The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(29)

Phoebe interrupts her as she shifts to block another selfie. “I was never this fun when I was two.”

“Oh my God, go away. Go away! ”

Phoebe obliges—kind of—and steps around her sister and takes the plate I’ve been holding out for her family. “Thank you, Teague. I feel my soul improving already for using my manners and trying foods that I wouldn’t offer to a street rat in Brooklyn.”

“Oh my God, you’ve been to Brooklyn?” Tavi says.

“Where did I go wrong?” Margot fans herself with her hand as though the idea of any of her family going to Brooklyn is enough to make her faint.

But I’m not really watching them.

I’m watching Phoebe, whose nose wrinkles as she pops a fried cheese curd into her mouth.

She chews twice and stops, and then the weirdest thing happens.

She lifts her sunglasses and peers at me.

There’s a heady mix of distrust and wonder staring out at me from those bright green eyes while she slowly resumes chewing, like she likes the fried cheese curds, but she knows she’s not supposed to, and she’s wondering what sort of dirty tricks I’m playing here.

It’s like she’s never lived before.

Never had to.

Just wandered around in her uppity life, getting by on everything being taken care of for her, delivered on silver platters, being told she was better than the simple things, which are really the best things.

I’d know.

She finishes chewing and pushes her sunglasses all the way up. Her blonde hair’s slicked back in a simple ponytail at her nape, so her sunglasses aren’t fighting for space up on her head the way Tavi’s would be.

“What, exactly, is a curd?” she asks.

“Leftover bits from making cheese. Not aged. Fresh.”

She points to the plate. “And you fry them.”

“Beer battered and fried up in pure canola oil. Better with peanut, but you can’t do that with allergies floating around.” I jerk my head to the next table. “You like these, try the fish and Jane’s garage beer. Anya and Ridhi’s chana masala can’t be beat too.” I eyeball her mother and sister. “Might be vegan. Have to ask them.”

“But does it have sugar? Hidden sugar will go straight to Octavia’s hips.”

Margot’s asking me the question, but she’s staring at Phoebe the whole time.

Tavi’s watching Phoebe too. And if she doesn’t like Margot’s jabs at her metabolism or figure, she hides it well.

Phoebe bites into a second cheese curd, her eyes sliding shut as a moan emanates from the back of her throat, and I get the weirdest sensation that the gawks from her family aren’t horror.

Not from the uppity society mama, and not from the vegan either.

Do these people ever eat food that tastes good? Or do they just stick to the food that looks good for them to eat?

I give myself a mental shake.

Not my business. Not my business at all. Especially since watching Phoebe’s lips close around my favorite Wisconsin snack while she groans in pleasure again is causing some trouble for me below the belt.

I dig into the bin of fresh curds. “Here. Try one not fried.”

Her face doesn’t twist in disgust, though Margot takes a step back. “Dear God, it’s like a pasty, swollen worm.”

“It’s cheese, Mother,” Phoebe replies as she leans in and bites the curd as I’m still holding it.

Fuck.

Not what I meant.

Two points to the Manhattan lady boss.

Two more points when she makes that throaty purr of approval in the back of her throat again.

What the fuck is going on with my junk that I’m getting hard over Phoebe Lightly?

“Is it supposed to squeak?” she asks.

I nod and try to clear my throat without making it obvious that I have to. “That’s how you know it’s fresh.”

“They’re delicious.”

“Or all that bleach you used scrubbing toilets today has fried your nose and taste buds,” Tavi murmurs.

Phoebe smiles and aims it straight at me. “Also possible. And now Carter has a clean bathroom to do with what he always did in high school.”

“For the love of Kate Spade, Phoebe, not in front of other people,” Margot says.

“Are you talking about the weed or the jerking off?” Tavi asks.

Margot huffs.

“Both.” Phoebe grabs an older plate of curds that has been waiting for one of the teenagers to claim it. “These are surprisingly delicious.”

“We backwoods folk finally figured out taste buds too. Fancy that.”

My sarcasm only makes her smile wider.

Is she playing me, or is Phoebe Lightly actually considering honestly giving small-town life a chance?

Maybe she’s just glad to not be scrubbing toilets again.

“Do you ever dip these in ranch dressing?” Phoebe asks.

“Phoebe, gross.” Tavi’s lower face twists, and I can only imagine what’s going on behind her sunglasses. “Are you doing this on purpose? You’re only enjoying yourself to gross the rest of us out, aren’t you?”

“Girls,” Margot chides.

“Mom. You’re not vegan. Or allergic. Try this.” Phoebe holds the plate out to her.