The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(60)

The eye twinkle.

Teague Miller is baiting me.

Again.

My clit pulses. Does he know how much I like a good challenge? How much I enjoy verbal sparring and mind games? “If it’s easier for me to walk home naked, I can do that instead. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

His sweatpants tent. “Wouldn’t be the first time I did a citizen’s arrest on a naked woman in town either.”

It’s so damn natural to sit down next to him, prop my feet up, and help myself to a cookie. It’s like he gets me.

I’m not here because I wanted to use his shower.

I’m here because he’s come to represent a weird place where I can be myself, even when I don’t exactly know what that means. But I know I’m safe while I figure it out. “When was the first time?”

“Eight or ten years ago? Church group came through to feel the power of the heavenly gates. One of the ladies got drunk at Ladyfingers, old Tickled Pink Floyd told her that the fountain in the town square was the real gate to heaven, but she had to leave this earth the same way she came into it, in her birthday suit, and next thing you know, she was stripping down and diving in.”

I can’t tell if he’s making this up or not. “And you arrested her for trying to get to heaven.”

“Nah, I arrested her because it was ten in the morning, she was naked, and the preschool was out on a field trip. Hell. Bridget was in that class. Must’ve been closer to twelve years ago . . . Jesus.” He swipes a hand over his face. “And now she’s working on getting her driver’s permit.”

“And not letting you dress her in horrific fashion choices?” I lift a leg and point to the green parachute pants. “If you want your daughter to like you, don’t drunk-shop for her birthday presents.”

His full grin appears.

Oprah have mercy.

“So what broke you tonight?” he asks.

I grimace before I can stop myself. “I actually like you too much to subject you to this story.”

“That bad?”

Not going there. I’m blanking it from my memory. Instead, I point to the built-in bookshelves. “You’re a reader.”

“All decoration.”

“People who live in tiny houses don’t keep books for decoration.”

“Not that tiny.”

I bite into another cookie.

Know how many times I have cookies at home?

Never.

Never times.

Know how good this cookie is?

On a scale of hot shower to explosive orgasm, it’s right up there.

It’s so good I can’t even hear my mother’s subliminal messages about where all that sugar and fat will end up on my body.

I let my eyes wander around the rest of the room. There’s a desk beneath a window overlooking the goat field, as well as the fuzzy rug we were just rolling around on between the desk and the bookshelves. The walls are plank wood, and charming white lace curtains are tied back on either side of the windows. Instead of family pictures, these walls are decorated with black-and-white photos of covered bridges. The room isn’t large, but it’s not so small that two people can’t breathe in here either. “Did you build this?”

“The cookie?”

“Your house.”

He slides a look around, too, like he’s deciding how much he’s willing to tell me. “Yep.”

“And you live here year-round?”

“Yep.”

“All by yourself?”

“Bridget stays over when she wants to. Used to get her on the nights when Shiloh was on shift at the fire department, but now, we let her pick her schedule.”

“Do your parents come visit?”

Those hazel eyes shift my way like he’s wondering just how much more I’m willing to dig into his life.

All the way, Teague Miller. All the way.

“That would be impossible. And what about you? You making progress on being a better person?”

Oh God, he’s an orphan. I wonder if he misses his parents or if he’s more like me, and they were a function of his life and comfort level without being his entire world. “I’ve made all the progress. Look at me, sitting here in a fashion-disaster outfit, threatening to walk naked to get back to my monstrosity of a temporary home so that I can tend to the souls of my family.”

He grins again. “Hate to tell you, Phoebs, but suffering doesn’t automatically make you a better person.”

“You’re only saying that because you’ve never suffered enough.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to divulge just how much he’s suffered in his life and let me in on all his deep, dark secrets, but instead of Teague’s voice, I hear something completely different.

Gigi.

“Hello? Mr. Miller? I know you’re home, because there’s nowhere else a man with your social life would be tonight. Have no fears. I’m here to improve your evening.”

He glances at his crotch, which is suddenly no longer tented. “Wow. That was effective.”

I snort-laugh, get a cookie caught in my throat, have a flashback to Gigi choking to death on the floor of her town house dining room, and am still unable to stop laughing through coughing up crumbs.

“Mr. Miller?” Gigi calls again. “Is that my granddaughter with you? I sincerely hope you didn’t allow her to shower here.”