEY
Ipicked the crystals up off the floor one-by-one, checking for cracks before sorting and returning them to their respective bowls. Amethyst. Lapis lazuli. Clear quartz. Citrine. The familiar rhythm steadied my breathing, even as my pulse stubbornly refused to return to normal.
The only saving grace was that our new furry menace had plowed straight into my loose stones display instead of the higher shelves that held more expensive inventory. If he’d taken out my specialty crystals—the ones I sourced from a woman in Sedona who only answered emails during Mercury retrograde and insisted on being paid in exact change—I might have cried. Possibly screamed.
Instead, I had a faint smell of musty goat, a scuffed rug that Aunt Jemma had brought back from Nepal, and the lingering echo of my heart trying to escape my ribcage.
Not to mention, the muscle memory of Marc Kingsley’s hands on my waist, which my body seemed determined to replayon a loop like some kind of romantic movie montage I absolutely did not ask for.
I shoved that thought deep down where it belonged, next to my collection of other things I refused to examine, like why I’d kept every birthday card Aunt Jem had ever given me, how I still had my clothes in my suitcase instead of in her closet, and why I still couldn’t sleep in her bedroom upstairs.
