The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(12)

“No, thank you. I just remembered I have somewhere I need to be.”





Chapter 4


Phoebe


Teague Miller is a very hard person to find.

As if that will stop me.

Navigating the uneven sidewalks and cobblestone streets in a pair of Jimmy Choos won’t either.

But my moment of hesitation comes when I realize the address I’ve been given is a field of goats surrounded by mile-high Christmas trees, undecorated and in their native land.

“Hello?” I call.

A resounding “Are you kidding me?” echoes over a field of bleating goats behind a fence and tells me I’m in the right place, though there’s not a house in sight.

Does he live in a hole in the ground? This part was not in that damn movie that Gigi wants to re-create in order to find her soul. “Mr. Miller? Hello?”

“How may I be of assistance, Ms. Lightly?”

Is he in a tree? Is he seriously climbing trees?

The flannel and the beard made him look like a fishing lumberjack yesterday, but I did not expect to find him actually sitting in a tree.

“Where are you?”

“Almost exactly where I want to be.”

“Which is?”

“In my home.”

I am so confused. I lower my sunglasses and peer through the goats. “Where is your home?”

“Right where I’m at.”

“I had a professor who liked to talk in riddles once. He’s now unemployed and living in Greenland.”

“Must’ve been before your grandmother’s great awakening.”

“Where are you?”

“In my home. But not alone, since you’re here now. Hence, exactly where I do and don’t want to be.”

The man would be funny if he weren’t irritating. “Mr. Miller, I have a proposal for you, and I would very much like to present it without yelling across a herd of goats.”

Herd? Flock? Uprising? What do you call a group of goats?

A large wooden crate on a rope drops from the sky near one of the trees at the back of the goat field, and oh my word.

There’s a house in the trees. An actual tree house. It blends in. I missed it the first time.

My gaze drifts upward, over the shimmer of glass, brown wood, more glass, more wood—it’s not merely a tree house. It’s a several-story tiny town house on stilts built into his forest.

Lola Minelli would die ten thousand deaths on her reality show if someone put her tiny house up in a tree.

I wonder if I can reach the producers to suggest they try it?

“If you can get up here, we can discuss your proposal,” he calls from somewhere in the heights, drawing my attention back to the crate.

It’s not a crate.

It’s—it’s—it’s a crude elevator system.

“Leave any food outside the gate, or the goats will eat you. I have an appointment with a largemouth bass in twenty minutes, and I’m not waiting for your highbrow little ass to get over yourself if you’re serious about a proposal.”

I pick my way through a row of prickly weeds and grasses along the fence until I find a gate with a rusty latch.

I miss New York. Concrete. Coffee. Cell signals. Private manicurists. Trustworthy sushi. Silk sheets. Spas. Staff. Strangers who mind their own business.

Making deals with devils of my choosing, instead of the devils I’m stuck with.

The latch gives way after six tugs, and the entire herd of goats swarms me.

I shriek—which is not something I do in my regular life, despite the number of times I’ve done it since I got here—and hug a fence post while goat after goat races past me, their furry bodies brushing my Chanel skirt while I try to climb the fence so they can’t trample my Jimmy Choos.

“What are you doing?” Teague yells.

“I’m coming to see you!” I yell back.

“You let my goats out!”

“I did not! I opened the gate, and they let themselves out!”

Three slowpoke goats lift their heads from inside the gate. One bleats at me.

All three go back to eating.

I take that to mean it’s safe to come in now, so I let go of the fence and carefully lower myself to the stubbly green ground. Grass and weeds poke up through a layer of last year’s dead plants on the uneven terrain, and since there’s no sidewalk, I pick my way across the field in my heels while the goats ignore me.

Dress for the life you want to have apparently won’t last long here.

Not if I don’t want to keep ruining $3,000 shoes, which keep sinking into the earth in unexpected places. And let’s not talk about the rest of my wardrobe.

“Leave the damn gate open so the goats can come back when they get bored,” Teague orders.

“Yes, Your Holy Majesty,” I mutter.

“And don’t call me that, or my offer’s off the table.”

“I muttered,” I yell at him.

“You’re predictable.”

I’m getting closer to his voice, picking my way around mud pits and piles of things that I do not want to step in. “You don’t know me well enough for me to be predictable.”

“I know your type. That’s enough.”

The crate’s sitting crooked, like it landed on a rock. I peer inside it.