Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) by Miranda Kenneally Page A

helping out local shops.”
    A couple of minutes later, Rosie has me sit down on a plush bench as she opens a long brown shoe box and pulls out the purple boots.
    “These are so not me,” I say.
    “Stand up and model,” Jesse replies, so I put the boots on and walk back and forth in front of him like when Mom took me shoe shopping as a kid.
    “I don’t like how they look, but they feel almost as awesome as the leather in that GT,” I tell Jesse, which makes him smile.
    “Then you’re getting them.”
    “How much?” I ask Rosie.
    “Five hundred.”
    “About four hundred and eighty out of my price range.”
    “If you change your mind, just come back,” Rosie says. “Those boots were made for you.”
    Just like that GranTurismo? I’m sorry, but these boots and that Maserati weren’t made for me. They were made for country music stars.
    Jesse admires the boots with flames. “Oh boy. I’m getting these Laredos though.”
    “But the spurs don’t match,” I say with a laugh.
    “Guess I’ll have to order some more spurs then. Rubies, maybe?”
    I shake my head with a smile, glad that his temper seems to have cooled.
    But how damaged is he?
    • • •
    “I miss doing stuff like that,” Jesse says and nods at the playground across the street. He tucks his Nashville Spur Emporium box into the Harley’s saddlebag.
    The playground is filled with toddlers and chatting moms. There’s a jungle gym, a merry-go-round, swings, and a sandbox. A little girl is throwing pennies into a marble fountain with a fish statue that’s spurting water.
    Maybe the key to helping him feel better is to make him feel like a kid again. I grab his arm. “Come on.”
    “Where’re we going?”
    “To swing.” I grin at him, and he returns it.
    “You gonna push me?”
    “You’re a big boy. You can pump by yourself.”
    We sit on the swings by the sandbox, where four little boys are building a castle. I swing higher and higher, my short black skirt flapping in the wind. Jesse starts laughing as he zooms higher than me. I pump harder to beat him. It’s a nice moment—just me and him and the blue sky. I hum the Charlie Brown theme song; it’s been stuck in my head since Jesse played it on the piano.
    “Can I ask a personal question?” he asks.
    It makes me happy he’s starting to open up. “Of course.”
    “So you didn’t want Mark to put you in a recording booth, but you want to become a musician?”
    “I do. More than anything.”
    “Then why not let us record you so you could have the experience? I thought that’s why you wanted to spend today with me.”
    “I’d love to be recorded, but I need a band for that.”
    “What for?”
    “I can’t do solos.”
    He stops pumping his legs, and his swing begins to slow. “You sang just fine on your own this morning.”
    “But that was just for you and Holly. When I’m in front of big crowds, something always goes wrong. I like it when the audience has somewhere else to look besides me.”
    “You have a good voice. You don’t need a band to perform.”
    “You don’t get it. You’ve always performed solo. I like being part of something, you know? That’s why I started The Fringe.”
    “Which turned into a heavy metal band?”
    “Yeah…”
    “Do you even like heavy metal?”
    “No, not really,” I say quietly.
    “Then why were you playing it?”
    Okay, so maybe I don’t want him asking hard personal questions. “Because I love performing.”
    “Then why can’t you do it by yourself?”
    “I just can’t.”
    I jump off the swing and go over to the hopscotch court. He follows me. I start skipping through the numbered squares to try to escape, but Jesse reaches out and grabs my elbow. He puts his hands on my shoulders and bores into me with those caramel eyes.
    “You okay? I talked to you about my life. You can talk to me.”
    Do I really want this big star to know the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me? No, I don’t, because I’m