The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(6)

If she turns on that motor, we’ll be picking her body parts out of the evergreens on the Deer Drop side of the lake until it freezes over, assuming she makes it that far without falling out and drowning first.

She drops an oar, which falls into the lake, and then she twists to peer at the outboard motor.

Dammit.

I grunt to myself, put my fishing pole away, and rip the cord on my own motor.

She got in the lake.

Close enough to a compromise.

I’ll meet her halfway, tell her no to whatever demands she’s about to make, escort her off my lake, and offer to escort her out of my town when I’m done fishing for the day.

But when I motor up next to her, she peers down at me from the higher seat in Dylan’s boat like she’s the queen of bloody England. Her hair’s coming out of its fancy twist. Her pink power suit is splattered with dirty water. I know she’s coated in lake mud up to her calves, which are probably tucked under her like she’s trying to sit in a fishing boat like a duchess. Yet those sparking green eyes, that long nose, and those red lips are all working together to make me believe peons truly do bow before her.

Rich people make me twitchy.

“Are you Mr. Miller?” she asks with that you will answer me, because I say so tone that comes with never being denied a thing in her life.

I glance around the lake.

It’s Thursday. Means only Willie Wayne Jorgensen’s out here too. At least, this week. Next week, school’s out, and we’ll get a few more of us.

I nod to her instead of suggesting she go ask Willie Wayne if he’s Mr. Miller first. He’s a white guy in his late thirties, like me, so odds are good I could confuse her for a while if I wanted to. But then I’d have to take more time away from fishing. “What my driver’s license says.”

She leans over and extends a hand, then jerks it back and grabs the side of her seat when it rocks. “I’m Phoebe Lightly. I need to discuss the property you sold to my grandmother yesterday.”

“All sales are final.” I tip my hat. “Have a nice day, Ms. Lightly.”

“There is an animal carcass in the hallway.”

I nod. “Bats in the theater too. But those are live.”

“Charming as it may be on the outside—” She pauses, and I swear she’s mentally choking on her own words.

I would be.

The old Tickled Pink high school isn’t charming inside or out. The three-story neoclassical block building with its arched windows and stamped concrete door marker, first built back in the 1920s and updated not enough back when Pink Gold hit big, has been closed for about ten years now. When we realized how much it would cost to update the building to code, we formed an unholy alliance with Deer Drop and agreed it would be more efficient to jointly build a new high school to service both of our communities. The only things the old high school’s been good for since are target practice for shooting out windows, growing grass and weeds on the football field behind it for my goats to eat in the summer, and housing wild animals looking to get out of the rain, snow, and sometimes even sunshine year-round.

Until Estelle Lightly marched into town three days ago, declared she needed a place big enough for her and her son’s family to live together while they soak up the vibes here to learn to be genuine, good people who won’t go to hell when they die, and agreed that she was willing to sell her soul, no matter the price.

Then the old high school became a profitable moneymaking venture for Tickled Pink—and exactly the kind of property that the old lady won’t last in for three whole hours.

Not even if they last long enough to get it cleaned, which is far from what it’ll take to make the building truly livable.

Like I said.

All sales are final.

“Charming as it may be on the outside,” Phoebe Lightly repeats, “it is uninhabitable on the inside. I’ll need to see the inspection reports, and I also intend to discuss your real estate license with the county commissioner.”

I jerk a thumb at Willie Wayne, who does a lot more than fishing too. At least, when he has to. “County commissioner’s right over there, and your grammy didn’t ask for an inspection. Bought it as is and paid cash. She already talked to Willie Wayne about having that beaver carcass taxidermized and set up in the cafeteria as a reminder of those who came before and made the ultimate sacrifice.”

She blinks one slow blink. “How . . . big . . . are beavers?”

I hold my hands about a beaver’s length apart.

Her lips purse out in an O. She reaches up to fiddle with her diamond earring, then yanks her hand back to her lap. “Mr. Miller, we found an animal carcass this big.” She stretches her arms wide. “Does that sound like a beaver to you?”

I scratch my beard. “Reckon you’ll find a few more once you look in all the classrooms.”

“And we’re back to that building is not inhabitable.”

“Ms. Lightly, you’ll have to discuss that with your grandmother. Sure she won’t mind if you pack on up and head back to New York. Lady like you must have better things to do than improving your own soul in a little country town.”

Her face doesn’t change. Her green eyes don’t narrow. Her lips don’t tighten. Her spine doesn’t stiffen.

But something shifts in her.

I can feel it, and that connection sets me on edge.