Page 13 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

Ten minutes later I’m turning off the main road that snakes through Whitewood Creek, my tires crunching over a dirt path hidden beneath a blanket of fallen leaves.

Reds, oranges, and yellows scatter across the ground making it hard to tell where the road ends and the woods that surround the property begin.

The tall pines lining the path tower overhead, their branches swaying gently in the breeze adding to the spooky, autumn vibe of the night.

As the trees part, Whitewood Creek Distillery comes into view, and it’s nothing like I imagined—it’s more. So much more.

The building stands massive and impressive, a seamless blend of rustic charm and industrial grit.

Honey-colored wood panels line the exterior, their warmth softened by dark steel beams that separate each groove.

Above the entrance, a wide, carved sign declares the name of the business in bold, elegant script, the letters polished to perfection.

Surrounding the distillery are sprawling fields that bump up to the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.

The mountains rise like painted giants against the moonlight, their peaks softened by mist curling lazily around their crowns and dancing with mystery.

With the moon high in the sky, and the chill in the air, it’s one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen even at nighttime.

It’s the kind of scenery that makes you want to grab a paintbrush and bring it to life. And while I’ve never been much of an artist, there’s something about this place—this moment—that makes me wish I had the skill to capture it. Bob Ross would lose his mind over this view.

The wraparound porch hugs the building like a warm embrace, dotted with wooden rocking chairs and barrels branded with the family’s distillery logo, repurposed as tables.

Even though it’s probably all in my head, I swear I can smell the distinct aroma of oak, fermenting grains, and the smoky sweetness of aging whiskey lingering in the crisp air.

Cash’s truck pulls up beside me and he quickly hops out, making a beeline for my door, but I’m already halfway out by the time he gets there. He stops short, frowning a little, like he’s disappointed he didn’t get to play gentleman.

I flash him a small smile that I hope conveys I’m a big girl; I can take care of myself.

“Right this way,” he says with a dramatic flourish, gesturing toward the entrance. “Prepare to be wowed.”

We walk side by side up the porch steps and onto the deck, his boots thudding against the worn planks while my sandals make softer, lighter taps.

As we step inside, the warmth wraps around me like a blanket—thick with the scent of oak, spice, and faint sweetness, the kind that clings to the back of your throat so strong that you can taste it.

The distillery is sleek and industrial, with polished stainless steel tanks rising like monuments under the amber glow of overhead pendant lights.

Copper piping snakes along the walls and ceiling, warm and luminous, casting a soft sheen across the concrete floors.

The low hum of machinery vibrates faintly through the soles of my feet, a steady rhythm that blends with the occasional hiss of steam or clink of metal—signs of work still in motion.

Through a set of tall glass windows, the main distilling floor comes into full view, a meticulous spread of equipment laid out like a well-rehearsed orchestra.

Beyond that, a tasting bar lines one wall, rustic but clean, with reclaimed wood shelves stocked with neatly labeled bottles, their amber liquid catching the light.

To the right, a small office sits tucked behind frosted glass, its door slightly ajar, papers and sample jars scattered across the desk inside and the faint sound of radio playing.

Everything feels clean yet lived in, like a space built not just for business, but for pride, history, and long hours that stretch into night.

“Hey,” a deep voice calls, drawing my attention.

A man emerges from the office door, striding toward us with easy confidence.

This guy's about as tall as Cash but built like a freight train, his broad shoulders and thick arms stretching the fabric of his white tank top, testing its strength. Tattoos curl up his muscular biceps, dark ink twisting and turning in intricate designs with words that I can’t make out.

His head is shaved close to the scalp, giving him a no-nonsense and low maintenance vibe.

Despite the differences in the two men standing in front of me, I catch enough similarities in their features to assume that this must be one of Cash's many brothers.

“Colt Marshall,” he says, extending a hand toward me. His grip is cautious, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

“Rae Black. It’s nice to meet you,” I reply, sliding my hand into his and feeling the calluses on his palm—hard-earned marks of a man who knows work.

He nods, barely acknowledging me with even a sliver of a smile—which, honestly, I appreciate. Colt must be the grump to Cash’s perpetual sunshine because this guy looks like he’d prefer to be anywhere but with us right now. He narrows his eyes at his brother and jerks his chin in my direction.

“Rae Black,” he rubs his strong jawline pensively. “Isn’t this the opposition?”

Cash snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Opposites attract, trope. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m the competition, but Cash practically dragged me here tonight to see the place.”

Colt’s brows shoot up, his expression flashing with surprise before it settles back into neutral. Meanwhile Cash is grinning like he knows something I don’t.

“Is that so?” Colt murmurs, and I immediately wonder why that’s such a shock.

“We’re going to work,” I say holding up my tablet as if that excuses why I’m here.

He hums thoughtfully then nods. “Alright, well, the mash tun is broken. So, guess what you’re doing tonight big brother?”

Cash groans, his head tipping back. “Motherf— you didn’t mention that in your text saying you needed some emergency help.”

Colt lets out a booming laugh, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Didn’t think I had to.”

“And what the hell are you about to go do?” Cash shoots back.

“Make love to my wife,” Colt says matter-of-factly, shrugging like he just announced he’s heading out to grab a coffee. “You ain’t got one of those, so no pass for you.”

Cash mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

“I’m so sick of y’all using Regan and me as your fall people just ‘because we’re not booed up.

I could go find a wife if it means not having to work tonight.

” His words are teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of affection in them that makes it clear he doesn’t mind picking up the slack so his brother can go have sex.

Colt shrugs again, already walking toward the door. “We’re on a strict timeline. She texted me that she’s ovulating so I gotta get over there quick.” His boots clunk heavily on the floor as he exits.

Cash shouts after him, “That’s the last thing I ever wanted to know about Molly!”

Colt chuckles loudly as the heavy front door swings shut behind him with a thud. I blink, totally confused.

“Um… what just happened?”

Cash’s grinning ear to ear, clearly unfazed. “You just met my little brother Colt and found out he and his fiancé are trying to get pregnant.”

I snort, shaking my head. “That’s an image I’d really like to erase before I see him again.”

Cash leans in closer as his hand presses lightly against the small of my back, sending a searing warmth through me.

“You better not be thinking about my brother having sex,” he growls playfully, guiding me toward a glass door at the side of the room.

His hand stays there—firm, steady, and far too comfortable—until we’re through the door and standing in the back room.

When he drops it, I instantly feel colder despite how hot this place is.

“So,” he says, his voice echoing faintly off the walls, “the employees are all gone for the night.” He gestures toward two massive metal cylinders, their rhythmic hum filling the space and vibrating through the floor.

“And this,” he points to one of the tanks, “is the mash tun. It’s supposed to have an automated paddle system to keep the grains separated, but it’s busted.

So now I get to do it manually, at least until this batch is finished. ”

“Damn,” I say, eyeing the giant machine that sounds a lot like a vacuum right now. “That sounds exhausting.”

He grins, like he doesn’t mind the hard work one bit.

“It is. But it’s alright. Gotta keep things moving.

” And if that isn’t the definition of Cash Marshall, I don’t know what is.

Spends his whole day wrangling chickens, his evening with me and a bunch of town locals at the fairgrounds planning logistics, decorations and themes, and then—just for good measure—drops everything to help his brother at the distillery, doing something that looks physically exhausting though I’m not sure I understand it yet.

And he never complains. Not really. When he does, it’s laced with teasing, like he’s in on some inside joke with the universe the rest of us missed because everything in his life brings him joy.

It’s confusing. Strange. Honestly? I don’t know what to make of it.

I’ve dated my fair share, and if there’s one common thread, it’s that most of those guys loved to complain. My work schedule, the weather, the bartender being too slow to pour their beer—it didn’t take much to get a complaint. And I think I became numb to it because maybe I’m guilty of it too.

Life’s messy. Imperfect. There’s always something cracked or off or not quite what it should be.

And maybe I’ve trained myself to look for those imperfections, to expect them, which is why when I see them, there’s a sort of validation in it.

But Cash walks through the world like he either doesn’t notice the cracks or doesn’t think they matter.

And if he does see them, he sure as hell doesn’t feel the need to point them out.

As he walks over to the wall and grabs what looks like a giant wooden oar, I remember something he said earlier that I wanted to ask him about.

“What did you mean about you and Regan always picking up the slack for your family?”

He steps up onto a ladder that’s attached to the side of one of the cylinders and then lifts the top off with a practiced ease.

The wave of heat that escapes is intense, filling the room with steam that clings to his skin and glistens against his corded forearms as he leans over the tank to look inside.

“Regan’s Colt’s twin,” he says, his voice muffled slightly by the rising steam. “Between her and me, it feels like we’re always bouncing around, doing whatever needs to be done for the family businesses. The brewery, the distillery—hell, sometimes she even comes out to help me with the egg farm.”

I watch as he dips the paddle that he retrieved into the bubbling tank, muscles straining slightly as he stirs the mixture with slow, deliberate movements.

Despite the heat, the sweat and the sheer labor of it all, there’s something almost calming about the way he works—steady and sure, like he’s exactly where he belongs and knows what he’s doing.

“I see…”

His strong arms flex as he lifts the oar and plunges it deeper inside, stirring firmly. With each movement, his arms flex and muscles strain against his shirt. It feels like my own brand of porno. Is there a label for this? A tag that I can search later tonight.

Man doing manual labor in a distillery with a giant wooden oar?

Did he bring me here to watch him do this? To show off? To distract me from the fact that we’re both vying for the same position. Because if so, damn does he know what he’s doing. I’m not thinking about politics, planning or presentations.

He looks up and catches my eye, most likely noticing me openly gaping at him. He grins and then wipes his forehead against his shoulder in that sexy way that only men know how to do.

“It’s going to be hot for a few minutes, are you comfortable?”

No, I’m fucking burning up and now I'm horny. Feels like I could rub my thighs together and orgasm I’m so flustered and sex deprived.

I shrug off his coat because at least that should help a little with the heat and constant smell of him that’s been surrounding me.

“Um… yeah, I’m fine.”

He nods. “Alright then let’s talk food vendors. You got the tablet? Because fuck, eating is the best part.”

I reach into my bag to pull out the tablet and almost drop it because I wonder if he really does like... eating.