The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(114)

And last but never least, a massive thank-you to my hubby and our kids for believing in me, supporting me, and asking strangers to buy my books.





EXCERPT FROM THE GRUMPY PLAYER NEXT DOOR

Tillie Jean Rock, aka a Woman Who Should Probably Get Her Eyes Checked There’s a fine art to revenge, and today, I am arting the hell out of it. I’m talking cackles of glee, evil cartoon overlord–style, rubbing my hands together while bouncing on my toes. Reminding myself to shut up because my brother will be home from his morning workout any minute now, and I don’t want to tip my hand when he doesn’t know I’m waiting for him here in his house up on the mountainside.

You would think he would’ve learned to engage his security system more often by now.

But he hasn’t, which means I’m here, armed and dangerous and ready, and I’m cackling with glee all over again.

I know, I know. Is this really how you want to pay him back for all of his pranks, Tillie Jean?

Yes, actually.

Yes, it is.

It’s payback time.

Also?

I have zero doubt Cooper will have mad respect that I’m doing this.

I cackle again.

And then I slap my hand over my mouth.

He’s home.

There’s his dark head, bent toward the knob, beyond the tempered glass panel beside his front door. He’s dressed in Fireballs red, which is more orange than it is red, and he’s probably worn out from lifting at the gym this morning.

I squat into position at the top of the stairs, as hidden as I can be while still seeing my target, Nerf blaster locked and loaded, waiting while he fumbles with his keys.

For the record?

It’s not easy to hide at the top of a curved staircase. I’m on my belly now, half-angled behind the wall of the hallway to his guest bedrooms, peering between the slats of the banister, hoping all my target practice pays off.

Steady, TJ. This is what you trained for.

The lock clicks.

I flatten myself lower and take aim.

The door swings open.

Dark hair in the foyer. Go go go.

I squeeze the trigger, sending a rapid blast of modified foam darts at the six balloons floating in the space above the door.

The needle sticking out barely an eighth of an inch in the tip of the first dart connects. One helium balloon pops. Then two more, followed by the fourth and fifth. The sixth shifts after getting hit, like it’s a tough guy balloon. It’s the ninja of balloons, and it doesn’t want to participate in my dastardly plans today, but that’s okay. The other balloons are bursting in a sparkly, shiny, beautiful pink glitter spray that’s splattering on the walls, exploding from its nylon shell and raining down like a spring shower, coating the walls, making the air sparkle, and dusting all that dark hair as Cooper’s lifting his head. “What the—”

And in the span of a heartbeat, before he can finish that sentence, I realize my mistake.

My terrible, horrible, very bad miscalculation.

If I were a superhero, I’d be sucking all that glitter into my lungs and redirecting it into my brother’s bedroom, which is likely what I should’ve done in the first place—hindsight, right?—but I didn’t. This was so much more dramatic and didn’t risk me having to find out which local he’s screwing around with in his spare time, as she’d be coated in glitter too after rolling around in his sheets, except my prank has failed.

It has failed spectacularly.

“Oh my god,” I gasp.

That’s not Cooper.

That is so not Cooper.

Yeah, Cooper has dark hair. But he also has an easy smile, blue eyes, a quick sense of humor, appreciation for a well-executed revenge plot, and a tall, lanky body.

The man staring at me is tall. And dark-haired.

But he’s also thickly muscled. Growling without making a noise. Aiming dark eyes at me. And I have no idea if he has any respect for pranks.

Harmless pranks.

The ones where no one gets hurt.

Even if it means he’s gonna look like a pink vampire in the daylight for the next three weeks.

Or, you know, forever. Because it’s glitter.

I swallow hard while those brown eyes silently bore into me from a face that’s as chiseled and manly as they come, and which also looks like it was decorated at a birthday slumber party for a fourteen-year-old.

What’s he even doing here? He’s not supposed to be here.

This isn’t where he’s staying this winter.

But he is here, and this isn’t good.

This isn’t good at all.

“Hi, Max.” I lift a hand and wave, realize I’m still holding the Nerf blaster, and toss it down the hallway.

It hits the corner of the wall instead and clatters to the wood floor.

Stupid thing doesn’t even have the decency to land quietly on the hall runner.

Max Cole, right-handed starting pitcher for the Copper Valley Fireballs, is six feet, four inches, and two hundred twenty-five pounds of steely baseball perfection, and he’s never willing to do anything beyond glare, twitch, and ignore me when I’m around him.

Possibly spending four years incessantly flirting with him to annoy Cooper—and Max, if I’m being honest—wasn’t the best build-up to this moment.

I’m not shrinking into myself.

I’m not quivering in my belly.