The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(110)

My name has been dragged so deeply through the dirt that it’s a wonder I don’t see streaks of mud float through the air when people say it out loud. I suppose people still fear my grandmother enough that they won’t outright snub me, despite it being public knowledge that we’re not related by blood.

Everyone seeing Fletcher and me together?

This will be all over everywhere before midnight.

I stride through gardens on my way to the edge of the veranda like I still belong here, as though the looks and the whispers roll off my back, as if tomorrow, I’ll sit down at brunch at the Bergamot Club with a brand-new sparkly purse that I’ll let my best friends touch if they’re nice to me, like we’re in second grade again, and I don’t stop until I’m at Fletcher’s side.

How I ever found him attractive enough to settle for is beyond me.

He’s arrogant and condescending, and he never smiles.

Only sneers.

The rest of the world is beneath him.

“I don’t have your grandfather’s watch,” I start, and then I choke on my words.

Fletcher isn’t alone.

And he doesn’t look well.

“He’s aware,” Teague says softly.

Teague.

He’s here.

In New York.

In a suit.

And not just any suit but a custom bespoke suit that fits him like he was born in it. His beard is trimmed short.

His hair too.

No sunglasses.

No fishing hat.

No hiding.

And I have completely lost all use of my tongue.

He’s fancy and polished and fits in perfectly here, which isn’t Teague at all. He’s not supposed to be posh and suave and superficial.

He’s supposed to be rough and grumpy and soft.

I truly did not know him at all.

The pain sweeps through my body all over again, and it’s only old socialite habits resurfacing that keep me upright and somewhat in control.

“Seems my new friend Fletcher here owes you an apology,” Teague continues.

I almost lift my chin and stare him down, but acting like an imperious ass won’t make me feel better.

The very sight of Fletcher is making me rethink my plan to offer him a substitute Rolex.

Is it truly being the bigger person if you let a bully win?

It isn’t, is it?

I have so much to learn still. I’m lost without a compass.

And that’s before the whispers start rising around me. “Richard Beauregard. Edward Richard Montgomery Beauregard the Fourth, to be exact. Estelle Lightly found him and saved him from amnesia. He’s moving back to Texas and taking over Greenright Oil. Most eligible bachelor of the year. And honey, yes, I do believe that is all muscle.”

I know the whispers are wrong. There’s no way in hell the man standing before me would leave his family.

But I also would’ve sworn up and down there was no way the man would even temporarily set foot in New York, yet here he is, looking as polished and composed as though he’s been in this world every day for the past twenty years.

Fletcher, meanwhile, looks like he just tried to swallow a sewer rat.

“That apology?” Teague prompts.

Why does his voice still have the power to set my nerve endings on fire?

“What are you doing here?” I manage to ask while I fight the sting suddenly overheating my eyes and the lumberjack-size lump stuck in my throat.

His dragon-egg eyes scan me like he’s peering through my own layers of armor—both the clothing and the emotional layers—to discern which Phoebe Lightly he’d find if he could inspect my heart. And I don’t know if he’s looking because he wants to know if I’m worthy of him or if he’s worthy of me, or if he came all the way to New York just to torture both of us a little more. “Looking for you.”

My pulse slowly restarts itself. “Why?” I whisper.

“Because being part of a family means you don’t have to do the hard stuff alone.”

Oh my Oprah.

Is he—is he calling me his family?

My tear ducts are threatening to show off for the whole of Upper East Side society. “Your hard stuff, or my hard stuff?”

“You won’t last two days around here, you fake little Texas—erp.” Fletcher’s voice cuts off, and I hear my mom murmuring something to him—undoubtedly blackmail material that Gigi’s been sitting on, and I don’t care.

I don’t.

I hate this life. I hate these people. I hate how they make me feel and what I do when I’m around them.

Some people here are truly good.

I was never one of them.

The Upper East Side and I have a dysfunctional relationship, and we need to break up.

Teague’s hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but he doesn’t know if I’d let him. Indecision flashes over his features, and that temporary break in his composure, that crack in his exterior, makes me crack a little too.

He offers me his arm like we’re at a debutante ball. “A minute of your time, Ms. Lightly?”

“A minute? Is that all you want?”

He shakes his head.

More whispers explode around us again.

“Okay,” I mouth as I slip my hand into his elbow.

His breath leaves him in a shudder, and he covers my hand with his, that simple touch saying so much as he whisks me deep into the gardens.