Chapter Seventeen
I don’t understand enigmas. I could never guess a riddle in my whole life.
I must be sleeping in pretty late, because Axel Rose comes to wake me up.
“Jane? Morning, sunshine!” She pokes her head inside my door after knocking only once. Strolling inside without invitation, she looks like her usual edgy self. Black jeans with rips at the knees and a Bon Jovi concert tee. “Chet said to come check on you. How are you feeling?”
“I’ll survive.”
That’s the truth. However, I don’t elaborate. But something must’ve died inside my mouth, and my feet have been microwaved. Sitting up, I reach for the glass of water that Chet left on the nightstand. “You heard about what happened?”
“Yes. A mysterious fire and you single-handedly rescuing all the horses.”
“Mmm. Only sort of. Chet pushed me and Miss Adele to safety. But the fire, that was mysterious. How does a hay bale just spontaneously combust?”
Axel Rose meets my gaze, but her eyes betray nothing. “I don’t know, sweetheart.” She sighs. “Let me check your bandages, okay?”
I agree, and she sets to work, looking to see if my feet need more ointment or fresh wrappings. “Chet did a decent job. Hopefully, you’ll heal quick.”
“Yeah.” There’s a solemn pause. “Axel Rose, has Chet said anything more about the blue barn?”
“No.” Her retort is instant and sharp. “But it’s none of my business, so why would he say anything?”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. “Except—it doesn’t add up. He did repairs while we were both gone, and now his aunt Grace is living there like it’s a private spa? Meanwhile, something—or someone—had to start that fire. What if Grace was behind it?”
“Jane!” Axel Rose leaps up, boots thudding against the floor.
She plants her hands on her hips. “Sometimes things just happen.” Inhaling deeply, she rolls her shoulders as if shrugging off the weight of the world.
“Look, I partially agree. Something is going on. But you can’t just accuse Grace of arson without any evidence. That’s a serious charge.”
“You’re right.” I sit up, gripping the covers, eyes locked on hers. “Think about it though—the fire started in a hay bale at three in the morning. Chet doesn’t smoke, doesn’t burn candles. Neither do I. That just leaves the mysterious Grace Poole. I’m only after the truth.”
Her gaze narrows. “That’s not all you’re after.”
“What?” My voice snaps, sharper than I intend. We both flinch.
Axel Rose leans in, voice low. “You’ve fallen for Chet, haven’t you?
” Her eyebrows nearly climb to her hairline.
Silence stretches between us like a taut wire.
She presses on. “It was bound to happen. He’s handsome and brooding, and I’ll bet he’s a great kisser.
Plus, he’s just the right amount of tortured.
Tell me I’m wrong, Jane. Tell me you’re not hoping to be the girl who’ll save Chet from himself. ”
I open my mouth, ready to protest, but no words come. Axel Rose sees my face, which must look both sad and flabbergasted.
“Oh, sweetie. Don’t hate me. But you and him? It’s never going to happen.”
Heat flares in my chest. “Wow,” I murmur. “Harsh. While you’re at it, why not rub sandpaper over my burns?”
Seeming to soften, she steps back, glancing toward the window. “I’m sorry. But someone needs to say the truth. Chet is damaged goods. He can’t love anyone, not right now.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I murmur.
Axel Rose bites her lower lip, gaze drifting to the door. “I should go. There’s enough wreckage in the barn to keep me busy all day. Thankfully, the landscaping guys are here to help.” She brightens. “Should I send River up to see you? He’s such a doll, Jane. And he’s clearly got a crush on you.”
I shake my head no.
“Okay,” Axel Rose says. “Holler if you need me.”
Her silhouette slips into the hallway. The room grows colder in her absence. In the hush, my doubts smolder brighter than ever.
***
Luckily, I do heal quickly. Soon enough, it’s the Fourth of July, and Sugar Pine Springs has gone all out.
There’s red-white-and-blue bunting on pretty much every porch rail, kids with sparklers running wild, and enough apple pie to feed a small nation.
Meanwhile, Chet throws his own extravaganza at the ranch and invites half the town.
In addition, a bunch of his jet-setting billionaire buddies fly in for the holiday.
I tend to the horses, keeping them calm amidst the craziness. Horses hate the Fourth of July.
After a while, I decide to take a break and emerge from the stable. Just for some fresh air.
“Admit it! You stole Escape from the Springs!”
The accusation pricks like a cactus, even though it wasn’t directed toward me. I turn to see a man—youngish, tallish, and handsomish—looming over Marigold Sanders.
She’s unimpressed.
“Oh, hon,” Marigold states. “I realize that multiple generations of disaffected young men see Escape from the Springs as their personal manifesto. And they can’t handle that it’s by a woman—one who writes trashy, overhyped novels, no less.
But I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.
” Then, she spots me. “Jane! Lovely to see you! How have you been?”
Even though I doubt she needs help, I step toward Marigold, ready to come to her aid. “I’m good. You?”
“Oh, just grand! Have you met Mason?”
Mason? As in, Chet’s stepbrother/co-founder of ShopSpot? Interesting.
“She hasn’t.” Extending his hand, Mason smiles. “Nice to meet you.”
“Back at ya.” I say this because I was raised to be polite. “I didn’t know Chet’s family was visiting.”
He smiles, showing off a set of gleaming white teeth. “I’m here with my dad and stepmom. We thought we’d surprise Chet. Except the slick bastard is nowhere to be found. Have you seen him?”
“Nope. But Chet’s always a bit elusive.” Scanning the hordes of guests, I try to spot Chet standing amongst them, playing host. “I’ll see if I can’t hunt him down.”
“Great. Thank you, Jane.”
I make an honest attempt at finding Chet. But no luck. Meanwhile, the sun is strong and I’ve gone hours without sitting. There’s a fortune teller’s tent. Strange choice, thematically, for the Fourth of July. Nevertheless, I duck inside.
Inside, it’s cool and a little musty—like someone sprinkled patchouli in front of a window fan. There’s a crystal ball on the table, which I silently judge. Surely we’re not still doing the crystal ball thing? The fortune teller sports a scarf and enough eyeliner to pass as a raccoon.
“Sit. We don’t have all day.”
Wow. Rude. Nevertheless, sitting is my sole purpose for being here. Thus, I do as instructed.
My behind’s not yet touching the chair before the fortune teller grabs my hand and stares into my eyes, rather than at my palm.
“You value independence,” the fortune teller says, voice unnaturally high.
“You’re resilient—but you’ve had to be. You love horses more than you love people.
You’re honest to a fault, so you can’t conceive of dishonesty in anyone else.
And—when a horse is in pain—you vomit. Once, on your boss’s shoes. ”
“Wait—what?”
I lean back in my chair, and my hand slips from the fortune teller’s grasp. Our gazes meet. A set of remarkably blue-black eyes stare back at me. “Who are you?” I ask.
Pause. Clears throat. “Madame Oraclesta.”
“Nice try.” Pitching forward, I tug at the scarves draped around Madame Oraclesta’s face. Of course it’s Chet.
“What are you trying to pull?”
He laughs. “Nothing. Just thought I’d have some fun with my guests.”
“You’re deranged.”
“Glad you noticed,” he states. “How are your feet?” He stands and removes his robe.
Underneath is just a simple white undershirt and loose shorts.
When Chet lifts the shirt’s hem to wipe makeup from his face, I catch a glimpse of his stomach—taut skin over muscle that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to touch.
“Your shirt!” I manage, my voice higher than intended.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay.” I rub the back of my head, confused. What just happened? “My feet are fine. But your stepbrother is looking for you.”
Chet’s face slackens. “Mason’s here?”
“Yeah. Plus—I guess—the rest of your family?”
Chet paces in the small space. “Dammit,” he murmurs. “I mean, I invited them. But I never thought they’d come. My fault, for going through with this stupid party.”
“If you think the party’s stupid, why plan it in the first place?”
Chet sighs. “Birdy came up with the idea months ago. I agreed, thinking we could boost local businesses by hiring people in the area. And if we invited a bunch of high-profile, out-of-town guests, that would also increase Sugar Pine’s visibility, put the town on the map .
. .” Another sigh. “But I hate parties. And I really wasn’t prepared for my family to come. ”
He’s distressed. That much is obvious. “What can I do?” I ask. “How can I help?”
Suddenly still, Chet faces me. “Just—stay by my side, alright? Don’t leave me alone with them.”
“You got it,” I tell him.
Following Chet through the party, I’m dropped right into the slipstream of his awkward, rapid stride. Every time a woman glances too long in Chet’s direction, I want to step forward and announce that he’s with me. Which is messed up.
We reach the drinks tent. I spot his family, together in a loose constellation around the Bloody Mary bar.
The woman has to be Chet’s mom, though she’s maybe five foot three with auburn hair and little resemblance to her son.
Mason seems jittery; he’s smoking a cigarette, aviators on even though we’re under a wide awning.
The man standing between them is thick and forceful—square jaw, expensive linen button-down, an aura that says, I own you.
Chet’s stepdad.
“Here goes nothing,” Chet mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
Chet doesn’t pause, not even to school his face. He slams right into their orbit. “Mom. Mason. Tom,” he says. “Thanks for coming. This is Jane.”
Chet’s mother regards me with rapid, blinking interest. Then she beams like she’s been training her whole life for this smile. “Jane! Wonderful to meet you, dear. I’m Gloria.” Her handshake is dry and papery. “We’ve heard about your work with the horses. Chet texts me every week.”
“So nice to meet you,” I say. Gloria’s like a ray of light, a natural beauty. It’s sort of hard to believe that she met Tom while cleaning his house. I wonder what first drew them to each other.
“Thanks for finding Chet,” Mason places a limp hand on my shoulder, like he’s afraid of contracting something. His cologne is so strong it makes my brain vibrate.
“Pleasure,” I reply.
Tom’s handshake is so firm it almost hurts. “Nice to meet you, Jane.” But his eyes pass right over me.
“Likewise.”
“Jane’s the resident equestrian specialist.” Chet’s fingers brush against my wrist. Probably accidental, but it’s like plugging my skin into a live outlet.
Tom grunts. He points a finger, rapid-fire, at the three closest horses grazing in the pasture. “I’m hoping to discuss your plan for Resilience Ranch. Are you scaling up? Or did I misunderstand?”
Chet’s jaw ticks. “If by scaling up you mean operating at an ever-widening loss, then, no, you didn’t misunderstand. I have two goals: creating a nice home for the horses and me, and supporting the town of Sugar Pine.”
Chet’s mom tries to soften the edges. “Tom just means, it’s a wonderful place. But you could do so much more! Imagine a getaway for overstimulated professionals, or equine therapy for tech bros experiencing existential collapse—” She laughs at her own joke.
“Actually,” I state, “Resilience Ranch is already doing a huge service for retired and mistreated horses. These poor animals would have nowhere else to go, were it not for Chet. Why mess with a good thing?”
Tom sucks in an exasperated breath. No one speaks.
“Excuse me,” Chet says. “Jane and I have somewhere to be.”
He tugs on my arm. Once we’re out of earshot, tucked away in a spot where others won’t see, he whispers, “Grab some provisions. Let’s have our own private picnic.”
“Are you sure?” I tilt my head, pulse quickening. “Wouldn’t it be smart to stick around for a little while longer?”
His hand drops. He hooks his thumbs into his pockets, and I can’t reconcile this rumpled, makeup-smudged man with my billionaire boss. Right now, Chet looks like someone I’d meet at karaoke night—a guy who’d buy me drinks and make me laugh.
“Smart? Yes. It would be smart.” His voice drops. “But I just want to spend time with you.” Chet steps in close. His face tilts down toward mine. I stop breathing.
If I was smart, I’d step away. I’d demand answers. Or at least an explanation for his strange behavior and evasiveness.
Apparently, neither Chet nor I is smart—so here we are.
My knees weaken. Chet’s hands find my lower back, pulling me against him. I reach for his shoulders, steadying myself as our mouths meet. Heat spreads from my core outward. Every nerve ending awakens. He’s all controlled power beneath my fingertips, restraint and hunger in equal measure.
It’s like I could melt right into him. There are so many reasons I should stay away from Chet Edwards. A whole mental list that rivals the one Chet made about me. But it all dissolves as he kisses the bejeezus out of me.
Well—one of Axel Rose’s assumptions is spot on. Chet is a great kisser. World-class, even.
He pulls away first. “Let’s get out of here.”