The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(76)

Phoebe frowns. “That’s a thing?”

“You were truly raised by wolves.”

And I am truly not getting laid tonight.

Tomorrow, I mouth to her.

“You should come over tomorrow night, and I’ll explain everything that you missed in your childhood,” Bridget says. “I’m staying at Dad’s again. Just feel like it.”

Phoebe and I both look at my kid, who smiles like the terrible little cockblocking devil that she is too.

This is going to be a long, long summer.





Chapter 26


Phoebe


It’s like I can’t stop finding out everything I knew in life was a lie.

The latest: that cats are evil and will eat your soul.

That is such a lie.

“Phoebe. For heaven’s sakes, can you please act a little dignified?” My mother punctuates her sentence with a sigh as she sits perched at a table in the corner of the small playroom at the shelter, flipping tarot cards.

I’m on the floor, on my back, letting six kittens crawl all over my body. It’s the most affection I’ve had in days.

Why?

Because Bridget and her mothers are devious, devious people who have figured out my weakness and want to make sure I suffer greatly enough to become a good person without the stress relief of sex with a hot lumberjack.

The worst part?

I actually like the cockblockers.

Shiloh’s funny. Ridhi’s cooking rivals some of my regular haunts on the Upper East Side, which I would deny if I were in New York, but I’m not.

Also, no waiting, and no making my assistant call and bully anyone for a reservation.

And Bridget?

Bridget is this massive ball of energy who’ll basically love anyone who throws her a bone but doesn’t tolerate bullshit.

She’s a human puppy with mood swings and an intense desire to prevent the adults in her life from having sex.

“They need to be socialized, Mrs. Lightly,” Bridget says. “But Phoebe, she’s right. Get up. Quit cheating. There’s more litter to be scooped.”

“You’d deny these poor babies their playground? For shame. Also? Who’s the grown-up here? I get to issue orders.”

“New plan. I act as their playground, and you scoop the litter, because your soul needs it more.” Bridget tries to scowl at me the same way Teague does when I’m intentionally getting under his skin, and I have to resist the urge to look at the clock to see how close we’re getting to when he’s coming to pick her up from our volunteer time here at the shelter. “Or I can tell your mother about that little incident with your homework?”

I gasp as if that’s a horrific threat. “Oh my God, Bridget, play dirty, why don’t you? But you know I’m right. Cookies are the long-lost algebraic relative of pi, and whoever took cookies out of math is pure evil.”

“Don’t eat cookies, Phoebe, dear,” my mother says as she shuffles her tarot deck. When she heard I was doing volunteer work, she insisted on coming along, “because my soul needs improving, too, if I’m to ever get out of this hellhole.” “It’ll impact your figure, and you have such a lovely figure.”

Bridget makes a gagging motion.

I suppress a smile, then try to untangle myself from the six little kittens still sniffing and crawling all over my body.

It’s not as easy as it sounds. But it involves a hella ton of laughter, so I’m okay with the extra trouble.

“Your tools, madam,” Bridget says, presenting me with a bag and a litter scooper before she dives to the floor to pet the kittens too.

I strangely don’t mind the litter.

Sure, it smells a little, but the more I do for other people, the more connection I feel with them.

When I was in New York, I’d buy lunch for a friend, or I’d pick up the tab on spa day, or I’d send flowers or chocolates—or both—to someone if I perceived I’d slighted them somehow and cared to make amends for social or business advantages.

We’d air-kiss.

We’d discuss which vacations we intended to take next.

We’d gossip about who wore what at a function.

But I couldn’t tell you if Lola Minelli actually had her heart broken by that actor-comedian she was dating before she started doing Lola’s Tiny House. I never paid attention to people’s names if they didn’t appear to be people who would be useful to me. I forgot my assistant’s dog had died. I have zero idea if Tavi actually likes her job or if she does it because it’s easy.

If I were in New York, there’s no one I could talk to about the smack-in-the-face realizations I’ve had here about the way my actions impact other people and about what matters.

Or about how I feel like a hypocrite for only caring about other people as I realize just how much I don’t know about myself. And how much I want to figure out who I’d be if I hadn’t been born Phoebe Lightly.

“Oh dear, Ziggy, you’ve gotten the Lovers.” Mom peers at the card, then at the kitten, who’s older than the other kittens. He’s like a second-grade kitten as compared to preschool kittens. Bridget told us Ziggy’s a spotted silver tabby, and he can’t seem to walk a straight line. He needs a kitty massage or something to loosen up some tense muscles in one side of his back. “You have difficult choices coming up. Is this a kill shelter?”