The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(39)

He slides two paces to his left so that instead of leaning on the driver’s door, he’s leaning on the door I’m trying to open. “You really have a license?”

“Yes.”

“When’s the last time you drove?”

Don’t twitch, I order my eyeball.

It ignores me. “I . . . don’t remember.”

“Why’d you get it?”

He knows.

He knows it’s completely unnecessary for me to have a driver’s license.

I’ve lived in New York my entire life. Yes, my family owns cars, but we don’t drive them ourselves. We hire drivers who open our car doors for us. And yes, I travel for work to various locations around the world, but I don’t get rental cars.

I’m cringing to myself now, because I don’t want to admit what I get when I travel for work.

It’s not the same as my coworkers. And until a week ago, I’d never thought about why.

I just assumed they weren’t authorized that expense by the company, because they weren’t Lightlys.

I straighten. “I wanted a little more freedom when I was on vacation in the Hamptons.”

“Is it expired?”

“No. I renewed it just last year, thank you very much.” I had Antoinette renew it.

He holds out his hand, palm up, and gestures with his fingers. “Let’s see it.”

“No.”

“I can’t drive you to school every day of the week, Phoebe, and I’m not letting you drive yourself until you prove to me that you can drive.”

I pull myself up to my full Lightly height, which is three inches shorter than I’d like it to be but still at least four inches higher than my doctor’s records have on file. Or so it feels. And feeling is half of being, isn’t it? “You won’t let me?”

“My daughter walks on the road you’d be driving on. Friends and family too. Damn right I won’t let you. Gigi likes me. Just a few little words—”

“Fine.” He is such an ass. I yank my backpack to my chest and dig into the front pocket for my wallet. “And how are you coming on convincing her we need to leave and she needs to lay off?”

“Patience, my dear Phoebe. We’re getting there.”

He’s enjoying this entirely too much.

And I enjoy it entirely too much when our fingers brush as he takes my driver’s license and inspects it.

One corner of his mouth hitches again.

I’m well aware that the photo is hideous. I also have an unfortunate smudge on my record since you’re apparently not supposed to bribe the workers at the motor vehicle licensing facilities to retake your photo, and I forgot that that photo would be reused when Antoinette renewed my license online for me.

But I stare him down like I’m the bloody queen of England.

It doesn’t faze him in the least. Neither my horrific picture nor my glare. “It’s current, I’ll give you that.” He slaps the keys into my palm along with returning my license. “Hop up there, Phoebs. Let’s see if you actually know how to operate this thing.”

My skin prickles and my gut twists.

In my thirty years, I’ve been behind the wheel of a car long enough to acquire my license and then approximately four hours total since.

I might have once known how to drive a car, but I have zero confidence that I can still do this without embarrassing myself.

But he’s right.

I still need to, no matter how bad I might be.

So I slide into the driver’s seat, and I sit there staring at the dashboard, my legs at least six inches too short to reach the pedals with the seat adjusted for Teague’s height, momentarily stupefied because there’s no actual key on this key fob.

The whole SUV shifts when Teague settles into the passenger seat beside me. “If you’re freaking out, I can drive you back to Tickled Pink and tell Shiloh you need driving lessons instead. In addition to being a firefighter, she’s also a registered driving instructor.”

“I’m not freaking out. I’m reacquainting myself.” What do I do first? Why isn’t there—Oh.

There’s a button where the key should go.

Oh my God. I watched Lola do this on Lola’s Tiny House right before I had that fateful dinner with Gigi. Lola couldn’t figure out how to start her car either. But you push the button.

“My last rental car had a key,” I say defensively as I smash the button.

The car doesn’t start.

I smash the button again.

Still no-go.

And then I notice the message lighting up on the dashboard reminding me I need to press the brake if I want the engine to turn on.

Teague reaches across me, his large frame brushing against my breast, his breath on my neck, his sideburns tickling my lips and making me suck in a breath.

His whole body tenses, but he doesn’t move away.

Nope.

The man grabs my left hand and guides it to a series of switches on the side of the seat. “Here.” His voice is strained. “Adjust your seat so you can reach the pedals.”

“I was getting there.”

“Get there faster.”

His words say Hurry up, but his body is still lingering across mine.

And I’m oddly okay with this.

No, okay isn’t the right word.