The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(66)

I try to clink and miss, because it turns out holding an ice pack to one eye messes with your depth perception. “Badass is my middle name.”

Her husband, Gibson, grabs the edge of my glass and guides it until we clink. “Didn’t see that wild pitch coming. Really didn’t.”

“It was not a wild pitch,” Teague mutters.

He’s right. It wasn’t. The batter tipped it wrong, which took off my protective face mask, and when she spun to help me, she clobbered me in the face with her bat.

Accidentally.

Everyone agreed it was an accident.

But everyone’s also blaming Teague, and I get the feeling this is normal.

Part of me wants to drag him out back and kiss him and assure him that there are no hard feelings for my lack of sports dexterity—and assure myself that things have only felt weird between us every time I’ve seen him this week because there have always been other people around and neither of us wants anyone else to know we bumped uglies.

Another part of me wants to sit here and soak in this feeling of being a part of something, where all of us are coated in sawdust and sporting various bruises and injuries, sharing in the pain of loss, except it’s easier, because we’re together.

And another part of me hopes Teague will do that thing where he loops his arm around the back of my chair like he’s just resting it there. I haven’t seen him much since I sneaked out of his tree house almost a week ago, and I’d convinced myself that my afterglow and a hot shower were what I was reacting to in thinking that I liked him, except I do like him.

He’s this amazing mix of honesty and reluctance and grouchiness and kindness. He’s good at everything he does, which means either he’s some kind of alien or he knows who he is and what he wants and only does the things he excels at, which is enough to fill his days.

Despite all his grouchiness, everyone around here adores him.

And he’s leaning into me, our shoulders brushing, occasionally sending me searing private looks that mean he wants me.

Me.

High-maintenance, workaholic, out-of-touch, doesn’t-know-who-I-even-am me.

Like he’s seeing something in me that no one else would’ve cared to recognize before.

Something I don’t even recognize in myself.

“I’m very proud of you, Phoebe,” Gigi says, which catches my attention like nothing else would. “You’ve actually given this a real shot. I’m far less concerned about your soul tonight than I was the night you nearly let me die.”

And there it is. The dig buried in the compliment.

“If only we could say the same about you, Estelle,” my mother says brightly.

“Stop it, Margot,” my father mutters.

Carter rises. I’m starting to understand why he always looks like a constipated hedgehog.

It’s us.

We turn him into a constipated hedgehog. “Need another beer, Phoebe?”

“No, thank you, but I could use some fried cheese curds.”

He holds my gaze just long enough to let me know he knows I’m baiting Mom and Tavi both.

Not that Tavi’s paying attention. She’s just bolted out of her seat to join the attractive plumber guy at the bar. “Hi, I’m Tavi,” I hear her say. “I wanted to meet your face and say sorry for trying to meet your crotch first.”

Every single person at our table turns to watch with way more curiosity than my sister hitting on a guy deserves to be watched with.

“Is he married?” I whisper to Teague.

His lips twitch. “Now, why would you ask that?”

“Don’t play innocent. Not even your bear-in-witness-protection outfit could hide how amused you were to introduce my father to Mr. Jane.”

“She’s been wearing a wedding ring this entire time.”

“You clearly don’t know my family well enough yet.”

“You ever sleep with a married man?”

I try to shove him, miss—stupid lack of depth perception—and almost fall in his lap instead. “What kind of a question is that?”

“The kind that says I know your family well enough to ask that question.”

Thank Oprah for ice packs.

This one’s suddenly working overtime.

“Shh,” Jane hisses at us. “We can’t hear what kind of sexual favors she’s offering Dylan for his services.”

Jane just got herself moved to the very top of my holiday-card list.

Not that I’ve ever had a holiday-card list before, but she’s definitely on it now.

Dylan—not Duncan, Phoebe, not Duncan—is flashing dimples and warm brown teddy bear eyes at Tavi as he holds out a clean hand. If this man is a plumber, I’ll— Wait.

I was going to say I’d eat dirt, except I’ve already done that plenty tonight.

“You’re the plumber, right?” Tavi’s saying.

“That’s me. Living the pipe dream. Nice catch out there. You’ve played before?”

“Oh, no, I just dabble in sportsing. I guess maybe I’m naturally athletic? But let’s not talk about me. Tell me about you. I’ve never met anyone in your profession before, and you are nothing like what they show on TV.” Her lashes flutter.

Jane snickers. Willie Wayne giggles. Their spouses smile indulgently at both of them.