Chapter Four #3
“Good talk.” Cheryl patted his arm, which made him flinch slightly—unexpected touch, I knew that about him—and headed toward Adele’s car.
As they walked away, I caught Cheryl muttering, “I bet he has a spreadsheet for that too,” which made Adele snort-laugh.
Marc turned back to me, his jaw tight. “I don’t have a spreadsheet for being an ass.”
“That you’ll admit to,” I said, then immediately felt guilty. “Sorry. That was—”
“Statistically accurate?” His mouth twitched. Was that … was he trying to make a joke?
I blinked. “Did you just—”
A faint pink tinged his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Can we focus now?” He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. It was already creased from being folded and unfolded.
For a second, the streetlight made the paper look shiny. “Did you laminate this?” I asked, squinting at it.
“No.” He sounded offended. “That would make it difficult to add comments to.”
“Right. Silly me.” I held myself back from rolling my eyes.
“I do have a digital copy, though. Color-coded by priority level. I can email it to you. Or print it. Or—” He paused. “Do you prefer digital or physical documentation?”
I stared at him. “Are you really asking me about documentation preferences right now?”
“Yes?”
My brain short-circuited between his communication efficiency and the earnest way he stared at me, waiting for an answer. “I … don’t … either? Both? I don’t care.”
He retrieved his phone from his pocket and typed something.
“Did you just make a note about my documentation preferences?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He glanced up, his brow creased in confusion. “Why not? It’s important to remember for next time.”
Next time. Like we were going to be meeting about this multiple times. Like this was the beginning of something and not a six-week forced collaboration that would probably end with one of us in tears and the other writing a very thorough incident report.
“Okay,” I said, because what else could I say? “What’s on your list?”
“I’ve organized the items by category.” He held up the paper, and I could see it was indeed organized with headings and subheadings. “On the digital version, I’ve notated safety critical items in red, yellow for important but flexible parameters, green for—”
“I’m going to stop you right there before you pull out a pie chart.”
He pressed his lips together. “I don’t have a pie chart.”
“Yet,” I said, a chuckle slipping out.
He shook his head while humor glinted in his eyes, little wrinkles forming as he smiled. “Yet,” he agreed. “Would you prefer a Venn Diagram? We could start with animal care concerns and participant safety protocols.”
This was the side of Marc I typically didn’t see.
Why didn’t I know he had a sense of humor? Maybe it was because I tried to avoid him as much as humanly possible.
Marc averted his eyes. “The first session is too soon.”
He wasn’t wrong. At the end of the meeting, they suggested we start running the first one within the next three weeks.
“We need waivers. Clear animal handling guidelines. Limits on class size. Emergency protocols—” he said, ticking them off on his hand.
Each item hit like a dart—small and impossible to ignore. By the time he got to ‘emergency protocols,’ my teeth were clenched so hard my jaw ached. My pulse kicked up, thrumming in time with my heartbeat. Heat crawled up my neck. “Emergency protocols,” I repeated. “For yoga?”
“For animal-assisted yoga, yes.”
“With cats, dogs, and bunnies?”
“Yes, and we need to evaluate if we’ll allow small animals like guinea pigs or any other breeds the animal shelter has.”
I had a sudden image of a bunny in a vest marked EMERGENCY COORDINATOR and had to bite the inside of my cheek. It was ridiculous, but I couldn’t help my imagination from running away from me.
“This is serious,” Marc said, and I realized I must have made a face.
“I know. I know it is.” I did know.
His jaw clenched and his fingers tightened on that stupid list. This mattered to him. The animals mattered to him. It was the way he showed he cared, by creating color-coded categories and what was probably a separate document for equipment, which would drive me crazy.
“I’ve run yoga sessions before,” I said, trying to sound professional and less annoyed.
“I know—”
“With animals.”
“I know that, too.” He pushed up his glasses. “But not with these animals. I’m familiar with them in ways you’re not. I’m at the shelter weekly for checkups and emergency situations. And we’re going to be in front of the entire town who will be judging every decision we make.”
Oh.
Was he nervous about how it would look to the residents of Ruby River, too?
“We need to remember that animals under stress act unpredictably. I need to ensure their safety.”
“I get that.”
“But it’s not your area of expertise,” he stated. And the matter-of-fact way he said it just rubbed me the wrong way. It didn’t matter that part of me understood he spoke differently than me, that facts were his go-to, but when he pointed out my failings, I just felt attacked.
I drew in a deep breath, my anger rising and simmering inside me. “And I need to make sure people feel welcome and comfortable,” I shot back.
“I’m aware.” An emotion flickered across his face—frustration, annoyance that I wouldn’t just fall into place, or maybe something deeper.
“Are you?”
Marc looked at me then—his gaze settling on me instead of the ground or that stupid piece of paper—and his expression shifted. Not soft or warm. More conflicted.
“I’m not trying to undermine you,” he said.
The reasonable part of my brain knew he meant it. The rest of me—the part that remembered every dismissive comment, every skeptical look over the past two decades—didn’t care. “Then what are you trying to do?” The question came out quieter than I intended.
“I’m trying to prevent a situation that could hurt someone. Or an animal.”
He was being logical. Responsible, even. But it didn’t make me feel any better. It was just one more thing he was using against me. And at this point, I wasn’t thinking as rationally as I would’ve hoped.
“And I’m trying to build something here,” I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. “Something that matters.” And even if I disagreed with the way Sofia Kingsley tossed this at me, I was going to do a damn good job.
His gaze flicked to my hands, which were now clenched at my sides.
“I won’t let this fail,” he said quietly.
The words should’ve reassured me.
They didn’t. Instead, they were like a warning shot.
And somewhere beneath the anger and fear, they did—just a little.
Because if there was one thing I knew about Marc Kingsley after twenty years of antagonism, it was this: when he committed to a purpose, he saw it through.
Even if that was making sure I—we—didn’t fail in front of the entire town.
Which somehow made it worse. I didn’t want his pity. I wanted …
I shoved that thought from my mind before it could fully form.
“I won’t, either,” I responded, my voice tight. “But I need you to understand ...”
He waited. Silent. Still.
“This isn’t just a fundraiser,” I said. “This is my chance to really become a part of this town. And I won’t have it turned into a checklist or become something without emotion or feeling.”
He flinched.
For a moment, I thought he might argue.
Instead, he surprised me and gave a short nod. “Fine.”
Fine?
He handed me the paper, and his neat block-style handwriting stared back at me. His letters were careful, steady. The paper was warm from being in his pocket. “Look it over. We can talk tomorrow.”
Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye. No telling me when we should meet. No warmth.
And for some reason, that disappointed me the most.
I stood there long after he disappeared into the shadows beyond the streetlight, his footsteps fading into the night. My gaze landed on the words on the page, but not really seeing them. The lists. The bullet points. The rational, reasonable Marc-ness of it all.
The headlights blinked from Adele’s car, snapping me out of the trance I was in.
I glanced at the list of rules again and swallowed hard.
If this went wrong, I was so screwed.
I wasn’t sure if Marc Kingsley was going to help me … or destroy me.
The town was the one who had decided to go through with this.
And now so had I.
I folded Marc’s list carefully, creasing it along the folds he’d already made, and tucked it into my purse. Tomorrow, I’d look at it properly. Tomorrow, I’d figure out how to turn his rigid structure and my desperate need to belong into something that might work.
Tomorrow, I’d have to see him again.
The thought shouldn’t have made my stomach flip the way it did.
Adele’s headlights flashed again. I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and walked toward the car.
One step at a time. That’s all I needed to focus on.
One terrifying, possibly disastrous step at a time.