The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(62)

Wait. Don’t answer. I don’t want to go there.

But I wouldn’t mind talking her out of those baseball pants tonight.

“Somebody told the old lady uniforms weren’t necessary, didn’t they?” Dylan Wright says beside me.

Tickled Pink’s resident plumber has finished his massive job over in Deer Drop, and he’s back to play the part of the Tickled Pink Gold Stars power hitter in our snowshoe baseball game tonight.

I snort softly and clap him on the shoulder, grateful for the distraction from Phoebe’s ass. “You’ve missed a lot.”

“I can see that.”

The Tickled Pink Gold Stars have been playing snowshoe baseball every summer for the past fifty years—long before I arrived in town, and long before they were called the Gold Stars—but to the best of my knowledge, we’ve never had uniforms before.

Team T-shirts, yes.

Uniforms? Not like these.

I didn’t think I’d like them, but every time Phoebe bends over to adjust her snowshoes, I am 100 percent on board with having uniforms.

And it’s not just that we had sex.

It’s also that I walked into Café Nirvana three days ago and found Bridget doubled over with laughter while Phoebe was having a magnetic-eyelash malfunction, and instead of growling and glaring at my kid, Phoebe was laughing with her, shrieking like a teenager herself over her algebra book.

I overheard her asking Anya for tips on how to brew coffee when you’re starting with water that smells like a fish that ate too many fried cheese curds, which should’ve been annoying, except she delivered the line with this twinkle in her eye, like she knew she was being a pain in the ass but was impressed with her own creativity in describing the water. Plus, she listened and asked more questions as Anya answered her, like she cared about Anya’s opinions and experience.

She complimented Willie Wayne’s catch as he was showing it off onshore yesterday.

She apologized to the Tickled Pink Fire Department for the cooking disaster that led to the alarms going off in the school, and thanked them for their prompt response.

If you didn’t know her when she got here, you wouldn’t know she was anything more than a sophisticated small-town woman with expensive taste and good manners.

“The colors are . . . something,” Dylan says, drawing my attention back to the uniforms and Phoebe, bent over to fiddle with the laces on her snowshoes once again.

“The whole uniform is something.” Willie Wayne rolls his shoulders like he can’t get the shirt to fit right. Or maybe like he’s not comfortable in a baby-pink jersey decorated with gold stars that somehow managed to be positioned right at nipple level for everyone. “This is snowshoe baseball. Not a fashion show.”

“Who cares what we look like if we get our asses kicked,” Jane mutters beside him.

“Sweetie, you’re going to play great tonight.” Gibson pats her shoulder. They’re the newest married couple in Tickled Pink. Though they got hitched four years ago, they’re still our resident newlyweds.

Which is what makes the rumors about Michael Lightly flirting with Jane all the more funny.

Not that any of us doubt that the rumors are true.

Jane’s hot. Of course she’s the first woman Michael Lightly would go for.

Plus, we all couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he realized Jane is married to a six-foot-four brick wall who looks like the Rock, but with hair.

Yeah, I know. We’re assholes.

Not that Gibson would hurt him. He’s spent the past month photographing bugs in South American jungles for a science magazine. Guy’s less dangerous than Tavi Lightly’s dog.

But it’s fun watching the double takes coming from the Lightly family.

“Would you please tie my shoes, darling?” Margot snaps at Michael.

He whips his gaze back to his wife’s feet while Carter rolls his eyes and Estelle tests her snowshoes on the field, which is piled high with sawdust.

We’re on the ball field between the old high school’s football field and the area roped off for the abandoned amusement park, with the half-done Ferris wheel covered in ivy looming across the grassy meadow behind home plate, gearing up for one of my favorite summer traditions.

Snowshoe baseball is exactly that—baseball played while the players wear snowshoes. The sawdust layered almost a foot deep over the field is to make it more challenging. And so we don’t get too hurt, we play with a ball a little bigger than a softball. All the towns around have at least one team.

Tonight, we’re playing the Mighty Dusts, and they’ve brought their own cheering section.

It’s nearly as big as the crowd of busybodies from Deer Drop, which has three teams contributing to the league.

Both sets of cheering sections are larger than the pool of reporters in from various places around the state—and I heard a writer for one of the big sports magazines is here, too—but the reporters are still giving me indigestion.

I’d have indigestion if there were only one reporter.

This is not how I want to spend my snowshoe baseball game.

But the good news is, there’s no reason anyone will be paying attention to anyone other than the Lightlys.

Anya and Ridhi have their refreshments table set up, piled high with monster cookies, cream puffs, and cupcakes to sell to the onlookers. Tonight’s proceeds are all going to the local library.