The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(40)

I like this.

He smells how Remington Lightly’s ads for our Kangapoo-brand body-care line claim to make a man smell. Woodsy and strong with a hint of salt and lemon. Capable. Like he’s just come in from chopping down a tree at the edge of the ocean and is now getting ready to grill a steak for his lover.

I inhale deeper, and his body tenses harder against me before he jerks away. “I have an appointment to make clay pots with Bridget at the local art teacher’s house in two hours. Let’s get a move on.”

Right.

Learn to drive the car again.

With Teague serving as my consultant.

I like him. He’s honest. Not angling for anything other than to get us to leave.

Is he?

I shoot a side glance at him while I hit the right switches to move my seat forward. “Is my grandmother offering other financial incentives to the town for you to tolerate us?”

His lips purse. “No.”

“The million-dollar scholarship to keep us off the town’s Wi-Fi? What about the profit off of selling her the school in the first place?”

“That scholarship will help at least four more kids a year go to college than would’ve otherwise, if we manage it right, and that bridge we drove over on the river between Tickled Pink and Deer Drop? That’s where the school profit’s going. If there’s leftover, it’s helping tear down the Ferris wheel. Or patching some of the cobblestone roads on Main Street. We don’t want you here, and we’re not asking for handouts, but we’re not turning down any of the cash she’s dropping around town until we’re rid of all of you.” He points to the steering wheel. “Press the brake and then hit that button to start the car.”

“I know how to start the car.”

“You wanna tour around the parking lot a bit first?”

That’s probably a good idea. “Teague. I can drive a car.”

“Thank you, Teague, for taking time out of your schedule to make sure I can take care of myself the next time I’m waiting for a driver.”

The man should not do falsetto.

Mostly because it’s an eerily accurate representation of what I sound like when I listen to interviews of myself. Has he memorized my speech patterns?

“Thank you, Teague.”

I scowl at him.

He grins back.

My nipples sit up and sniff like Tavi’s dog getting a whiff of prime rib after subsisting on carrots and spinach for months, heat streaks through my core, and I no longer have to worry about having children, because that grin just made my ovaries implode, which surely has broken them permanently.

I start to fan myself, realize he’s still watching, and grope for the steering wheel instead.

Unfortunately, I miss and hit a lever, and the wipers go nuts across the windshield. It’s a frantic squark squark squark! as they whip across the dry glass.

“Oh, good,” I stutter, and I lunge for the lever again and try to figure out how to make them stop. “I needed to know where that was.”

He leans over me again, and sweet holy Oprah, his shampoo or his soap or his beard oil is saturating the air around me, swirling and mingling with the new-car scent in here and teasing my senses, and my brain is in danger of going the way of my ovaries.

How am I supposed to drive when he smells like this?

“Your lights are here.” He flips a knob at the end of the lever on the left side of the wheel, and I spare a brief hope that he’s lived in a town that smells like rotten catfish so long that it’s dulled his own senses so he can’t smell how my body is reacting to his body being so close.

My panties are soaked. My nipples are diamonds. And I want to know if the back seat of this SUV is big enough for me to ride a lumberjack.

“Phoebe?” He leans back and peers at me again, and oh God, his eyes. They’re like dragon eggs, layered and flaked with the colors of priceless emeralds and yellow sapphires, rich and textured.

Are they getting darker?

Are his lids heavy because he’s turned on or because he’s irritated?

Is he staring at my mouth?

“Are we leaving anytime today?” he asks.

I jerk my attention back to the wheel.

Again.

“Yes. Headlights. Windshield wipers. Gas pedal. Brake. I’ve got this.”

“Seat belt?”

I’m intoxicated on hormones and should definitely not drive this car.

Especially since Teague Miller is the source of my hormonal intoxication.

What has this town done to me?

Introduced you to people who have to work for what they have, love each other without doubt through hard times, and do kind things for you despite you and your family being spoiled, obnoxious, terrible people who have shown very little respect for them.

I don’t think this is what Gigi expected when she brought us here—not really—but I’m realizing more and more every day that I don’t like myself.

The New York Phoebe? The one who’s so important, in meetings every day, chewing out the people beneath me, stepping on people at my level to get above them, neglecting the simple manners my nanny taught me all those years ago when grabbing my coffee or demanding my assistant order me lunch, worrying more about if Sophia Cho would show up in the same designer that I wore to a gala than if my charitable donations actually helped the organizations they were meant to support?