The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(26)

The little boy with his hair to his shoulders, laughing over a bowl of ice cream.

The same face, a little older still, wearing a flowery dress and Easter bonnet and a larger smile than should fit on his face.

Until that little face morphs into the same face that was smirking at me and fawning over Tavi and sassing her aunt Anya at the café yesterday morning.

“What are you doing?”

Oh, good. Cranky Teague has reentered the building. I start to gesture to his wall with my coffee mug—this one a custom mug printed with Bridget’s smiling face over bubbly letters spelling out I heart my dad, which was one more surprise about Teague Miller this morning before I processed the wall of photos here—but I glance over my shoulder, find half-naked Teague glowering at me with all those pecs and biceps and abs tight and ready for battle, and I slosh hot coffee all over my hand as my eyes try to drink in the sight of him all at once. He’s like Lumberjack Thor, and I like it way more than I should. “Ow! Dammit. Ow. Hi. Good morning. I’m snooping. There’s coffee for you, by the way. I made a full pot.”

I lick at my hand, sucking the life juice off instead of wasting it by finding a towel, while he stands there radiating so much anger that he can’t seem to find his voice.

Do I really have to pull out the Lightly brow this early in the morning? “If you didn’t want me in here, you could’ve locked the door. Or kicked me out last night. I assume you’re assuming I’ll be in trouble for not sleeping at the school? Sorry to disappoint, but Gigi let us get rooms at the motel again last night. Even she doesn’t want us dying of mold inhalation before the inspection she’s agreed to, probably because I convinced her it was her idea to not get another notch on her going-to-hell checklist by murdering her family with lung poisoning. I’ll be in trouble for not sleeping at the motel, yes, but it’s not as bad as not sleeping at the school.”

I wish I could see his jaw behind that beard. I want to know if it’s as cut as the rest of him. And if I’m making it tic.

Even if he had steam coming out his nose, it would probably get immediately swallowed into his mustache, so I couldn’t see that either.

“Sleeping on my deck was not an invitation to come into my house.”

“Afraid I’ll find the dead bodies in your closets? Don’t worry, Teague. I have enough of my own that I won’t say a word.”

His gaze flits to the wall over the dining room table, then back to me.

A wave of heat washes through my chest.

I know what he’s saying.

I don’t trust you to be good to my kid.

I wouldn’t trust me either.

And maybe that’s a sign that I, Phoebe Lightly, actually do have room for improvement. I swallow one more gulp of coffee and pretend his angry scrutiny isn’t getting to me. “You can dial down the fury, Mr. Overprotective. Bridget might not be my favorite person in town, but that’s only because she has Tavi-worship problems, and also, none of you in this town will ever be my favorite. I don’t care what her name is or what gender she identifies as.”

His nostrils flare like he doesn’t believe me, which isn’t a problem we’ll solve this morning. Actions speak louder than words and all that.

And I’ve seen actions in my life that tell me he’s justified in his reaction.

I’ve done actions in my life that tell me he’s justified in his reaction.

But the thing I’m not prepared for this morning?

In addition to the shame of realizing Gigi was right—yes, I am the person who was mocking the size of my ex-boyfriend’s penis in the Post—and that I don’t want to be the person Teague doesn’t trust around his daughter, his overprotective papa-bear act is turning my hormones into firecrackers, lighting them on fire, and shooting them into the sky with that brilliant canvas of stars from last night.

Teague Miller is turning me on while I’m having a painful realization about myself.

Several, in fact.

The next of which is that I don’t think anyone in my own family loves me enough that they’d consider tossing someone out of a tree house at the merest suggestion that an insult might be flinging my way.

“Your family needs to fucking leave,” he growls.

And it all clicks.

His worry over Tavi’s social media feed and pictures. His forceful questions at the idea that someone else from New York would invade his sanctuary. Selling Gigi that horrific school building to use as a home and letting me fall in the lake and planting a freaking raccoon family in the school.

He’s not chasing us away because he’s a grumpy loner lumberjack.

Or at least that’s not the only reason. He also wants us gone to protect his daughter.

And what about the rest of the town?

Are there other people in this town that he thinks he needs to protect from us? Do people in small towns have secrets just as big as the secrets that are kept in my social circles?

How many people here would suffer unexpected consequences if some of the nosier paparazzi started poking their heads around and asking questions that I know not to answer, but they might not?

And he’s standing between us and them with those broad shoulders and that you’ll have to get through me first glare.

I didn’t even think I actually had ovaries, yet there they are, sighing and swooning like Lola Minelli over a full-size suite at the Ritz.