The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(5)

I reel in my line and cast again while the wake of her departure rocks my little boat.

Consider popping a beer. Acknowledge she won’t need to go to Deer Drop for a job, since she’s on her way to being the fire chief at the station here in Tickled Pink. Wonder if these clouds will actually give us rain. Scratch myself. Reel in and cast out again.

Cut a glance at the shore, where a very animated blonde who’s probably a natural brunette is using that pink power dress-suit thing she’s wearing to emphasize every point she’s apparently trying to make.

Can’t hear what they’re saying—not with the earplugs I just popped in—but I get the gist by the body language.

No way is Miss Priss rowing herself out here to tell me what for.

And no doubt my ex-wife is telling her I won’t talk about what’s gotten her all upset unless one of them does.

Probably also that I’m all set with everything I need to sleep out here for days, so there’s no sense in waiting me out either.

She wouldn’t be wrong.

So I lower my brim back over my face, settle deeper into the easy chair I fixed into my boat for more comfy fishing, and go back to casting out, looking for a big score.

But only for a minute.

Can’t help feeling a little curious.

I shift my head enough to peer out from under my brim without lifting my fishing hat, and hot damn.

Color me almost impressed.

Miss Priss is trying to get into a boat.

Dylan Wright’s eighteen-foot outboard motorboat, to be precise. He’s not fishing today, number one because it’s a Thursday, number two because he’s working a big job out in Deer Drop, and number three because even if it were a Saturday or Sunday, his plumbing business would probably be getting calls for emergencies.

Clogged toilets don’t respect the weekends.

And Miss Priss doesn’t respect fishing boats.

You can tell by the way she’s still wearing those spiky heels with the red soles and that tight skirt while she’s trying to climb in. Looks like a tall pink penguin trying to lift a leg.

Ain’t gonna go far that way.

Not that any of the other boats lined up onshore are better options for her. They’d all have the same problem.

Namely that they’re boats, and she’s a big-city socialite.

I twitch my lips back into submission and cough instead of snickering, because that’s the polite thing to do.

And I don’t laugh when her shriek echoes across the water, cutting through my foamies so that even I can hear her.

No, sirree.

I don’t laugh.

It would be rude to laugh at a lady finding her feet stuck in lake mud for the first time in her life.

So I assume.

If she’d encountered a lake before, odds are good she would’ve learned what to wear around it.

Or maybe I’m dead wrong, and this is how she always approaches boats and lakes. Maybe they bend to her will.

What do I know?

She finally figures it out, turning her back to the boat, lifting her hips, and sitting on the edge to slide in.

I shake my head. Lucky she’s only in a foot of water there by the shore, or that thing would be rolling over.

But you know what’s really getting to me right now?

It’s not that the princess is getting into the boat.

It’s that there are four other people who aren’t Tickled Pinkers standing around watching her do it.

The two women lurking safely on the shore are in fancy clothes, too, and I know without a doubt that the one in pants is wearing fancy pants. You can tell because she’s topped her getup with a boa.

A boa. And a gold one at that.

Women don’t wear sweatpants and boas.

Even I know that much about fashion.

The heavier of the two men in their group is in a suit, but the other’s in jeans and a flannel shirt.

Lot like my flannel shirt, matter of fact.

He could’ve helped.

He could’ve been the designated spokesperson to come tell me why I’m an awful human being—and yeah, given what I did before these five rich white fools got here, selling their grandma the most god-awful piece of real estate in all of the Northwoods, there’s no doubt in my mind that’s what’s about to happen—but Mr. Flannel’s letting the blonde do all the dirty work.

Probably means the flannel’s just for show.

Exactly like the old lady.

Something tugs on my line.

Hot damn. Got a live one. I wrangle and wrestle it in, eventually pulling up a five-inch crappie.

“Got some fight in you for a little guy,” I tell him.

His mouth gapes, and his eye stares at me.

“Go on, then. Go warn the rest of ’em that I’m coming for them too.” I toss him back in the lake and reset my lure.

And then I make the mistake of looking at the blonde again.

She’s floating this way and that, trying to use one oar to make progress on getting out here to me, but she’s mostly just going in circles, banging the wooden oar on the side of the metal boat.

I pop one foamie out.

No wonder I only hooked a five-incher. She’s making enough racket to scare the fish three lakes over.

“There’s a motor, Phoebe,” the older guy calls from the shore. “Try turning on the motor!”

“Don’t turn on the motor,” I mutter.