Page 56 of Total Jane Wreck

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.

Chapter Twenty-Three

My blood crept cold through my veins…no, I was sure of it. It was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.

For the following week, I banish any lingering doubts and convince myself that I didn’t see a face in the barn door.

I’m only partially successful.

Then, late one morning when I’m already in a sour mood, I slip and fall right into a huge pile of manure. Now, I’m a certified horse girl, no stranger to what Kentuckians lovingly call “meadow muffins.” But when I fall, hands forward, my knees, my chest, and even my chin are covered.

The worst part is that Chet witnesses it. Except, rather than laughing at me (like Reed would have done) or showing clear revulsion (Jackson’s would-be reaction), Chet rushes to my side and helps me up.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Define okay.”

Somehow, even though he grabbed my elbow, Chet manages not to get horse poop on himself. “Never mind,” he says. “Different question—would you like to take a shower?”

“Together? I mean, sure, but this—” I indicate my soiled frontside “—can’t be a huge turn-on.”

His mouth twists into a wry smile. “Jane, you could be covered in pus-oozing boils, and I’d still get turned on by you. But, no. I wasn’t suggesting we shower together. I was thinking you might use the stable’s shower stall . . . alone.”

“Dunno,” I joke. “That place has some strong memories attached to it. Once, I saw my boss showering there. And I’ll never be the same again.”

Chet’s eyes gleam with appreciation. That’s right—I’m covered in manure, but he’s looking at me like I’m the bee’s knees. And yet, I can’t quite trust this man.

“Anyway,” I continue, “since the landscapers are here and you never know when they’ll wander by, I’ll pass on the stable’s shower. Its curtain leaves little to the imagination.”

Our solution: Chet hoses me off enough that I don’t bring dung into my trailer. Then I stand under my own shower until the hot water runs out—seven full minutes when the sun’s shining bright. My mind wanders, and without meaning to, I’m replaying that face in the window again. The steam fogs the mirror, and I don’t wipe it clean.

My phone buzzes on the bathroom tile. Brontë. I wrap myself in a towel. “Hi!”

“Finally,” she says by way of hello.

“I know, I know. It’s been a weird few days.”

“Weird how? Weird good or weird Chet?”

“Both.” Brontë’s already heard about Chet and me becoming an item. But not the most recent chapters. I sit on the edge of my bed and tell her about the barn. The face. The way it vanished when I blinked.

There’s a pause on her end. “Jane. Is it possible you imagined it?”

“Goodness, I hope so. Because the alternative is worse. That Chet’s aunt is a creeper and he’s complicit.”

“Or . . .” Another pause, gentler this time. “Could it be the Birdy thing? Like, your brain’s conjuring up worst-case scenarios?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But fill in the blanks for me, Brontë. What worst-case scenarios are we talking about?”

“That he’s still in love with her?”