Chapter Fourteen
Your claim to superiority depends on the use you have made of your time and experience.
The bell above the door of The Pretty Pinecone jingles as I step inside.
It’s like I’ve died and gone to romance novel heaven.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with nothing but happily-ever-afters.
I’m hugging a stack of paperbacks to my chest when I meet Emma, the owner.
She’s all warm smiles and vintage vibes in her lavender sundress.
We chat for a while and become fast friends.
“You absolutely have to join our Spicy Reads Club.” She rings up my purchases, tying a perfect bow on my pink shopping bag.
“We meet every other Thursday, drink wine, and share thoughts about our latest steamy romance pick. Just—if you happen to see the sheriff around town, don’t mention the wine part.
” She winks. “He’s not above issuing me a citation, even though our wedding’s already planned. ”
“You got it. Are there any other town events where a newcomer might make friends without looking completely desperate?” I’m eager for other opportunities to leave Resilience Ranch during off-hours (i.e., ways to avoid Chet).
Emma taps her chin. “The research center does nature walks, there’s wine tastings at the vineyard, and . . .” Her eyes light up. “Ohmigosh! The summer solstice yoga event! It’s at sunrise on the mountain peak, with flower crowns and intention-setting and a dip in the hot springs afterward!”
Sounds kind of woo-woo, the sorta thing people back in Kentucky would roll their eyes at. Which makes it absolutely perfect.
“Sign me up!” I say.
Several days later, I’m on top of Sugar Pine’s most “energetically auspicious” overlook at 4:57 a.m., barely awake and shivering in my tank top and shorts.
At least forty women, all in floaty tunics (plus a handful of dudes with man buns and meaningful tattoos), clink their mason jars of pomegranate juice while prepping their flower crowns.
A woman named Fiona, who looks like a cross between a Disney fairy and a PE teacher, seems to be in charge of this operation. “Let’s go around, say our names, state our intention for the solstice, and present our flower crown.”
Turns out, I’m not a natural at flower crown assembly.
If I had a glue gun, it would be a different story, but as it is, the daisy petals droop into my left eye.
Not true for the other participants. The circle starts strong, people showing off flower crowns that look like something from a Renaissance fair.
They also share their inner peace intentions, vowing to manifest a more nurtured experience. Then it’s my turn.
“I’m Jane, and I’m new to yoga, flower crowns, and solstice celebrations. But I treasure this opportunity to be with y’all and experience something new.”
“Where are you from, Jane?” Fiona asks.
“Lexington, Kentucky. My family owns horse stables and—” I cut myself off.
“Are you okay?” Emma peers at me.
I silently nod, trying to quell my rising panic. Mentioning Adkins and Son Stables reminds me that I’ll probably lose Betty. “Yeah,” I answer. “Today is about positive energy, and I just want to be present in this moment.”
“Of course,” Fiona says. “Thank you, Jane.”
The last few people in the circle share, and then we get into the yoga portion.
As Fiona leads us through stretches and focused breathing, I actually hold my own.
There’s a lot of sun-worshippy arm things.
One pose seems to require a second set of knees.
But I rather enjoy the warrior pose, where we expand our chests. It makes me feel strong.
Later, we soak in the hot springs with the intent to “release and receive,” which mostly just means relaxing and enjoying the view. I didn’t expect any Earth-shattering effects, but something inside me unspools.
Later, Emma and I hike back to our cars together.
After waving goodbye, I climb into my car and retrieve my cell phone from the glove compartment.
Emma had warned me that cell phones—for obvious reasons—are strictly prohibited from solstice events.
It’s just a little before 9:00 a.m., and Axel Rose is aware I’m starting late this morning.
So I’m unprepared for the string of frantic texts that pop up when I unlock my phone. Not from Axel Rose, but from Chet.
5:37 a.m.: “Where R U? Just knocked on trailer door. Need to talk.”
6:18: “Checked stables. Horses all here. R U hiking with River?”
6:49: “Dammit, Jane. Ur job is to be accessible. Where R U?”
7:24: “This isn’t okay. CALL ME. Better yet, haul ass back to Resilience Ranch.”
7:52: “Scratch that. Haul ass to Sugar Pine airport. U R going on a trip. Already packed for U.”
8:01: “U’d better be in the middle of an emergency. This is ridiculous.”
8:40: “Jane?!!”
What in tarnation is going on? Gripping the steering wheel, I speed toward Resilience Ranch.
Good thing there aren’t other cars around, cuz when I reach the Sugar Pine Springs airport (basically a small metal building, a control booth, and an open field), I’m driving so fast that I pass it.
I slam the brakes, and my car spins and sprays gravel.
I make a U-turn in the middle of the country road, blinking to make sure I didn’t just hallucinate.
Nope. A plane’s gearing up for flight. Chet stands in front of it, wearing shades and a no-nonsense expression. He’s talking on his cell phone.
When he sees me approach, he ends his call. “Jane!” Chet’s voice sounds like a saw cutting through metal. “Where the hell have you been? And why’d you ignore all my texts?”
Since our near-miss by the firepit, Chet and I haven’t spoken.
Unless you count work chat, always in the presence of Axel Rose, River, or one of the other landscapers.
Perhaps Chet’s anger should faze me. Instead, my temper flares.
“News flash—I exist outside this job. It’s none of your damn business where I was. ”
He reels back. “Of course it’s my business. Something came up. I needed you hours ago.”
“Too bad. Being at your beck and call is not in my job description.” Chet’s mouth drops open, but I don’t let him respond.
“You believe you have the right to order me around? Because you’re older, richer, and more experienced, that you’re somehow superior?
” I point a finger at his chest. “You’re nothing but a rooster crowing during the eclipse. ”
Chet scrunches up his face. “Is that another Kentucky colloquialism? Because it doesn’t make sense. Roosters crow when the sun rises, not when it—”
“Fine!” I throw out my arms. “You’re like a rooster who crows after an eclipse. I used the wrong preposition! Forgive me!”
“Okay. You’re forgiven.” Chet takes a deep breath. When he exhales, he deflates a little. His eyes scan me up and down. “But only if you explain why you’re dressed like an out-of-season homecoming queen.”
Shoot. I’d forgotten about my flower crown. I reach up, snatch it off my head, and shove it behind my back. Stray blossoms rain onto the pavement as my dignity falls away.
I square my shoulders. “Again, not that it’s any of your business, but I was at a summer solstice yoga thingy. Also—in Kentucky at least, homecoming queens don’t wear hippie-dippie flower crowns. They’re cheerleaders who enjoy football, big trucks, and taffeta.”
He looks like he’s suppressing laughter. “Understood. Anything else you care to educate me on?”
“Not at the moment. But keep talking—I’m sure you’ll say something stupid in no time.” There’s a pebble in my shoe. Pressing my foot into the pavement, I exacerbate the discomfort. It feels better than meeting his eyes would.
Chet clears his throat. “Look, Jane—I’m your boss and—”
“I realize you’re my boss, Chet, but—”
“Which makes ordering you around my right,” he says, talking over me.
“Fine.” I shift my weight off the shoe with the pebble and look toward the plane, where I spot one of my suitcases. Then, I picture Chet, throwing my lacy undergarments into said suitcase. “Did you really go through my stuff and pack for me?”
“No,” Chet answers. “I had Axel Rose do it. Sorry. But they’re expecting you in the next couple of hours.”
“Who’s expecting me? Where am I going?”
“To a dude ranch near Jackson Hole. The owners are retiring several of their horses. I need you to go there and decide which ones we should adopt.”
“Alright—but why is that so urgent?” Suddenly tired from rising well before dawn, I rub my eyes. Just the thought of this unexpected trip is exhausting.
“I’d tell you,” Chet says, voice low and tight, “but I don’t want you puking on my shoes again.”
Shoulders shoved down, chin pointed up, I feign composure. “I only throw up when I’m nearby a horse that’s in pain. Just hearing about them—that, I can handle.”
“Good to know,” Chet says. “I suppose otherwise, life would be unmanageable.”
“Life is already unmanageable,” I respond. “It’s messy and unpredictable, and anyone who pretends otherwise is a liar.”
Chet narrows his eyes, as if I’ve just professed the wisdom for the ages. “True,” he states.
“Anyway, you were about to explain why this trip is so urgent?”
“The owner’s ready to send his old horses off to the pet-food factory,” Chet says. “I talked to him today. They need money and are out of options. He didn’t want to wait, but I convinced him.”
At first, I’m angry, not at Chet, but at this ranch owner. How could anyone be so heartless? But then I’m overcome with emotion. I want to throw my arms around Chet and give him a fierce hug. Instead, I give his arm a restrained little tap. “Good for you.”
Chet takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. Call me stupid, but, God. He’s handsome. How could I ever have thought otherwise? Plus, he’s hot.
“What if I think we should take all of their retired horses?” I ask.
“Then we’ll take all of them.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “I have plenty of space. Worst case, we’ll just build another barn.”
“Or, you could renovate the blue barn—”“No!”
I reel back.
Chet squeezes his eyes shut and rubs them with his thumbs. “Sorry,” he says. “But I’m renovating the blue barn to be used for something else.”
“Oh, um, okay.” It’s windy, and I must brush my hair off my face. “How will I get the horses back here?”
“I’ll hire someone to transport them, but I want you on that road trip, caring for the horses as they travel.”
“Isn’t that a twelve-hour drive?”
“More like eleven.” Chet smiles, probably in an effort to be charming. “I’ll pay you overtime for the entire week. Heck, I’ll pay you double.”
“I’ll hold you to that. But for the record—I’d do it for free. For the horses’ sake. Not yours.”
Holding his gaze, I can suddenly see myself in his eyes—a little lost, a little too hopeful, clutching a mangled flower crown while we stand next to his private jet. And, I’m obviously into him.
Something shifts. A heady pressure builds between us.
“I wish we were the same age,” he says softly, “and that we’d met a long time ago.”
My heart skips a beat. Heat gathers beneath my skin, as if he’s already touching me. “Why?”
He steps closer to me. Bows his head. I can smell his wintergreen Tic Tac breath. “Because then, maybe we’d have had a chance.”
He’s staring at my mouth, but then looks up and our gazes collide. Lord help me—how am I so turned on without any physical contact?
“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” I’m still clutching my stupid flower crown, and my voice is thin. “What if you came with me to Wyoming?”
He shakes his head briskly. “Wish I could. There are reasons I can’t get away.”
“Oh. Did you write another list inside your head?”
One corner of Chet’s mouth inches up into a barely-there, crooked grin. There’s that single damn dimple. “Something like that.”
His rejection stings, but I pass it off. “Too bad. I’d love to see you single-handedly save some horses from a grim fate.”
Chet’s laugh is so soft and quick that it almost doesn’t register. “And I’d do just about anything to impress you.”
What the heck? There’s no way he means that. I open my mouth to argue, but, sweet heavens above, Chet’s fingers are threading through my hair. My chin tilts up until our mouths touch, ever so slightly. And—sweet mother of Peggy Sue—his lips press against mine, his tongue gliding into my mouth.
This is no polite little goodbye peck. He lets loose a full-body sigh, kissing me like he’s memorizing something precious.
Or if he’s not careful, I’ll slip from his grasp.
His lips are soft yet firm, and the kiss turns epic—starting as gentle as a summer breeze but turning hotter than a jalape?o real quick.
I clutch his T-shirt, bunching up the overpriced cotton into both fists. My flower crown tumbles to the ground.
We break apart, breathing fast. Our foreheads almost touch.
“You should go,” he says. “Call me when you land.” Chet gives me another quick, crooked smile and then turns on his heel, walking toward his car.
I’m sort of in a trance as I grab my suitcase and step into the belly of the waiting plane. By the time I recover my equilibrium, the jet is already taxiing.
“See ya ’round,” I mutter, realizing I’m just talking to myself. Funny thing—I’m swatting away tears, but at the same time, I’m laughing.
Chet Edwards has a strange effect on me.