Page 1 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

“Oh… now I get it,” I murmur to myself, half-lost in my thoughts.

“What was that?” asks a sharp-looking woman in a trench coat and thick coke-bottle glasses, cutting a glance at me as she passes.

I blink and smile politely. “Sorry—just talking to myself.”

She gives me a tight, uneasy smile, shakes her head like yep, this one’s nuts, and keeps walking.

I guess I probably do look a little crazy right now, standing in the middle of the town square of the small town of Whitewood Creek, North Carolina, staring up at a monument of a bald eagle that apparently helped “ found ” this city.

I have no idea how in the hell an animal can establish a whole city but I guess good ole’ Conrad Hemsworth had been sitting by the creek that flows through the town, writing one of his boring-ass memoirs when an eagle landed on a whitewood tree in front of him and then spoke to him telling him to ‘go forth and make this a town.’

At least, that’s the version I pieced together from what my twelve-year-old nephew told me about the history of this place where he calls home.

Right now, the eagle that usually holds a banner proudly announcing the town’s name has been temporarily replaced with a pumpkin-shaped sign that reads: Welcome to Whitewood Creek, and Welcome Autumn!

It’s cute, really. When my big sister first moved here after marrying Lucas—her long-time high school sweetheart—and got pregnant with my nephew, I thought she’d lost her mind.

Because who would trade the comforts of life in the bustling metropolitan of Charlotte for this?

Charlotte, with its blend of big-city energy and small-town charm. Charlotte, with its endless string of boutique coffee shops, buzzing entertainment, and a revolving door of eligible bachelors passing through.

Back then, she was in school, just starting her studies to become an optometrist. Leaving her big-city college to move here, commuting hours to the closest university while pregnant? It sounded insane.

But she did it. And somehow, between finishing her post-graduate program, juggling mom life, becoming a full-fledged doctor, and dealing with several deployments for her husband, she's made it work.

Now, over ten years later, after a quick two-hour drive out here to what I’ve officially deemed the middle of nowhere— the pure country part of North Carolina—where you only see local shops, dead animals along the road, and can't find a Cracker Barrel for miles, I think I get it.

Whitewood Creek looks like something plucked straight out of a Hallmark movie.

The fall decorations that have been sprinkled around town only add to its charm: pumpkins perched on nearly every doorstep, cutout turkeys taped to windows in the shape of little hands, and even a smattering of Halloween decorations have started to make their appearance.

It’s idyllic in the kind of way that makes you stop and take it all in.

I’m not saying I love the place, nor do I even like it so far, but I can see why my sister does.

If you’re looking to settle down, raise a family, and feel like you’ve been wrapped up in a warm hug while doing it, Whitewood Creek checks all the boxes.

And if the Hallmark Channel ever decides to film in a real small town, this one would be a good candidate.

The creek that wraps around its perimeter—although, according to my sister, it’s more like a river most of the year, is a key factor in its appeal.

Fishing, boating and the peaceful sounds of rushing water all add to the atmosphere.

The whole place has this down-home, postcard feel where everyone waves at you, holds doors open, and casually asks about your personal life like you’ve been friends forever.

And sure, the population has grown enough that it doesn’t quite qualify as a “ true ” small town anymore, but the locals will die on that hill. I learned that the hard way during my first week living here.

Don’t call it a city.

Definitely don’t call it a county.

Whitewood Creek is, and always will be, a small town to its’ core.

I turn on my heel, entering the cute mom and pop coffee shop that I’ve been targeting for my visit today and smile widely at the friendly workers who are bustling about making brews and croissants in their adorable outfits.

The smile feels a little strange on my face, coming from the fact that I don’t have much to smile about right now.

No job.

Parents are estranged from me (that’s a long story that I'll explain another time).

No boyfriend.

No home to call my own.

Lately, I sound like a sad, country music ballad. Just need to add in that my dog died (it didn’t, don’t worry, I don’t have a dog), and that I’m shooting shots of whiskey (I’d like to be doing that though it's too early in the morning and my sister wouldn’t approve.)

But I smile anyway, trying to start off on the right foot with these townies and focus on things that might actually make me happy like coffee and food.

Plus, it’s autumn, and while everyone raves about how spring is the season for new beginnings—the flowers blooming, the fresh air, the cool rain, a kiss of summer, blah, blah, blah—I’ll fight anyone who tries to tell me fall isn’t the superior season.

The crisp scent of the air, the leaves scattered all over the ground in fiery shades, no mosquitos or swarms of bugs (except spiders, which I grudgingly tolerate because of the Halloween vibes that they bring to every situation).

And none of that oppressive heat or soul-sucking humidity that North Carolina is known for in the summertime.

Honestly, fall feels more like my New Year than spring or winter ever have.

Screw January and the frozen wasteland that can literally make your nipples feel like they’re going to snap off.

Autumn is where it’s at. It’s a season of change, of letting go and starting over.

And I’ve decided it’s the perfect time to make some new resolutions.

In fact, I made one just this morning: To be more optimistic about this temporary move and to give this small town a real chance.

Give it the old rodeo try or whatever they say in these parts.

Oh, look. The baristas are wearing uniforms with little black cats for Halloween. Cute.

“Hi there! Good morning!” they call out cheerfully.

“Howdy,” I respond automatically, because, of course, that’s what comes out of my mouth in a place where there isn’t a ranch for miles, and I'm dressed like I just stepped out of a high-end yoga wear catalog.

I'm blending in nicely.

Thankfully, my awkward greeting doesn’t faze the girl behind the counter. She just grins. “What can I get started for ya today, darling?”

“What’s on your seasonal menu?” I ask, channeling my inner spontaneous, small-town local who’s eager to accommodate.

It feels like the right move—like something a regular here would do. Someone who sees the changing seasons as a cue to order whatever the winds of fall inspire. Whatever the leaves of autumn bring. Whatever the pumpkins of paradise... pummel.

Or something like that.

She beams at me, all too happy to oblige.

Good call, Rae.

You’re killing this encounter.

“I’ve got just the pumpkin-spiced concoction for you,” the barista says then gets to work dumping things into various cups and shaking them up like she’s a bartender.

I settle onto one of the tall stools, propping my chin in my hand as I watch her work her magic. The question isn’t whether this drink will give me enough energy to wrestle my two nephews for the rest of the morning—it’s whether it’ll revive me or push me straight toward an early grave.

Either way, I’m chalking this up as a win. I’m earning brownie points with the town’s beloved barista, who somehow manages to wave at every single person who walks in behind me without missing a beat and I'm getting out of the house. Doing something new. Spreading my wings.

The patrons who are waiting behind me are patient despite the fact that my overly complicated autumn masterpiece is single handedly holding up the line.

Honestly, I’d be fuming if I were one of these people who came in hoping for a quick caffeine fix on the way to work, only to find this drink magician performing a full-on show for a single cup of what I hope is going to be seasonal goodness.

But hey, if I’m the star of this little production, I’m not complaining. As long as it isn't me who's waiting.

When she finishes her aggressive shaking that reminds me of one of those shake weight commercial videos from back in the day – highly suggestive, but effective for muscle building I’ve been told – she pours it into a paper cup with a bright orange lid and pushes it towards me wearing a big smile.

“Here ya go darling.”

“Thank you.”

She waits, smiling, making zero moves to take the next guests order and I realize, oh... she wants me to taste it first to be sure I like it.

"We’ve got a policy here at Whitewood Creek Coffee and Eats ,” the barista says with a bright smile and a wink. “If you don’t like the drink, we’ll whip you up something new—on the house. But for the record, no one’s ever not liked my drinks.”

Oh, great. No pressure at all. Just me, standing here in the middle of this quaint mom-and-pop shop, about to take a sip with half the town as my audience.

Because if I don’t like it, I’m not just the newbie who ordered the most complicated drink on the menu and talk like I stepped out of a western movie—I’m also the first person in the freaking history of Whitewood Creek to hate one of her creations.

And then, as the cherry on top, I’d hold up the whole line while she remakes it, making everyone behind me late for work because the new girl in town needed her coffee perfect. Great way to make a first impression in a new town. I’d be the asshole . The coffee shop pariah.

Lovely.