Page 8 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
“So … ” Cheryl said, crouched near the table that held our tarot and oracle decks, carefully displaying two stacks of now slightly bent sample decks. Her dark curls were pulled up into a silk scarf today—burgundy, which looked stunning against her tan skin—and she wore the vintage band tee she’d thrifted last week. Cheryl had that effortless style that made everything look intentional, like she’d just thrown on whatever and accidentally achieved perfection. At twenty-five, she was still in college—a non-traditional student getting her business degree while working here part-time—and she was observant in a way that made lying to her basically impossible. “Whatwasthat?”
I huffed out a laugh, grateful for the distraction. “A rogue goat. Apparently Ruby River has entered its chaos-farm-animal era.”
“That part I figured out.” She shot me a look, eyes dancing with mischief. “I meant you and Mr. Tall-Blond-and-Veterinary.”
I froze mid-reach, a piece of moonstone cool against my palm. “Marc?” I snapped, his name came out too sharp, too fast. “Why? Are you interested in him?”
A strange feeling swirled in my gut—hot and possessive and had absolutely no right to exist. “Isn’t he like … twelve years older than you?” I added, knowing full-well it was seven years, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly.
Cheryl stood unfazed, brushing dust off her jeans. “First of all, rude. Second of all, have you never heard of an age-gap romance? They’re very popular right now. Extremely well-represented in literature.”
My muscles tightened and the unpleasant feeling curled low in my stomach. The image of Cheryl—gorgeous, confident Cheryl who made men forget their own names—flirting with Marc flashed through my mind. Her laughing at something he said. Him smiling at her,reallysmiling, not that tight almost-smile he gave me right before he snapped at me.
I hated it.
Which was ridiculous because I didn’t give a flying fuckwhoMarc Kingsley smiled at.
“I mean,” I said lightly—too lightly—in that bright voice I used when I was absolutely lying. “If you’re into grumpy, condescending jerks who think joy is a measurable liability, and wouldn’t know spiritual wellness if it hit him with a truck, then you do you.”
The words tasted bitter on my tongue, which annoyed me further because I didn’t care.
I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.
Cheryl burst out laughing, the sound echoing around us. “Oh my God. You should see your face right now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I dropped my gaze and focused very hard on aligning the crystal bowls by size and color. Organization could be spiritual, too. Aunt Jem had taught me that—when everything was in its rightful place, energy flowed correctly.
“You can’t fool me, Ms. I-Have-No-Patience-And-Hate-Closed-Minded-People.”
“I donothate people,” I corrected, moving to straightening the collection of singing bowls that didn’t need straightening. “That’s bad karma. I just have no use for the willfully ignorant or stupid ones. There’s a difference.”
“Marc isn’t stupid,” she said in a voice that made me want to throw a meditation cushion at her head. “From what I hear, he’s borderline brilliant and went to some fancy veterinary school. He has clients who drive from Providence just to see him. And we all know what a big deal that is in this state.”
“Yeah, well, town gossips have been wrong before,” I muttered, even though we both knew the Ruby River gossip chain—led by hisGlammaand her crew—had a ninety-eight percent accuracy rating.
Except … was Cheryl right? Was I wrong about him? Marc Kingsley was infuriatingly smart. Precise. Methodical. Calm. The kind of man who always had facts loaded and ready to deploy like verbal scalpels. And he wielded them with surgical precision, especially against me.
Yet I’d seen how my comment had affected him. How I’d hurt his feelings.
What the gossips didn’t know—what no one knew—was that I’d seen the other side of him once. Before everything went wrong. Before I understood his reaction to the world. Before I was old enough to let my parents’ lack of caring roll off of me.
I pushed the memory back down, too. I was racking up quite the collection in my mental basement today.
With every defensive word I tossed out, Cheryl’s grin widened. “Delaney.”
I said nothing, still focusing on the singing bowl that didn’t need to be moved three inches to the left; knowing that later I’d have to sneak in here and move it back.
“Delaney Hart.”
Still nothing. I picked up a sage bundle and examined it as if it held the secrets of the universe.
“Do not ignore me,” she warned sweetly, “or I will find Glamma and tell her it was you who?—”
I gasped, straightening so fast the room tilted. “You wouldn’t!”
Cheryl leaned against the counter, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Try me.”
I exhaled, defeated. The sage went into a basket, and my hands began to shake with leftover adrenaline. Or maybe it was from the remembered feel of Marc’s body pinned to mine, his arms wrapped so tight I could feel his heartbeat. Or possibly from nearly dying.
