Chapter Twenty-Two
I need not sell my soul to buy bliss.
That evening, I’m drinking wine at The Pretty Pinecone, trying my best to discuss Torrid Confessions—this month’s Spicy Book Club pick. But I’m having trouble getting into the spirit of things, especially since Axel Rose’s warnings still ring in my ears.
Men like Chet Edwards get what they want without ever having to compromise.
“Well,” Emma says, waving her book, “I thought the writing was good. But what did everyone think about Dax? For a romantic hero, was he too flawed?”
Eleanor, an eightyish woman who seems like the straight-talking type, pipes up.
“He was quite brooding. Which can be sexy, but also makes me wonder if he’s capable of washing a dish or running a vacuum cleaner.
” She adjusts the sparkly shawl draped around her shoulders, then winks at the group.
“I like fictional boyfriends who do chores.”
Emma’s friend Miren and local real estate queen Loretta both nod like they’ve just been served gospel. Emma takes the reins, referring to her discussion guide. “But can’t we admit that Dax is a trauma survivor who deserves grace?”
Marigold, who showed up several minutes late carrying a bottle of rosé in each hand, doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, hon, men like Dax get nothing but grace. Honestly, if I met Dax in real life, I’d probably throw my purse at him.”
“I found him relatable,” Miren states, crossing her legs so decisively that the whole table shakes. “He’s just this guy who’s never been told no. That’s not his fault, and he’s done his best to be well-adjusted.”
“True,” Marigold concedes.
“Jane, you’re awfully quiet.” Emma peers at me. “What do you think of Chet?”
“Wha-What did you say?”
Emma furrows her brow. “I said, what do you think of Dax?”
Funny, I could have sworn she said, “What did you think of Chet?”
“Oh! Sorry, I thought—” I cut myself off.
Each woman’s face is turned toward me, like they’re all waiting for my profound revelation about Dax’s shot at redemption.
But my mind’s gone woolly with wine and worry.
“I liked that Dax was pretty up-front about his damage,” I say, spinning my copy of the book on the table.
“He doesn’t pretend to have it all together.
And the heroine, Avery—she wants truth, even if the truth’s gonna hurt. ”
Marigold’s stack of bangles taps against her glass. “Good point, Jane,” she says. “I just wish that the ending hadn’t been so neat. Real life is never so tidy.”
“Yeah.” My breath catches.
“Are you alright?” Emma asks.
“Not sure,” I reply. Truth is, I have a sudden, weird feeling that my life is way messier than I’ve wanted to admit. That I’ve been avoiding some painful truths.
“You look pale,” Eleanor states. “Maybe have some more wine?”
I stand. “Thank you, but, no. I should get going.”
“Already?” Marigold asks.
“Yeah. Sorry.” I pick up my purse and put its strap over my shoulder. “I’m so happy to have joined this book club. Please forgive me; I’m just having an off night. Next time will be different, I promise.”
“No need for apologies, Jane.” There’s sympathy in Emma’s voice and in her eyes. “But are you okay to drive?”
“Yes,” I answer. “I’ll be fine. Thanks again, and good night.”
I make my exit, out of the bookshop and to my car, which is parked along the street. All the way back to Resilience Ranch, I grip the steering wheel with sweaty palms. I’m not sure what I’m afraid to discover—only that it won’t be good.
Somehow, the drive takes forever and yet goes by in a flash.
When I arrive, gravel crunching under my tires, I pull up to the gate and punch in the entrance code.
Once through, I drive at ten miles per hour to my usual parking spot, in between my trailer and the horse barn, right next to that old tree stump.
Chet’s already outside, gazing up at the starry sky. He ambles over to me.
“You’re back early!” Chet says the moment I get out of my car. He’s in running shorts and an ancient hoodie, like a college athlete hanging out in his dorm room. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I force a smile, shutting my car door with my hip. “Just awkward new-girl nerves, I guess. Book club is . . . a lot.”
I’m waiting for Chet to tease me, or to lean in for a kiss. He does neither. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. The horses and I both missed you.” He extends his hand. “Walk with me.”
I take his hand. We move toward the horse barn, and Chet fixes his gaze forward. A strange mood seems to radiate off him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing’s wrong. Not really.”
I expect more conversation, or at least a joke, but Chet’s silent. The moon is out—big, full, smudged at the edges. I’m holding my breath, waiting for bad news.
Then, beyond the rolling fields, I see a flicker—a movement at the fence line near the blue barn. I pause, blink. Did I imagine it? Someone’s there, then gone. Two someones, maybe.
“Did you see—” I start, but Chet talks over me, voice a little too loud.
“Let’s get a carrot from the feed room,” he says, already angling us toward the back. “Betty goes nuts for them.”
I shove the door open. The instant it swings shut behind us, Chet turns to me and presses his hands to my shoulders—gentle but insistent. “Listen,” he says, “if I ever ask you to trust me—”
His words vanish under the thunder of horses clamoring at their stall doors. The barn smells like an earthy mix of hay, sawdust, and horse breath. A sudden chill skitters down my spine.
“See,” Chet says, “the horses really did miss you. They’re excited you’re back.”
I clamp my lips together, willing my heart to slow.
“What is it?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Are you okay?” My question sounds accusatory, belligerent even. But Chet’s face doesn’t register surprise. “What were you about to tell me—something about trusting you?”
Easing his hands away from me, Chet runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just wondering if you’d ever trust me with the horses.” He stares at the ground and gives a stray bucket a lazy kick.
Okay. That’s really not what I was expecting him to say. “What are you talking about? The horses belong to you.”
“Except, by my own definition, they don’t.
When I called Reed, I said Betty belonged to you because emotionally, she does.
Emotionally, these horses all belong to you, Jane.
And that’s how it should be. But I want them to belong to me as well.
I want you to teach me how to connect with them.
” Chet meets my gaze, his dark eyes raw with something I can’t name. “And I want to start right now.”
“Okay.” I lead him to Betty’s stall. “First thing—let her come to you. Don’t reach.”
He nods, stuffing both hands in his hoodie pocket. Betty swings her big head over the stall door and blows a warm gust at his chest.
“She’s deciding,” I say.
“Deciding what?”
“Whether you’re worth her time.”
He chuckles under his breath. Betty’s ears swivel toward the sound. “Good sign,” I tell him. “She likes your laugh.”
Chet looks sideways at me. “Do you—like my laugh?”
“Whatever Betty likes, I like. Now, focus.”
I show him how to stroke down the bridge of her nose, how to read the slow blink that means she’s relaxed.
We move down the row—Miss Adele, Copper Cash, Freckles, Tapioca, Rosie, Spitfire, Gatsby.
At each stall I give him something small to do: offer a flat palm, stand at the shoulder instead of head-on, breathe slow.
“We need to give them all their carrots,” I say, pulling a handful from the feed bucket. “No playing favorites.”
Chet’s face breaks into a crooked smile. “That would be wrong.”
I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him. He tastes like wintergreen, which I’ve decided is my favorite flavor.
We work our way down the stalls, gifting each horse a carrot. Then Chet’s fingers close around my wrist. “Come help me check the side entrance,” he says, in a voice that means something else entirely.
Around the hay-stacked corner, he pulls me into the shadow, and we kiss again, slower this time, one hand braced against the wall above my head.
He pulls back. Studies me. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say.
Something passes between us—wordless yet soul-stirring. His hand finds my waist, and he draws me in with the unhurried confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, which is, frankly, unfair.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I tell him.
“Doing what?”
“Being like this.”
“Being like what?” he murmurs.
“Nothing—just a shamelessly sexy cowboy billionaire.”
“Always so clever.” His laughter’s low, and I feel it more than I hear it. Then his hands are moving, tracing the length of me, and I stop being clever about anything at all.
I press into him—his chest, his stomach, the unmistakable fact of how much he wants me—and whatever doubts I carried here from book club dissolve completely. Like they were never really mine to begin with.
Chet’s hands find my waist, unhurried, as if he has all night and intends to use it.
But that just increases my urgency to be as close to him as possible.
I cling to him, and he kisses me with intention, unlike anyone I’ve ever been with.
Chet’s both meticulous and sensual. He’s taken the time to understand what pleasure is and how to create it.
But this kiss is different, desperate, almost ugly with want.
Maybe we’re both trying to prove something, that we can out-love, out-hurt, outrun whatever’s nipping at our heels.
My hands wind in his hair. His fingers slide up under my shirt, dry and searching, then linger at my waistband, tentative in a way that makes me want to scream with impatience.
Somewhere outside, a branch thwacks against the metal barn siding.
“Grace could walk in,” I whisper, but my knuckles are already digging into Chet’s back.
He laughs into my mouth. “Let her.”
Chet’s all heat and urgency, and so am I. God, I want him so bad, it’s akin to something gnawing through my chest.
We barely make it ten feet before my back’s flush to the barn wall, his hands caging mine above my head.
He hikes me up by the thighs, easy as hoisting a bale of hay.
My knees lock around his hips, and I feel myself tilt.
I grind into him, the ache so total it borders on relief.
The only light comes from Chet’s porch, slicing through warped plexiglass, painting stripes across his forearms. Our shadows join on the hay-dusted floor.
Chet rakes his nails down my back, and I gasp. He smothers it with a kiss so deep I forget my own name. All our inhibitions are stripped bare as we come together, hard and fast.
I cry out.
Because a face—a young woman’s face—peers through the barn’s window. She’s watching us.
Chet must mistake my shocked cry as pleasure. He doesn’t pull away or stop. I blink several times. When I focus my eyes again on the window, the face is gone.
Did I imagine it? Or was it Grace, spying on us? No. No—Grace is an odd duck, but she doesn’t strike me as a creepy voyeur. Besides, the face I thought I saw was young.
“Jane?” Now Chet pauses, apparently noticing how my level of passion has dipped. “Do you want me to stop?” His cheeks are flushed red, his lips swollen. In this moment, he’s vulnerable, earnest—and more desirable than ever before.
“Never.” I kiss him, my tongue dancing with his.
That face was my imagination playing tricks on me. There’s no other explanation. And as Chet consumes me, I stop worrying altogether.