Page 11 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

The North Carolina State Fairgrounds are nothing short of breathtaking.

Sprawling across three hundred forty-four acres of vibrant green turf, it’s nestled just on the edge of the city right up against the creek where the rolling foothills give way to the towering majesty of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I grew up in the largest city in North Carolina, Charlotte.

Went to college there. Worked there for all my adult life.

Family vacations were spent on the shorelines of the Outer Banks or up north in Virginia Beach, at Sandbridge.

Rarely did we wander this far west, into the heart of North Carolina’s mountainous terrain.

And the few times I’d visited Laken since she moved out here were quick—day trips or rushed weekends for holidays that never left me enough time to really soak it all in and absorb the beauty of this charming, small town.

Charming. Wow, I can’t believe I’m saying that already.

Because standing here, with the mountains stretching endlessly into the sky, it’s impossible not to be in awe.

Even my blackened, city-girl heart who loves easy access to premium coffee, specialized gyms, and the ability to walk to everything I need has to admit they’re spectacular.

The peaks rise sharply like they’re cutting through the clouds, and the trees are a tapestry of oranges, yellow and red.

And it’s so quiet. Not the kind of silence that buzzes with discomfort and makes me want to turn up the radio—but the kind that settles deep in your bones.

Peaceful. Still. I hadn’t realized how loud the city always was until it wasn’t.

Now I find myself having more time and space to think than I ever did before.

“They’re something, aren’t they?” Cash’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I turn, finding him leaning casually against the massive, all black truck that I didn't hear pull up behind me, wearing what appears to be his uniform now—light blue, well-worn, ripped jeans slung low on his hips and a dark navy T-shirt with yet another rip in it.

This one is conveniently located over the center of his chest. A hint of tattoo peeks through the tear, teasing enough to make me wonder what else is hidden under there.

Probably deliciously strong pecs and some perfectly trimmed chest hair. Unruly enough to make it look like he isn't trying but just long enough to add some friction.

Don't go there.

It’s October now, cool enough to confuse me in the mornings on how I should dress.

I’m in black jeans and a tank top, my body already shivering despite the sun.

I’ve had a busy morning—the kid’s school drop off, cleaning the house, hitting the gym early to stay in my new routine—but none of that is enough to keep me warm now that the sun's dropping behind the horizon and a cool breeze has kicked up. It’s the kind of chill that seeps past skin and into your bloodstream, the kind that makes you crave something warm—coffee, a hoodie, or maybe, ridiculously, the body heat of a man who looks like every small town, lumberjack dream.

Cash’s gaze drifts over me, taking in the slight shake in my arms. “You look cold,” he says, his voice casual but his brow furrowed. “Wait here. I’ve got a coat in my truck.”

I wave him off. “I'll be fine.”

He shakes his head, ignoring me as he heads to the truck anyways. A moment later, he returns with a green jacket. “Will you wear it?”

I eye the jacket for a second before nodding and slipping it on.

It smells like him—woodsy, like fresh-cut cedar mixed with something warm and spicy and practically swallows my frame.

For a guy who works with chickens all day, he sure never smells like it.

Would be a lot easy to not stare at him if he stunk like shit.

And honestly it isn’t fair that he’s nice, funny and pretty.

My fingers smooth down the fabric that drapes over my hips. “Thanks,” I mumble because why’s he being so nice to me?

He smirks. “Wasn’t sure you’d take it. It’s not black, after all.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t only wear the color black.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I like the color. It’s slimming. You wouldn't get it.”

His smirk fades as his gaze sweeps over me again, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, he steps back, shaking his head.

“Can’t imagine why you’d care about that.”

Heat creeps up my neck because I’m not sure what to do with that comment.

I’m not slim by any means, and I’m not ashamed of how I look, but sometimes I just want to hide the extra bit of fat that I have on my hips and stomach away from the rest of the world.

Especially from someone like Cash. The way he’s looking at me right now makes me feel seen and I don’t want to be seen by him. At least, I don’t think I do.

I wave him off, my voice sharp because he really wouldn't get it. It looks like he doesn’t even have to try to maintain his physique.

“Let’s just focus on business, okay?”

“Sure,” he says, though his grin suggests he’s far from done messing with me today. “You up for a walk? I can take you around the property and point out where different attractions are usually located.”

I nod, tugging my ponytail a little tighter. “That sounds good.”

What I don’t say isI’d follow you anywhere right now,because my brain has been reduced to mush at the smell of his coat, and my sandals were a bold choice for dirt and gravel.

He starts walking toward a wide unpaved path that curves past a row of empty white tents and trailers that haven’t been set up yet.

I fall into step beside him, careful not to trip over anything, including my own feet while doing everything possible not to focus on how strong his back muscles look from behind him.

“This row here’s where most of the food trucks line up,” he says, gesturing loosely. “Barbecue, funnel cake, deep-fried Oreos. That kind of thing. We’ll also have a tent for the Whitewood Creek Brewery and Restaurant.”

“Are there like… any healthy eating options? I ask, squinting at him.

Cash glances at me, amused. “You think people come to the state fair for healthy food?”

“No but why does that automatically mean everything has to be deep fried?”

He shrugs. “I don’t make the fair rules, Rae.” And then he keeps on walking while I struggle to catch up.

We pass a fenced-in dirt area he explains will be the livestock showcase. Then another where the carnival rides are being assembled in crooked pieces like a janky Lego set. There’s a low buzz of saws and the occasional clang of metal on metal, but most of the space is quiet.

As we move through the fairgrounds, I can picture it all: the scent of kettle corn in the air, kids running ahead of tired parents, music playing through the speakers that we’ll have set-up.

Cash fills in the details for most of the things I would never know and there’s something about the way he talks that makes me feel like I belong here, even though I very much don’t.

“Main stage will be over here,” he says, stopping near a wide flat stretch of grass backed by a chain-link fence. “I can’t remember who we had perform last year but it’ll need to be even better this year if we want to impress the town.”

“Sure.” No pressure or anything.

We loop back around toward the parking lot and by the time we reach the edge of the grounds, my legs are aching, and my lower back is threatening mutiny. The sun’s set lower now but I’m a hot, sweating mess in his coat and my feel are aching.

Cash glances down. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” I say, because I’d rather die than admit defeat in front of him. “I just didn’t plan on walking a mile and a half across rocky terrain.”

He laughs, slow and warm. “You’ll learn. Rule number one of the Marshall family businesses: always wear good shoes because you never know where you’ll need to walk.”

I shake my head with a smile. “So, what’s the plan? I feel a little out of my depth here since I’ve never planned a state fair, or any fair for that matter, before. Lydia said you were on the committee last year and know what they are expecting?”

Cash leans back, crossing his arms, his smile turning into something more serious. “Yeah. Don’t worry—I’ll show you the ropes for this first meeting. I’ve been on it for the past decade.”

Geez, I’m screwed. No pressure or anything. Maybe people want fresh ideas? Or maybe they’ll just laugh and give him all the work since he clear knows how this all works.

“All right,” Cash says, pulling me back to the present with his steady voice.

“We usually start by picking a theme for the week. We’re a little behind on that—and the advertising—since the mayor was supposed to start pushing it months ago.

But the good news? We don’t need much promotion.

Everyone in the state already knows when the fair is, and they show up no matter what. ”

“Okay…” I pause, narrowing my eyes. “What happened with the last mayor, anyway?”

Cash rubs his beard, staring out over the fairgrounds like he’s deep in thought.

“He got in trouble for hiding evidence during my younger brother’s trial.

Evidence that would’ve changed the verdict from guilty to not guilty; or at least lowered his sentence.

That, and he was caught gambling with one of our town’s more… infamous illegal gambling ringleaders.”

“Wow. That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah.” He glances at me, lips twitching in a grim smile. “Probably doesn’t help that the mother of my older brother’s Lawson’s son is the mayor’s daughter.”

“Whoa.”

He nods. “Small-town drama. But yeah. I don’t think the mayor ever got over the fact that Lawson and his daughter didn’t want to get married when she accidentally got pregnant. He’s been holding a grudge against our family ever since.”

“What a tangled web…” I mutter, my mind spinning. “So, one of your brother’s went to prison?”

“For almost five years,” Cash says, his voice quieter now. “Until he got out on parole a couple months early.”

“That’s…” I trail off because I’m not sure what to say to that.

“Yeah. It was tough on all of us, but we pulled together. Troy really stepped up for him, though.”

“Troy?” I tilt my head.

Cash raises a brow. “My oldest brother. Troy Marshall.”

The name tickles something in my brain, a faint bell ringing in the distance. And then it hits me. “Wait. Like, the governor of North Carolina?”

Cash grins as my eyes go wide. “That’s the one.”

“Shit. That’s why the name sounded familiar.”

He throws his head back and laughs, the deep sound carrying over the quiet, empty fairgrounds. “Hope you voted for him.”

“Actually,” I admit sheepishly, “I think I did.”

His smile softens into something warm, that effortless, down-home charm I can’t seem to shake that follows him everywhere. Right when I think he’s starting to get on my nerves or going to be a dick, he turns all cinnamon roll sweet on me. What is it about him? The guy’s always so damn… happy.

“How many Marshalls are there, exactly?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. The motion tugs his jacket tighter around me, the collar brushing against my neck—and just like that, I catch another hit of his cologne.

It’s strong, masculine, way too good. And ugh, why does it have to smell like that? It’s distracting.

“Five of us,” he says. “But Troy’s got two kids now, and Lawson has one. I figure it’s only a matter of time before Colt and Molly pop out a rugrat to join the rest of our gang.”

“What about you?” I ask before I can stop myself. He glances over; a brow raised.

“What about me?”

“Do you have any kids?” I cringe as soon as the words are out. “Sorry, that was super invasive. Ignore me.” To my surprise, he just laughs. “Nah, it’s fine. No kids to my knowledge. Not sure if I’m cut out for fatherhood.” The way he looks at me when he says it? Yeah, I need a distraction. Fast.

“I see…” I trail off, following him as he gestures toward a folding table that’s been set up in the middle of the fairgrounds. The rides and attractions are starting to be installed to line the perimeter of the property, but for now, the rest of the place is empty.

“So, city girl, you got any ideas for a theme?” Cash asks, plopping down into one of the chairs.

“I’m not great at this part. The creative idea for what to model the whole thing after, but people love a good theme that makes them feel they're seeing something special. Something for their social media pages, you know?”

I sit across from him, leaning my elbows on the table as I work through the ideas I’d been thinking over last night.

“I was thinking something like Autumn Americana —hot dogs, popcorn, patriotism vibes. Or Southern Spooktacular . Haunted houses, trick-or-treat booths, costumes, classic Halloween stuff. Maybe we even screen a spooky movie the first night?”

He rubs his beard again, nodding slowly. “I like it. The fair’s a few days long. Why don’t we split the themes? Friday can be all about Americana—pie-eating contests, bluegrass, military appreciation, the works. Then Saturday and Sunday can go full-on spooky vibes.”

I can’t help but smile as I pull out my phone. “That’s a great idea. Let’s iron this out because we need to meet with the rest of the committee later tonight.”