Page 66 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
Apparently, my brain found that attractive now—a personal betrayal at its best—as though my subconscious had voted against me without informing me it was even on the ballot.
“I’ve been helping the shelter apply for grants,” he said. “We finally have one that we’re really close to getting. It would set them up for years. And if the shelter follows their guidelines, there’s an excellent chance of renewal.”
My eyes widened despite myself. “That’s amazing.”
“It is.” He paused—longer this time, his eyes dropping briefly to his hands before meeting mine again. “But this one is different.”
I leaned forward before I could stop myself. “How so?”
“They require multiple site visits. We’ve already had two. Extensive oversight. Animal welfare is their top priority.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “If they think the animals are stressed or mishandled at any point, we lose it. All of it.”
Oh.
So many things clicked into place at once.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.
He ran a hand through his hair, and his wavy curls rebelled immediately, springing back as though they’d never been touched. “Not many people know about it. We’ve been keeping it quiet. We didn’t want to—” He stopped and almost looked embarrassed. “Jinx it.”
Marc Kingsley, town vet and part-time lord of control, was afraid ofjinxingsomething. I filed it away for later.
“Are you in the final stages?”
“There’s still paperwork to complete. Additional site visits to prepare for.” He let out a soft sigh. “I’ve heard they sometimes do surprise ones, too.”
Which was why he was so—him—about all this.
This whole time, what read as control wasn’t criticism.
It was fear.
That, I understood. Fear of losing the thing you’d been quietly holding together. Yeah. I knew that one. “I get it,” I responded softly.
We shared a small smile—the kind formed on recently frozen ice, neither of us entirely sure it would hold. Moving carefully. Testing each step.
I bit my lip, thinking through the ramifications. “So you’re helping Theo fill out all the paperwork…”
“Yeah. As the local vet, I can answer it with the clinical knowledge it requires. And Theo—” A flicker of fond exasperation crossed his face. “Theo hates documentation. There needs to be a level of detail?—”
“That you have,” I finished.
He nodded once, easy, as though it was just a fact.
Part of me still didn’t trust this truce. The part that had spent two decades perfecting its Marc Kingsley Grievances Catalog, and I wasn’t quite ready to close it and put it away.
I looked at him carefully. “So if the shelter is in need of consistent funds, why hasn’t your family …” Damn me and my big mouth. “It’s none of my business.”
“We’ve tried,” he said, with no defensiveness behind his words. “Theo won’t accept it. Our family has always given where we can in Ruby River, but Theo felt he was taking advantage of our generosity. He wants the shelter to sustain itself as much as possible.”
I respected Theo for his decision. I also understood it in that particular way you understand a thing when you’ve spent your entire adult life refusing to ask for help.
Not that I was going to say that out loud.
“What if you don’t get it?” I asked.
“We can’t think that way.”
Right. Of course. Usually Mr. I-Have-To-Control-Everything would be actively thinking of the worst-case scenario and coming up with various ways to combat it is choosing not to. Interesting that he didn’t have a Plan B–or C or D–for this.
