Page 16 of Total Jane Wreck

“I signed away any future rights to ShopSpot.” Chet’s voice is as hard as cement. “And I agreed to a noncompete clause.”

“Seriously?” I look him up and down, almost like I’m checking that he’s stable. “Why would you do that?”

Chet grimaces. “That’s really none of your business, Jane.”

“Whoa.” I hold up both hands in surrender. “Apologies if I overstepped. But you just compared how you felt about ShopSpot to how I feel about horses. And there’s no way I could ever give up working with horses.”

Half a smile appears on Chet’s face. So does a single dimple. Has that always been there, or am I just noticing it now? “No, I apologize,” he says. “When it comes to work, I can be . . . prickly.”

“Prickly, huh?” I laugh to myself. Does he honestly believe that his being “prickly” is isolated to work-related matters? “Have you considered creating something new?”

Sighing, he looks off into the distance. “Sometimes I entertain this idea—a platform like Facebook or Instagram, but for small business owners. They’d have a ‘storefront’ page, with photos and descriptions of their products, and the site would aggregate all their social media posts, reviews, and promotions onto one easy-to-find place. Kind like a ‘shop local’ movement, but online.”

“Would they sell directly from this platform?”

Chet’s mouth quirks as he looks back at me. “That would make sense, right? Problem is, that would be a violation of my noncompete clause with ShopSpot.”

“Huh.” Miss Adele fidgets, and I scratch her nose, which she loves. “Seems unfair. I mean, didn’t you create ShopSpot a lifetime ago?”

“A lifetime ago?” Chet sounds incredulous. “Just how old do you think I am?”

“Forty-two?”

Chet’s jaw juts out. “I’m thirty-five.”

“I know,” I say, laughing. “Just trying to get a rise out of you. Next you’ll ask if I find you handsome.”

Jeezle-Pete. Why did I just say that? Bad, bad choice—especially given the shower stall episode, not to mention its fallout. But Chet betrays no emotion. No anger at my ribbing. If anything, he seems to take up more space. His shoulders expand; his spine straightens. “Well, since you brought it up—do you find me handsome?”

“No,” I lie. Problem is, I’m a terrible liar.

“Ouch,” Chet says, but he sounds disbelieving.

I shift my weight. “Hey, don’t be blue. I bet most gals find you hot as a two-dollar pistol. I’m an outlier.”

Chet narrows his eyes, perhaps confused by my words. Then he shakes his head and grins. “That you are, Kentucky Jane, though not for the reasons you might think.” He crooks his rugged jaw. “How about we go for a ride? Me on Copper Cash, you on Miss Adele?”

Intriguing offer. I gaze at Miss Adele. She’s looking sort of bug-eyed, hoping another snack might be hidden in my pockets. My heart twitches with doubt. “You sure you’re up for it? At your advanced age?”

Chet raises a single eyebrow. “I’m not using a walker just yet. I can handle myself fine.”

Reaching for his challenge, I roll up my sleeves, ready to prove something. “Of course. But I tell you what—Miss Adele’s barely had a saddle on her. We’ll be taking it slow.”

“As you wish.” Chet’s voice carries the glint of a double-dare. He heads off toward the tack room. Copper Cash stands at the hitch rail. Chet walks up and clips the reins to his bit, swinging an arm over the horse’s neck.

I grab Miss Adele, who’s watching with bright, hopeful eyes. “Don’t embarrass me in front of the boss, okay?” Her ears flick back and forth, like she’s weighing her options.

It’s almost dusk. The light on Sugar Pine is a syrupy orange, shadows stretched into the next county. There’s nobody around but us and the horses. Chet’s quick with Copper Cash. But that horse is all shine and muscle, while Miss Adele is still mostly fuzz and promise.

Unused to so much attention, she sucks at the bit, blowing lightning-quick snorts, her eyes rolling around the barn. I stroke her withers, and she leans into me.

“Good girl,” I murmur, and pull the new saddle from the peg. My hands tremble a little, which is ridiculous. Yet, it’s one thing to train horses on your own time and another to show your stuff in front of a billionaire who can buy or fire you with the same gesture he uses to shoo a fly.

I finish tightening the girth, checking twice that it’s snug enough but not pinching. Chet and I work in silence.

“You ready?” Chet’s already on Copper Cash, who stands ready and eager, ears pricked forward and looking for trouble. Meanwhile, forget being a tech bro. Chet looks so natural and self-assured, sitting on his horse. Like a sexy, modern cowboy from a Netflix show.

A choppy laugh blusters out of me. “Sure am! Are you ready to get humiliated?”