Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) by Miranda Kenneally Read Free Book Online

eagerly.
    “Nah—that’s not good enough. My uncle asked me to give you a good day, and I don’t want to upset him.” He grabs up the phone and punches a button. “It’s me. Meet me at the studio at ten thirty.” Jesse rolls his eyes and raps his spatula on the marble counter. “No, no, you don’t need to pick us up… I know we’re supposed to be following a schedule. Mark, she’s already seen the Opry—she doesn’t need a tour… I wanna do something else.” He pauses. “Can you call Holly and have her meet us there? Great.” He hangs up. “I’m gonna show you what real voice lessons are like.”
    “That’s really nice of you,” I reply, not wanting to ruin his sudden about-face in attitude.
    “Let me just get ready real quick.”
    He starts to jog up the stairs, giving me this great view of his Celtic tattoo, but stops and turns to smirk.
    “Wait. Did you want to shadow me while I shower?”

Teach Your Children
    Jesse comes back down the rear staircase, spinning a beige cowboy hat on his finger and wearing a plain white T-shirt and ripped jeans. Patches of tan skin peek through the holes.
    “Those red cowboy boots,” I say, shaking my head.
    He looks down at them. “Most of the groupies think they’re sexy.”
    Yes, they are. “They’re not bad.”
    I’m fixing to stand up from my seat at the kitchen table when a ball of white fur lands on my lap from out of nowhere.
    “Oh, hello,” I murmur, petting the pretty white cat. “You must be Casper. Aren’t you beautiful?” I scratch her ears, and she stretches her neck so I can get under her chin too. “Good girl,” I whisper.
    When I look up from petting the cat, Jesse is staring at me with his mouth slightly opened. He shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then asks, “Ready to go?”
    I nod. He gently picks up the cat from my lap, kisses her head before setting her on the floor, and leads me out to the garage.
    The garage totally baffles me. It has six spaces, but only two are filled. I stare at a truck—a rusted ancient white Dodge, probably from the seventies—and a motorcycle, a black Harley-Davidson with orange flames licking its sides. He truly is a country boy.
    “Where’re the rest of your cars?”
    “This is it,” he replies, jingling his keys. “We taking the truck or the bike?”
    Even though I’m wearing my black dress, I say, “The Harley, obviously!” Humming, I drag my hand across the leather seat, squatting down to check out the rear fender. “Love the dual exhaust.”
    “You like bikes?”
    “Oh yeah. My Poppy—my grandfather—has an Indian.”
    “Big-time,” Jesse says. “I’d love to see it. You ride it a lot?”
    “He lets me take it out every time Halley’s Comet flies by.”
    “So never?”
    I stand up, dusting off my hands. “Last spring, I bought a ’95 Suzuki 750 down at the junkyard for fifty dollars. Some guys at the shop helped me fix it up. That’s what I ride.”
    “ You fixed it up?”
    I lean over to check out his transmission. Six-speed. “Well, I needed help, but I did a lot of it myself. A few years ago, my dad started running Caldwell Auto Parts in Franklin, and I work there as a receptionist part time. Sometimes I get to do oil changes, which is a lot more exciting than running a cash register.”
    “You like cars?”
    “ Love them. But not as much as guitars and bikes.”
    I tell Jesse about how when I was little, I’d hang out with Dad and Sam while they were tinkering around under the hood. Even before he quit his job driving a semi and started working at Caldwell’s so he could spend more time with our family, Dad always loved fixing junk cars and bikes in his spare time and turning them for a profit. At first, I was interested in cars and bikes because it was a way to hang out with my dad when he wasn’t on the road, but over time, I really started loving them. In a way, engines, carburetors, and transmissions are like individual guitar strings: each plays