The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(52)

“You gonna teach him?” Willie Wayne finally asks her.

“Oh, I’ll teach him something.”

“Can I be a fly on your wall when you do?”

“I’ll do you one better and let you be a guest lecturer.”

I snort with laughter, even though we’re starting to get dirty looks. Undoubtedly for scaring the fish.

But the idea of having Willie Wayne try to explain how to brew beer is on par with the idea of having Jane try to make Ridhi’s oatcakes.

Neither one’s gonna work out well.

“Hey, Teague, that one of them Lightlys over with Bridget?”

Jane nods to the shore, and I straighten and look over my shoulder.

And then I pull my hat off and scratch my head, because that definitely looks like Bridget shoving off in a boat with Phoebe perched at the other end. “Huh.”

Not sure how I feel about this.

On the one hand, Phoebe’s tolerable.

Hot, you mean, my brain corrects.

I mentally flip myself off and get back to the other hand.

And the other hand is that I don’t want her setting examples for my daughter.

Probably.

She did apologize for running into me last time I saw her. Know that had to take a lot.

“She looks a lot different in lake clothes,” Willie Wayne muses.

“She came to see me yesterday too.” Jane kicks back in her boat and casts out away from me. “Asked if she could buy a beer off my doorstep and then asked personal questions.”

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

Willie Wayne does it for me. “Personal questions?”

“Yeah. She asked if I’d ever had to get revenge on an ex for being a twatwaffle and if I think hell really exists.”

Now he’s scratching his head too. “What’d you tell her?”

“That she has to earn the story about Deer Drop Floyd.”

Willie Wayne and I both nod. Fair answer to both questions.

“She thanked me, asked if it was appropriate to leave a tip for garage beer, and then told me she hoped that her family descending on my town was the worst of hell for me.”

Phoebe’s trying. I’ll give her that.

I’ll give her that every day of the week right now, matter of fact.

But what I don’t know is if it’s an act to satisfy her grandmother or if she’s actually having a personal reckoning with her life.

I reel my line in and wait for Bridget to motor to a stop near me. My boat rocks softly over the little wakes, and I can’t stop shooting looks at Phoebe.

She’s sitting at the helm, facing backward, legs tucked under her like royalty, wearing casual pants and a tight raspberry-colored tank top under an open white oxford shirt knotted at her waist, and she’s holding a white bucket hat to her head.

There’s a hint of a smile touching her lips as she tilts her head to the sky, but her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses, so I have no idea if she’s enjoying the day or if she’s plotting to drop a bomb in the lake and scare all the fish into never biting again.

Or maybe send her grandmother scuba diving.

That’d do it.

Those fish would go so far into hiding they’d never come out again.

She’s also talking, though. Like she’s saying something to my kid, who’s grinning in response while she slows the boat, holding it not too far away but not getting close enough for an accident. She’s in her usual—a crop top T-shirt with a giant floating Lady Gaga head, ripped jeans, and the bright, neon-green sneakers Ridhi got her for her birthday. “Dad! Can I tutor Phoebe in algebra?”

“No.”

“Dad. She’s not paying me to take the class for her.”

Phoebe’s smile is demure amusement. “Learned that lesson already.”

“But she’s really bad at math when it doesn’t involve dollars and cents, and I could use a few more dollars in my bank account so I can go see the Neon Panic concert when they’re in Milwaukee, and she says she’ll fund the cat shelter for the next year, plus teach us to fundraise ourselves so we’re not as strapped for cash all the time when her donation runs out. Besides, isn’t the world a better place when one more person knows basic algebra?”

I flick my gaze over both of them.

Bridget’s giving me the mulish don’t be a stick-in-the-mud teenager look, despite the fact that I know she’s lying about why she wants money, which is probably because Shiloh and I are in complete agreement that she’s not getting a car when she turns sixteen, and even if we weren’t, Ridhi feels so strongly about it on her own she’d overrule us like she’s the Estelle Lightly of the family.

Phoebe lifts her sunglasses, which aren’t at all necessary given the cloud cover rolling in and the fact that it’s nearly six, and she stares right back. Go on. Tell me I have to fail on my own when your kid is brilliant and the whole town would benefit from my bribe.

Willie Wayne coughs. Jane leans our way like she’s afraid she’ll miss something good if she leaves.

Bridge lowers her face and bats her eyelashes at me. “Please, Dad?”

“Good lesson in character building if you do it for free,” I tell her.

She gasps.

Phoebe’s lips twist.

“Or if you find something else you want that doesn’t cost anything. Maybe Phoebe should agree to pose for you as a model for your painting for every hour you spend tutoring her. Or . . . huh. Phoebe, what else are you good at?”