The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(74)

Bridget’s top half is sticking out of a hatch in the floor.

“We’re not making out. Your dad’s helping me straighten my contact.”

“Did you look in the drawer in the bathroom?” Teague asks his daughter.

“No. That would’ve been too easy.” She sniffs. “Why does it smell like chocolate? Are you eating cookies up here? When did you make cookies? Why don’t I have cookies?”

He twists farther away from me. “We’re not having cookies.”

“Clearly,” I mutter.

I get a look.

Two looks, actually.

And they’re exactly what you’d expect from a cranky lumberjack and his outspoken yet unexpectedly endearing daughter.

But that’s not the weirdest part.

The weirdest part is that I want to stay.

And I don’t just mean tonight.





Chapter 25


Teague


Forever.

It’s been forever—or maybe a week—since Phoebe landed in my tree house for some good old-fashioned cheering up, and now, minutes before I expect her to arrive again, after what feels like freaking months of missed opportunities, Bridget is banging on my door.

I love my daughter.

But I swear she knows.

She knows I have plans to get Phoebe naked and do naughty, naughty things to her, and she’s here to stop me.

I swing the door open, ready to tell her I need some quiet grumpy dad time, and instead, every protective instinct in my body roars to life as I catch sight of her tear-streaked face.

“Who?” I demand. I can’t get out did this to you? I’m too busy preparing to kick some ever-loving ass for her.

“Mom won’t let me have ice cream for dinner.”

My lips part.

“Don’t make that face,” she sobs. “I don’t feel good today, okay? I just want ice cream.”

I slip an arm around her shoulders and pull her in for a hug.

I know three things for absolute certain.

One, Shiloh wouldn’t reject a rare night of ice cream for dinner without a reason.

Two, Bridget wouldn’t come crying to me if she had any other options. Not because she doesn’t trust me but because she’s fifteen.

And three, this is definitely not about ice cream.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and Bridget lets out another sob. “Don’t listen to her,” she says. “She’s wrong.”

Awesome.

“She” will undoubtedly be Shiloh, and I’m about to get the rest of the story.

I pull my phone out to check, and sure enough, there’s a message from my ex-wife.

Is B with you? Caught her trying to sneak out to a party with the seniors.

The seniors.

Code for, They were going to go drinking and smoking, and I don’t care if our daughter has the maturity of a thirty-six-year-old some days. She’s still fifteen, and I’m not interested in picking her body parts out of a pine tree if she gets in a car to go joyriding.

Sometimes I think Bridget got screwed in having a firefighter for a mother and me for her father.

Too bad.

I’m on Team Mom for this one.

Got her, I reply.

I pause.

Is it wrong to ask my ex-wife to track down my booty call and ask her to reschedule?

Maybe not wrong but definitely awkward.

“C’mon, Bridge. Chocolate milk in the kitchen.” And then I’ll figure out how to signal Phoebe to hold off on those plans.

“I don’t want chocolate milk.”

“Paint your nails?”

She glowers at me.

I scrub a hand over my face and turn toward the ladder. “Your mom’s not—”

“Hey, big guy, you want a piece of—oh my God! ”

The door slams against the wall a second too late to warn me it’s open, and I spin in time to see Phoebe hunching in on herself, trench coat hanging open, red lace bra barely visible, in sky-high stilettos that make every spare drop of blood in my body—and some not so spare—rush to my cock.

I can’t decide if I’m hoping she’s blocking our view of the matching red lace panties or if I’m hoping she’s wearing short shorts.

Either way, I know that this is a problem.

This is definitely a problem.

“Oh my God, ew ew ew!” Bridget shrieks.

“Kidding!” Phoebe shrieks back. “I would never—that’s gross—ha ha, your faces!”

She dives back out of the door.

Bridget’s shaking her hands like that’ll help erase the mental image. “Why do you get to have private naked parties, and I can’t even hang out with like three friends with our clothes on? Ugh.”

“It’s not—we’re not—” I start.

She rolls her eyes.

“Because I’m a damn grown-up,” I finally say. “Go get chocolate milk.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“I know, Bridge, but you’re not—”

“Ugh.” She ignores me and heads for the ladder to the upper levels of the tree house.

I dart out the door and start to loop my deck. “Phoebe—”

“We’re good.” She flaps a hand, too, from her spot inside the tree house elevator. The flappy hands are going around. “Could you please lower me so I can go die of mortification among the goats? They’ll eat my remains once I’m good and dead, right? I’d do this myself, but I’m actually too busy being embarrassed to remember how this lever system works, and I don’t do embarrassed. I once had food poisoning in the middle of a very important high-level meeting at work, with my boyfriend’s father present, and there were some seriously unfortunate side effects, and I still owned it like a boss. But do you see me? Here? Now? I’m embarrassed. What’s happening to me?”