Page 40 of Total Jane Wreck

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.