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 replay on 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.
“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. “What was that?”
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, really smiling, 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 fuck who Marc 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 do not hate 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 his Glamma and 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.
Could’ve been any of those things, if I was being honest.
I sank into one of the plush velvet chairs near the reading nook. Aunt Jem had reupholstered the purple fabric herself; the ones designed to make people feel safe and comfortable, encouraging them to stay longer and buy more things. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
She didn’t hesitate. “What’s going on between you and Marc?”
“Nothing,” I said automatically. “Absolutely nothing.”
She opened her mouth.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“Glam-ma,” she sang in a whisper.
I groaned. That woman was a menace. A beloved, stylish, terrifying menace. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d let the goat out on Main Street and orchestrated the whole thing with Marc. Ugh. Now I sounded weirdly paranoid.
“We just … don’t see eye to eye,” I admitted, before she could finish the threat. “He doesn’t like my crystals. Or my beliefs. Or my business. Or me, probably.”
Cheryl blinked. “That’s it? That’s the big drama?”
I waved vaguely at the shop, at myself, at the universe in general. This feud with Marc had been going on since we were kids, and the roots of it went deeper than crystals and science. “He doesn’t believe in any of this. Thinks it’s all—what did he call it in November at Ruby Night? A scam.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Insulting. And I told him that at least my rocks didn’t judge people for seeking comfort, unlike emotionally constipated veterinarians who probably stuffed their feelings into a jar years ago and promptly forgot where they placed them.”
Cheryl snorted. “You did not say that.”
“I absolutely did. Mrs. Chen from the flower shop heard the whole thing and laughed so hard she dropped a pot of tulips.”
“I love you,” Cheryl said, still grinning. “And next time you and Marc are together, I’ll need to bring popcorn to watch the show.”
I rolled my eyes. What I didn’t say—what I couldn’t say—was that the worst part wasn’t Marc’s dismissal of what I did.
It was that somewhere underneath all that skepticism and sarcasm, underneath the man who rolled his eyes when I discussed astrology and scoffed at my “woo-woo nonsense,” was the boy who’d sat with me by the river when we were kids.
The one who’d listened when I told him my parents had forgotten my birthday the week before.
Again. The one who’d shown up the next day with a cupcake from Penny’s grandmother’s bakery, back when she was still running it.
She was definitely about to push harder—I could see it in the way she leaned forward—when the door chimed.
Right on cue.
I hefted a dramatic sigh as the infamous Sofia Kingsley herself—the one and only Glamma—swept inside as if she’d been summoned by the mere mention of her name.
Coco, her French bulldog, was tucked into the crook of her arm like a fuzzy designer accessory.
Perfect silver hair. Oversized sunglasses, despite being indoors.
The confidence of a woman who knew things and had been running this town since before I was born. “Hello, Delaney. Cheryl.”
Heat rushed from my scalp to my toes.
Cheryl’s eyes grew wide. “Oh my God.”
Of course. Of course she’d heard us. Damnit. I bet the front door hadn’t shut tight. I’d been meaning to fix it like a hundred other things around here.
The universe was laughing at my expense.
“Glamma!” Cheryl beamed, because everyone loved Glamma, and she insisted everyone call her that. It was basically an unofficial law in Ruby River.