Page 29 of Total Jane Wreck

“Not yet.” He leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. And, damn. Desire pings inside me.

But come on. Am I going to let him control this narrative? Maybe Jane Wreck would have, but the new and improved Jane Adkins has other ideas. “Okay, Chet. Since we’re not holding back with hard truths tonight, what about Birdy?”

His face falls. “What about her?”

“Why isn’t she on your list of reasons to stay away from me?”

He sucks in a breath. “We broke up. You already knew that, right? Everyone on social media’s seen it.”

“Normally, I don’t go on social media,” I tell him. “It’s not my thing. But yeah, I made an exception and read all about you and Birdy on Instagram. How you dumped her while she’s battling cancer. Is that true?”

He leans toward me. Our knees touch and neither of us pulls away. “If it’s on Instagram, then it must be true.”

We’re both silent. The only sound is our breathing and the crackling flames. I place my hand against his thigh. “What if I don’t want you to stay away from me?”

He looks down at where I’m so boldly touching him. Then he looks back up; his eyes are like two hot coals, making me breathless. “That leads me to reason number seven,” he says, voice thick and ragged. “I’m a bastard who doesn’t care about what other people want.”

“Well . . .” I refuse to blink or look away. “What about what you want?”

For a long moment, it’s like a game of chicken—we’re both waiting to see who will blink first. Then, suddenly, Chet grabs my hand from his thigh. But rather than letting me go, he pulls me up and onto his lap so that I’m straddling him. He grips the back of my neck, drawing me forward. I can smell his bourbon breath. I’m inching down his lap, aware that he’s already hard.

But then, his phone—which was sitting on the wide armrest of his Adirondack chair—lights up and vibrates. Our heads both turn, seeing the name on the screen: Birdy.

He swallows roughly. “Should probably get this.”

I bolt off his lap. “Of course.”

Chet gets up. He walks toward his house, speaking softly into his phone. “Hey. Thanks for me calling me back.”

I look down. The bourbon bottle fell to the ground. So I pick it up; there’s probably two shots-worth left. And I head to my trailer, where I finish off that bourbon.

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.