Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) Read Online Free PDF

up to a whale of a brick home surrounded by iron gates and lush green hedges in Brentwood, the Bel Air of Nashville. A sedan idles by the curb. I peer through my window at the unshaven man hunkered down in the front seat. Another guy leans against the passenger side door and snaps pictures of us.
    “Paparazzi?”
    “Always,” Dr. Salter says as he steers the car to a security booth.
    A beefy guard—he must weigh three hundred pounds—pokes his head out and tips his hat. “Dr. Salter,” his deep voice rumbles. “He expecting you?”
    “Yes.” Dr. Salter sighs, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I guess he didn’t tell you we were coming?”
    The guard shrugs. “You know Jesse. Let me call and get clearance.” He shuts the sliding-glass window and picks up a phone.
    “Clearance?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word used that way.
    “Jesse’s not—” Dr. Salter starts. “He doesn’t have visitors often.”
    “Oh.” I wipe sweaty palms on my dress. The corset top is black leather and red lace, the short skirt poufy black tulle. It looks awesome with my ankle booties. I wore my favorite outfit, because spending time with Jesse will probably be uncomfortable. Might as well feel good in my own skin.
    Ten seconds later, the steel gates slide open. A paparazzi guy rushes to follow us in on foot, but the guard steps out to stop him from entering the property.
    We park the car in the semicircular driveway, and I climb out, staring up at the ivy-laced brick façade. The brick is just like my house, but his is about ten times larger. We only moved out of a trailer two years ago, after my parents finally saved up for a down payment on a small house. By comparison, this place looks like Buckingham Palace.
    I unfold today’s schedule—I’ve read it so many times the paper is soft as a piece of cloth—and scan it one last time:
    9:30 a.m. Arrival
    10:00 a.m. Tour of Grand Ole Opry
    11:00 a.m. Tour of Studio B
    12:00 p.m. Lunch with Jesse and Mark Logan
    1:30 p.m. Tour of Ryman Auditorium
    2:30 p.m. Tour of Country Music Hall of Fame
    3:30 p.m. Depart
    “Come on,” Dr. Salter says, clapping a hand on my shoulder and steering me toward the door. “Jesse won’t bite.” My principal pushes the doorbell.
    Seconds later, Jesse Scott opens the door wearing nothing but a pair of sky blue boxers.
    Holy mother!
    “Jesse,” Dr. Salter scolds him. “Put some pants on for God’s sake.”
    Jesse stifles a yawn. “Hi, Uncle Bob.” He turns and goes back into the house, leaving the front door wide open. A woman with a tight bun, plain black dress, and fingers clamped over her mouth is left standing in the wake of Jesse’s greet and run.
    “I’m sorry, Dr. Salter,” the woman rushes to say. “I tried to get here first.”
    My principal pats the lady’s elbow. “It’s okay, Grace.” He gives me a reassuring smile as we enter the sunlit foyer filled with leafy green plants. “Don’t mind him. Jesse’s not a morning person.”
    “Based on how he treated me last week, he’s not an evening guy either,” I mutter.
    The woman, Grace, disappears down a hallway, and Dr. Salter and I follow Jesse and his Celtic tattoo into the living room, where he flops down in a cushy brown armchair made of cowhide. I set my purse on the floor and take a seat on a leather sofa across from him. This room could be featured in the Pottery Barn catalog that Mom gets in the mail. I want to slip my boots off and dig my toes into the plush beige rug. Guitars of all makes and colors—including a double-neck Fender Stratocaster!—hang on the walls. Over by a huge picture window sits a gorgeous, walnut-colored Steinway grand piano covered by sheet music.
    His Grammys are on the mantel, but I don’t see any pictures of family or friends like at my house. Instead there are tasteful black-and-white portraits of the countryside: horses, cows, trucks, and tractors.
    The only evidence that a person actually lives here is a