Total Jane Wreck (Sugar Pine Springs #3)

Chapter One

I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night.

“Do you believe in fate, Jackson?”

My conventionally handsome fiancé scrunches up his lips. “What kind of question is that?” He smiles, teeth gleaming. “Relax, Jane. Stop trying to figure out the meaning of life and just enjoy our engagement party, okay?”

“Sure.” My tone is perky, but inside me, something deflates. Because how did I arrive here, at this moment? It’s not like I ever chose this path. Then again, making choices is messy and unpredictable. Since I tend to be messy and unpredictable myself, I should just let fate do its thing.

Besides, today, all the neighbors plus lots of old friends—just not my old friends—have gathered to give Jackson and me their heartiest congratulations. Which means downing mint juleps and bourbon-spiked sweet tea and occasionally soaking up the alcohol with Hot Browns or Pimento cheese sandwiches.

Pasting on a grin, I stand on my tiptoes (even though I’m wearing strappy heels to go with my out-of-character, lacy pink dress) and kiss his cheek.

Then, I straighten Jackson’s pastel-colored plaid tie, though it’s already immaculate.

Everything about Jackson is immaculate. “Think I’ll make the rounds, do some mingling. ”

“Good idea.” Jackson runs his fingers through his perfectly tousled dark blond hair. “I was about to join the fellas outside for cigars.”

“Have fun.”

“Thanks.” He winks and heads out to meet his old frat brothers on our back porch.

I wish I had some buddies at this shindig, but the only one I’d invite is my ride or die, Bront?.

And she just started a new job in Atlanta.

So, I grip my bourbon and Coke and scan the room, hoping to find someone who can tell me why, despite my best efforts, the prospect of marrying Jackson doesn’t make me giddy with excitement.

Mom’s poring over our collection of photo albums, her two best girlfriends next to her. My older brother Reed sips a bourbon on ice, loosening his belt buckle so his belly can expand. His wife, Melissa, with her injected lips, fake boobs, and botoxed forehead, gives him the side-eye.

For some reason, that grinds my gears.

Dad is talking business with Carlton Floyd, my future father-in-law and owner of Kentucky’s fourth-largest horse breeder, Floyd Farms.

Okay, no luck. I try to slink past toward the den, but Aunt Sandy waves her lacquered nails like flags at half-mast. She’s three Manhattans deep and a bit wobbly.

“Jane!” she calls. “Come tell these lovely people about that time you puked at state finals.”

That story is a classic. I was fifteen, invincible, and the odds-on favorite to win. Instead, after forcing myself to use a riding crop, I pulled over mid-race. Sure that I’d hurt my horse, I puked right there on the track, for God and the entire world (including social media) to see.

“I don’t remember much,” I lie. “But the video is still everywhere on Instagram. Even after ten years.”

The room titters. A man I don’t recognize, with a neck the color of boiled ham, chortles and leans in, close enough for me to smell his gravy breath. “So, do you still race? A pipsqueak like you must have opportunities.”

“Nope,” I quip. “I’m not cut out for it.”

“Your parents must be so disappointed.” The neck-man takes on a paternal tone. “Bet your mama wishes you’d follow in her footsteps.”

“Yes,” I reply. “But we can’t help who we are.”

My mother, a driven, competitive, horse-obsessed woman, gave up on her jockey aspirations at twenty-one, when she got pregnant with Reed. “You’ll achieve what I never could,” she told me several times throughout my teen years.

She never asked if I wanted to be a jockey.

“Oh, darling . . .” Neck-Man pats my shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. You’re marrying into the Floyd family. That makes up for your past failures.”

“Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth. “Excuse me.”

After successfully making it to the den, I grab a worn copy of one of my favorite books, Escape from the Springs, and head out to the barn.

I’ve had enough of humans. Give me the company of a horse, any day of the week.

My steps are unsteady as I walk toward Betty’s stall. I’m unaccustomed to wearing these delicate heels instead of my stable boots.

“Hey, girl. Did you know that you’re my heart-horse?”

Betty dips her snout as if to say, “Duh. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Horses are intuitive. They can sense a human’s emotional state and read nonverbal cues, reflecting them back with empathy. Betty’s soul is even kinder than most. She nuzzles me, understanding my mood so well.

But after a while, Betty grows restless and confused. She doesn’t get why we’re not going for a ride. “Sorry,” I tell her. “I wish we could, but not today.”

So, I duck into an empty stall, sit against a block of hay, and open my book.

It’s about this guy who gives up everything to go on an epically long hike.

Even though the story’s told from a middle-aged man’s point of view, I connect with the wanderlust. That longing for deep red sunsets over mountain peaks?

It gets to me over and over, every time I read it.

I’m deep into chapter three, reading one of the very best passages: Safety is our toxic devotion. We cling to it, making ourselves slaves to routine. Then, before we know it, life is over, and we’ve never truly taken a risk.

Two voices startle me. They belong to Jackson and Reed’s wife, Melissa.

“You can’t be serious,” Melissa stage-whispers, her consonants sharp. “Out here? Now?”

Jackson shushes her, more urgent than playful. “I’ve just gotta have you, babe.”

I freeze, book open in my lap. They’re less than ten feet away, on the far side of Betty’s stall. My stomach sinks like a brick in a bucket.

“Reed’ll lose his shit if he finds out,” Melissa says, breathless.

Jackson’s laugh floats through the air, a low purr I know too well. “Reed doesn’t deserve you.”

God. I should clear my throat. Or scream. Or fly at them like a ninja. Instead, I’m paralyzed by morbid curiosity. Jackson’s voice turns muffled, cajoling. Melissa sighs in pleasure. There’s the shuffle of expensive loafers on straw, a zipper, a button’s pop.

This can’t be happening.

I stare at the battered copy of Escape from the Springs, its creased spine, the words blurring. The urge to crane my neck and watch tickles at the base of my brain.

Meanwhile, Betty has a front-row seat. Her head is up, nostrils flaring in confusion and annoyance.

She hates sudden noises or when anyone other than Mom or me gets too close.

Jackson and Melissa’s giggles grow louder and more frantic, and Betty throws her weight hard against the stall door.

The iron latch rattles. Both Jackson and Melissa shriek, startled. Then they burst out laughing.

“Shhh, you’re gonna spook her again,” Melissa says.

Jackson makes a clucking sound. “She’s a horse, Mel. She’ll get over it.” Another bang, as Melissa tries to scramble onto the ledge. Her shoe slips, her heel digging into Betty’s side.

When Betty neighs in protest, it’s like a switch flips in my chest. I throw my battered paperback to the ground and stomp into the aisle.

“Get the fuck away from her!” I shout.

Jackson and Melissa spring apart. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Jackson finds his grin—that slow, perfectly symmetrical thing I used to find charming. “Jane. Hey, babe. Didn’t even see you there.”

Melissa’s hands fly to her hair, which doesn’t move. Too much hairspray. “We were just checking on the horses.”

I look at her for a long moment. “Sure.”

Jackson’s eyes slide sideways. “Babe, she came onto me. I’m weak-willed—you know that.” He tells me this like it’s a character quirk—the same as being bad at parallel parking.

Then, I remember. Two summers ago, us at the country club pool, his hands on my shoulders, working in the sunscreen, voice hot against my neck. “You’re beautiful, Jane. And I can’t resist a beautiful woman.”

Bending to his touch, I couldn’t believe my luck—one of Lexington’s most eligible bachelors found me beautiful. That was new. Sure, I had some non-threatening, girl-next-door vibes—short and slim, with brown hair, blue eyes, and a freckled nose. Not the type to drive a man to distraction.

But Jackson found me beautiful. Except, apparently, he finds most women beautiful.

God, I was an idiot.

“Do you even want to marry me?” I ask him now.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

He blinks as if this is a question he’s never considered. “I mean—it makes sense, right? For our families.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. “Reed will love hearing that.”

“You can’t tell Reed,” Melissa says, starting to stroke Betty’s neck. Betty’s not having it. She fidgets.

“You tell him, and everything blows up,” Melissa continues. “Is that really what you want?”

Betty stomps a hoof. To make her stand still, Melissa reaches up and twists at Betty’s ear. An ear twist is agony for horses. Betty makes this deep, throaty grunt-type sound. She’s in pain.

Rage swirls behind my eyes. Bile blooms under my tongue. Fury clenches at my ribs, flushing up through my scalp. My vision fizzles at the edges. The sound of Betty suffering—small, wet, pinned—is all that matters.

I lunge forward, ripping Melissa’s hand from Betty’s ear. “Let go of her, bitch!”

For a second, no one moves. I press my face to Betty’s mane, cheek to coarse hair, and try to breathe. Then my body rebels. Every cell in my stomach wants out. I retch and heave, shuddering, while they watch, silent.

When it’s over, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look at them.

“Betty’s not a toy,” I say. It sounds small, but I mean it like a threat.

Betty, traumatized, whinnies and stomps her hoof so that a line of my puke falls onto Jackson’s loafers.

“Damn you, Jane!” Jackson cries, anguish ripping through his voice—they’re his favorite shoes. “Look what you did.”

“Sorry.”

Jackson sighs. “It’s fine,” he replies, but his tone implies there’s a cross nailed to his back. “Go get cleaned up. Then we can just—” he throws his arms to the side “—put this little episode behind us.”

“Sounds good to me,” Melissa says. She starts to walk away.

“Wait,” I say. “What about Reed?”

Melissa turns, scowling. “What about him?”

I draw in a deep, steadying breath. “He’ll want to kill you both.”

Reed is a big guy. He was a bully in high school and he loves holding a grudge.

Quick as lightning, Melissa seizes my arm. “Jane Wreck,” she sneers. It’s the nickname I earned after throwing up during that infamous horse race, the first (but far from last) time I sympathy-puked when an animal was in pain.

Her nails dig into my skin. I don’t flinch. “Let go.”

“Why?” she hisses. “So you can run to Reed? He won’t buy what you’re selling. He won’t even listen.”

I try to wrench free. “Wanna bet?”

“Listen to me.” Melissa’s voice goes low and scary.

“Reed’s running Adkins and Son Stables now, with me by his side.

But you? You’re just the girl in the corner who talks to horses and ruins every brunch.

So take my advice, Jane Wreck, and stay quiet.

Count yourself lucky that Jackson still wants to marry you.

He’s your last chance at respectability. ”

My skin crawls. Then, I notice the abandoned paperback of Escape from the Springs, still lying on the stable floor.

Before we know it, life is over, and we’ve never truly taken a risk . . .

“No,” I say, voice flat.

“What do you mean, no?” Jackson asks.

I look at my fiancé. “Let me clarify—I mean, hell no.” Sucking in a breath, I summon all my strength and dignity.

“I’m tired of being a joke and an embarrassment.

There’s more to me than puking when a horse is in pain.

Perhaps someday I’ll meet a man who sees me—all of me, the good and the bad.

And he’ll love me nonetheless. But if not, I’m still better off alone than I would be married to you. ”

Jackson’s lips curve into a sneer. “Come on, Jane. You don’t have any other options.” He chuckles. “What are you going to do? Throw all your meager possessions into your beat-up little car, hit the road, and ‘find yourself’ like a character in some pathetic rom-com?”

“Huh,” I say. “Now that you mention it, great idea. Thanks, Jackson.”

“You’ll never make it on your own,” Melissa says. “I give you two weeks tops before you’re back here, out of money and beaten up by life.”

She’s probably right. But, in for a penny, in for a pound.