The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(8)

Except, as Gigi wisely pointed out, the six of us won’t fit in a closed-down post office.

Nor was there one available.

So we get the condemned school building.

I can’t believe she’s actually made me prefer the 1980s green-and-orange decor of the motel. She’s still there, sitting in the lobby, drinking their burnt generic brew, because “people who want to go to heaven have to make sacrifices.”

She can have her sacrifices.

I’m having decent coffee.

Or at least better coffee.

And thank Oprah “I’m supporting the local economy by getting my coffee at the café on the square” worked. Although given the way it smells vaguely like cheese, I’m no longer convinced this coffee will be better.

Also? There’s a sign about getting a discount on quarterly oil changes at the auto shop on the back half of the building if you sign up for the coffee-and-a-lube-job subscription combo.

When I say what the hell? I truly mean that in all senses of the question.

Still, I step smartly across the cracked tile floor and stop at the large bakery case stuffed with lumpy muffins, crooked donuts, and cakes missing their polish. Is that cake actually finished, or is someone coming in later to smooth the edges and add a proper garnish?

Do people actually eat it like that?

Would it look better if all the lights overhead were working properly and not buzzing?

Hold that question. I need coffee first.

“Large caramel macchiato, but make the three squirts of vanilla sugar-free, and I want my nonfat milk frothed to one hundred fifty-five degrees exactly, stirred six times with a wooden spoon, not metal, with a sprinkle of Ceylon cinnamon on top,” I tell the barista when she bustles through swinging green saloon doors from what I assume is the kitchen but could very well be the mechanic’s shop. She’s a dark-haired woman with light-brown skin in a pink shirt with Café Nirvana stitched on her left breast, and her lips are twisting and twitching while she gives me a quick once-over. I ignore her scrutiny and point to the only thing in the case that doesn’t look like sugar and butter formed an alliance to plot visual and arterial carnage. “A sprinkle. Not a dash, not a shake, but a sprinkle. And three of those sous vide egg white bites.”

She lifts an untamed eyebrow at me. “We got regular and decaf, and those are Ridhi’s famous oatcakes. Have a seat. She’ll be out to take your order in a minute.”

I blink at the woman. “Who is Ridhi, and why do I care?”

“Ridhi’s the one who’ll spit in your food if she hears you saying that.” She leans across the bakery display cabinet. “Is it true Teague’s using a new body spray that smells like lemon-meringue pie? You’re the only one who got close to him before he smelled like fish again yesterday.”

“That’s disgusting, Aunt Anya,” a kid at a nearby booth says. She’s white, with brown hair hanging down to her shoulders, a white crop top with black stencil drawings of faces all over it, a sprinkle of freckles over her nose, and rainbow flag earrings dangling from her ears. She’s maybe twelve, maybe nineteen. I don’t know. I don’t know kids. I do know that I sincerely hope she takes lessons in brow maintenance from someone other than Aunt Anya.

Maybe I’ll tell her.

That could be my good deed for the day. People who are going to heaven do good deeds.

I know, because Whitney Anastasia did dozens in Pink Gold, which I’ve watched with Gigi approximately seven thousand times now.

But again—good deeds can also wait until after coffee.

“I’m not staying,” I inform the barista. “I just want my caramel macchiato and to get out of here.”

The kid snorts with laughter.

It sounds similar to the snort Teague made yesterday while hauling my soggy ass back to shore, when I informed him that a Lightly can do anything, even while dripping in disgusting lake water.

“Isn’t he a lovely professional?” Gigi said when he pulled me to shore. “His name is Teague. Rhymes with league. He gets extra credit for knowing to take my first offer on that school building.”

I’m clearly still triggered by snorts and mention of the fishing lumberjack.

And Anya’s clearly unsure about my macchiato. “Sweetie, we’re not Starbucks.”

I can’t tell if she’s sympathetic to my plight or if she thinks I’m an idiot. Neither are good options in my world.

I open my mouth to suggest she might do a little more business if she were more like Starbucks, but before I can utter a word, the bells tinkle on the door, and Aunt Anya gasps. “Oh my stars, it’s Tavi Lightly.” She bustles out from behind the counter and grabs my baby sister’s hand and pumps it. “Hi. Oh my stars. Hi. I’m Anya. That’s my niece, Bridget. Stepniece, but full niece in my heart. Naturally. Hi. I’m Anya. Oh, I said that, didn’t I? We love you. That picture on Instagram of you in Tuscany at sunset with your silhouette and the colors and the—”

“Aunt Anya, it was doctored.” You can hear Bridget rolling her eyes. I want to buy her a caramel macchiato for the eye roll. “Still a fab piece of art. Duh. But it wasn’t raw. Not like that totally swag video on TikTok.”

Tavi lifts her Tiffany sunglasses and pushes them up to rest on her Hermès headband. She’s several inches shorter than me, with adorable round cheeks, a widow’s peak in her caramel-brown hair that works on her, since everything works on Tavi, and curves that she keeps in check with religious workouts and the most insane no-sugar, no-meat, no-dairy, no-flavor diet I’ve ever heard of. She’s currently in workout clothes that probably cost more than this entire coffee shop, and despite the early hour, she’s smiling like her motel room didn’t have a lumpy bed, weak water pressure in the shower, and an odor of fish urine hanging in the air.