10 Rings I Hate About You (The Kingsleys of Ruby River #2)

Chapter One

MARC

Ruby River, Rhode Island’s Main Street had one major design flaw: it forced you to face the people you’d vowed to avoid.

My person stood directly across from me, in front of a purple door, setting down a large pot with an overflowing purple plant a shade lighter than the purple streaking the tips of her black hair.

Delaney Hart.

This woman was the human embodiment of unsolicited spiritual advice, yoga, and energy healing. I dealt in facts, vaccines, and animals who occasionally bit or pooped on me but at least they didn’t try to realign my chakras first.

Delaney ran Sacred Serenity, the New Age shop that peddled crystals and conversations with the dead. I’d stick with patients who couldn’t argue their treatment plans. Animals had always been far easier for me to understand than people.

Her leggings-clad thighs peeked out from under a long sweater and thin jacket.

No matter how diametrically opposed we were—spiritually, scientifically, philosophically—I couldn’t ignore how fucking stunning she was.

How beautiful I’d always thought she was, even when we were kids and she told me she couldn’t ‘see my aura.’

Which felt deeply unfair.

We were practically enemies at this point after years of fighting.

I forced myself to look away before I got caught ogling her.

With my luck, the gossip chain—fueled entirely by my grandmother, AKA ‘Glamma,’ and her squad of friends—would have us engaged by lunch, arguing about flower arrangements by dinner, and married by bedtime.

Glamma would probably have just enough time to get my great-grandmother’s engagement ring polished and a venue picked out.

Delaney fished out a key from her jacket pocket and unlocked the front door of Sacred Serenity as if she hadn’t personally tortured my sanity for the last twenty years since I was twelve and she was ten.

Something happened that summer. I don’t even know what started our feud. I just know that one day we were getting to know each other and sharing our thoughts about camp, and the next she was telling me how much she hated me and that my negative energy made plants wilt.

The ladder beneath me shifted under my feet, throwing me off balance, and reminding me it was older than most of the buildings on Main Street and that it held a personal grudge against my family.

My brothers swore it had bucked them, too.

If I hadn’t lent out my good ladder to my brother, I wouldn’t have been caught dead on this one.

With one hand, I grabbed the top rung to steady myself.

I needed to focus and finish getting this sign up.

May was “Adopt-a-Friend Month,” which meant I’d be seeing twice as many new pet parents who were convinced their lifestyle was compatible with a husky while they lived in a five-hundred square foot studio apartment.

Despite the morning chill, I was sweating as I balanced on the temperamental ladder.

“Get back to work,” I muttered to myself. Staring at Delaney was not a productive life choice. It ranked right up there with my decision to go to veterinary school just outside Rhode Island, specifically so I could come back here and torture myself daily.

The torment had only gotten worse since she moved back three months ago to take over her aunt’s shop, and my world had been off-kilter ever since.

Just as the ladder shifted again, I heard it.

A faint bleat.

The kind of sound that immediately raises questions you do not want answers to.

We were rural, but we didn’t often have farm animals roaming the streets. I assumed it was a child’s toy or someone being funny. The wind blew, catching my sign, and I hurried to attach another corner before it was ripped out of my hands.

Then another bleat sounded nearby. Louder this time. Closer.

I searched the street, looking past the quaint Main Street decor of old-fashioned lamps and baskets of pansies and violas staying strong despite the waffling spring weather.

I could see that Adele’s bookstore, Plot Twist, already had customers at this early hour.

That shouldn’t be surprising. People trusted Adele, and she was likely solving many residents’ problems, even at 9:00 a.m.

To my amazement, a tiny Nigerian Dwarf goat—tan markings, brown shaggy coat, and radiating confidence—trotted down the sidewalk on Delaney’s side of the street like he owned every storefront he passed.

I’d seen him yesterday during my lunch break by the river, but he’d taken off when I approached him.

Apparently, he’d decided to become a Main Street resident instead.

The goat paused at Delaney’s storefront window, which currently displayed a variety of crystals.

“Aw, hi, sweet boy. Aren’t you a pretty baby?” Delaney cooed as he regarded her.

The goat made another sound and cocked its head. Its eyes were laser-focused on her.

She inched toward it like some celestial goat-whisperer.

A bright smile stretched across her face.

Even her demeanor shifted, radiating a softness about her I rarely saw.

“Look at you. You’ve got such great energy.

” She slowly reached her hand out as her voice carried across the street. Delaney was not a quiet talker.

“It’s a goat,” I yelled. “Its energy is blades of grass and head-butting.”

She shot me a glare sharp enough to perform surgery with. “You are an aggressively closed-minded individual, Marcus Kingsley. Not that I should be surprised when your worldview ends at what you can see under a microscope—”

“My worldview ends at evidence-based reality,” I called back. “Yours apparently ends with whatever feels nice.”

She rewarded me with her middle finger without even looking back; her attention already locked onto the goat.

I tried not to notice how graceful even that gesture was.

And I failed spectacularly.

The goat chose that exact moment to shove its entire face into her potted plant and start eating it with the aggression of an animal who had a personal vendetta against it.

Delaney gasped. “He’s ruining my calming herbs!”

“That’s ironic,” I said, climbing one rung higher to secure the banner. The ladder wobbled ominously beneath me, and I braced myself, waiting for a snarky comment from her about my imminent demise.

Delaney ignored me, which was rude considering I was offering valuable commentary.

She tugged the pot away from the goat, cradling it against her abdomen, hugging it tight as if it were a child and she was preventing a kidnapping attempt.

“Hey. No,” she told the goat firmly. “These are not for you.” She spoke like he understood her and was a misbehaved child. Not a tiny agent of chaos.

The goat blinked at her.

Then he bleated at her angrily and charged at the plant, wrapping his teeth around it and yanked.

“Hey! Stop that,” Delaney squeaked.

The goat planted its hooves and leaned backward with the determination of a tiny horned bodybuilder.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

“Shut it, Kingsley!” Delaney shouted from across the street without glancing my way. “I heard that!”

I leaned against the ladder. “Fun fact. Goats have rectangular pupils that give them a wider field of vision. It helps them identify threats.”

Delaney wrestled the plant away again. “I am not a threat.”

“Technically, you’re interfering with its feeding behavior.”

She shot me that same sharp look. “Mind your own business, Dr. Goat Whisperer.”

The goat lunged again.

Delaney jerked the pot away from him in a bizarre botanical tug-of-war.

“This,” she growled at the animal, clutching the plant, “is a plant baby from my Aunt Jem’s last lavender plant.”

The goat grunted as if he was telling Delaney he didn’t care.

“You. Can’t Have. It.”

Apparently, the goat disagreed. He responded by pulling up half the plant, roots and all, with the enthusiasm of a disgruntled tiny landscaper determined to ruin someone’s day.

“Give it back!” Delaney said, trying to pry the plant from its mouth. “You don’t even appreciate how special this is, or its healing properties!”

The goat turned sideways and began chewing.

Lavender leaves dangled from its mouth like it had just invented farm-to-table dining.

“Also,” I added helpfully, or unhelpfully depending on who you asked, “goats instinctively resist restraint. Pulling away activates their opposition reflex.”

“Kingsley, I swear to God—”

The goat ripped the rest of the plant free, roots dangling triumphantly.

Then turned.

And trotted directly into the road.

“Wait!” Delaney shouted, sprinting after it.

The low rumble of an engine rolled down the street just as a delivery truck turned the corner a block away.

Shit!

“Delaney!” I shouted.

I lunged forward and immediately remembered I was on the ladder when it jerked violently beneath me. I jumped the remaining rungs and hit the pavement harder than recommended by every orthopedic guideline known to modern medicine, and took off running.

Time stuttered.

The truck’s horn blared.

Tires screamed against the asphalt.

The engine roared closer.

Delaney finally looked up from the goat just as it bounded past me like a tiny lavender-scented criminal.

Her eyes widened.

Instead of running back across the street, she froze.

The truck was moving at least thirty miles an hour.

At that distance, we had only seconds.

I sprinted.

My shoes pounded the pavement, but I wasn’t gaining ground fast enough. I changed my trajectory.

I was too slow.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Fuck.

I wasn’t going to make it.

Then I did.

At the last second, I caught her around the waist and yanked her backward into my chest.

The truck blasted past us, the mirror missing my elbow by inches.

Delaney gasped as her momentum kept her off balance and she slammed into me.

We crashed onto the sidewalk in front of her shop.

I twisted mid-fall, instinct taking over, pulling her tighter against me so my body took most of the impact instead of hers.

My hip hit the ground.

Hard.

A sharp bolt of pain shot up my side.