Page 24 of Total Jane Wreck

“Isn’t it obvious? I was talking to myself.”

Chet grunts. He’s dressed for a run, hair sweat-dampened and heavy at the temples. “Well, damn,” he murmurs, surveying my progress. “No need to beat yourself up. You nailed her.”

“Okay—now I’m seriously questioning your taste. Do you also like finger paintings and noodle art?”

“Sometimes. What’s wrong with finger paintings and noodle art?” He glances down at my T-shirt. Today’s choice features a Frida Kahlo painting. “Wait, don’t answer that. You’re obviously an art connoisseur.”

“Not quite. But I’d like to be. My parents weren’t ever able to travel—couldn’t leave the horses—so I haven’t made it to any big-city art museums. But I visited every single gallery in Lexington, plus a couple in Louisville. And during Covid, I took advantage of all the free, virtual tours that the art museums offered . . .” I press my lips together, worried I sound like a hick. “Anyway, I’m self-taught, for what that’s worth.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s worth a lot. Somehow, you’ve accomplished—I don’t know—capturing Miss Adele’s energy.”

I put my hand over the canvas. “She came out wrong. Like a taxidermy fail. I’m going to paint over her with wildflowers.”

“No you won’t. I forbid it.” Chet’s voice drops to a growly baritone. That should make my toes curl. Instead, my breath catches. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because the air seems to thicken. Like a storm is brewing.

“Umm . . . pretty sure that whatever I decide to do with my own painting falls outside your royal decree.”

Chet steps closer, looming over me. “Not true. My property. My employee. My horse.”

“Is that right? Do you also own the air I breathe?” I dab my brush defiantly into a pool of purple paint. Just one stroke and Miss Adele will disappear.

“Jane Adkins!” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop right there, or I’ll fire you!”

I arch an eyebrow, but my paintbrush hovers over my canvas. “Really. After everything we went through with Freckles, you’re gonna fire me? Over a painting?”

“Don’t. Test. Me.” Each word is its own sentence.

I try for a breezy laugh, but it dies in my throat when his jaw clenches. Tension seems to emanate from his pores. Even Miss Adele stops grazing. She watches our standoff before deciding the fence post looks more appetizing than our drama.

My brush is suspended, midair, as I weigh my options. One—cover Miss Adele’s likeness in purple and keep my dignity. Or, two—surrender and keep my job.

“Fine.” Since any hope of buying Betty disappears if he fires me, I drop my paintbrush, splashing it into my water jar. “You win. But if you like this terrible horse portrait, then you can’t tell crap from a crab tree.”

Chet wrinkles his brow. “Is that an insult? Because both things are inherently bad, right? Nobody likes crap, but few people like crab trees either. So why did you say—”

“Never mind,” I snap. “Just, please explain. Why is my painting so important to you?”

Chet sighs and leans against the fence. “There’s something magical about it.” He studies my canvas with genuine interest. “Like painting her made you disappear into another world.”

Embarrassed, I fix my gaze on the ground. “It’s just how I spent my day off.”

“To me,” he says, his eyes finding mine again, holding them, “it’s perfect.”

The compliment blooms warm in my chest, and I can’t look away. “Then it’s yours.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t hinting that you should give it to me.”

“Too late. You put the chairs in that wagon with your ‘no wildflowers’ decree. Now this painting can’t belong to anyone but you.”

Chet’s grin catches me off guard—all warmth and crinkled eyes. “What’s with you and idioms? Not that they aren’t charming, but I have no idea what they mean.”

My heart does a stupid little flutter. “Oh, please. Of course you do.”

“Fair enough.” His fingers brush my shoulder. Electricity shoots down my spine. “Thank you for the painting.”

I swallow hard. “You’re welcome. Just let me finish it up. When it’s dry, I’ll hand it over.” Our eyes lock again. “One condition, though—no hanging it where anyone but you will see it.”

“Oh, in my bedroom then?” His voice drops lower. Even though he’s joking, heat floods my cheeks. “I’ll put it on the ceiling above my bed.”