Page 14 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

Once I’ve pulled myself together and grabbed my tablet, I tap the screen and pull up the email Leanne, one of the planning committee leads, sent over late last night.

It’s a spreadsheet of last year’s food and beverage vendors—names, contact info, what they brought to the fair.

Organized, thorough, exactly what I’d expect from her.

Still, just looking at it makes my head spin a little.

“So,” I begin, scrolling through the document, “it looks like there were twenty food vendors last year. About half served classic carnival stuff—burgers, hot dogs, fries—that we can reuse for the Americana theme. The other half were more specialized and open to custom menus, which we could adapt for the Halloween, spooky side of things.”

Cash nods, his lips twitching into a small, approving smile. “That’s a good start. Have you already checked out reviews for the vendors, made sure they’re still open for business and interested in coming back this year?”

I falter, biting the inside of my cheek. “Uh… no. Not yet. I didn’t think to do that when I saw the email last night.”

His grin widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I wasn’t asking that to call you out. I haven’t done it either. I’m just trying to figure out how much work we’ve got ahead of us before Wednesday, darling.”

“Oh.” Because of course I immediately jumped to feeling like a failure or defensive. That’s my default most days.

“Forward that email to Darren.”

“Darren?” I raise an eyebrow, unsure who he’s talking about.

He pauses his stirring and leans the oar against the edge of the tank. Then, with a quick motion, he grabs the hem of his shirt and tugs it over his head, tossing it onto the floor like it’s no big deal.

But, holy hell, it is a big deal.

Tan skin stretches over a chest that looks carved out of granite, a dusting of dark hair leading down to abs— so many abs and a very obvious and deeply carved V. He easily has an eight-pack. Or a ten-pack if that’s a thing.

And those pecs? Oh, those pecs are flexing like they know they have an audience.

“You checking me out, Myrtle?” he teases, flexing his chest like it’s a party trick. When my eyes snap up to his, he’s wearing a grin so playful it ought to be illegal.

“Myrtle?” I blink, dragging my gaze—reluctantly—back to his face.

Has it really been that long since I’ve seen a guy this good looking? Or any guy, shirtless? God, that’s bleak. And a little embarrassing.

“Moaning Myrtle. You know, from—”

I roll my eyes. “From Harry Potter . Got it. And no, I didn’t moan.”

“Your lips parted, and you moaned. Heard it from all the way over here.”

“I did not moan, and my lips parted only because I had to take a breath. I have to breathe, don’t I? It’s hot in here and the air is thick."

"The air isn't thick. What I'm stirring is thick. And you could have breathed through your nose instead.”

“I’m a mouth breather. You don’t have to be rude,” I shoot back.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “There was definitely a moan."

"A sigh at most."

"A wistful sigh."

I roll my eyes again. "You’re insane. Anyway, where else am I supposed to look when you’re suddenly half-naked and I’m trying to have a professional conversation about work? There isn’t much to look at in here.”

He chuckles, grabbing the oar again. “Mhm.”

And just like that, he’s back at it, stirring the tank with slow, steady motions that send his muscles rippling under the sheen of sweat now coating his skin.

It’s unfair, really. There’s no escaping the view because we’re in such close quarters.

Every shift of his body is distracting as hell—the way the sweat beads along his chest, catching in the hair there, or the way it drips down to that - Okay, stop. I need to focus.

But I can’t. Now that his back is completely bare, I’m treated to an even better view. One that shows off strong traps, a tapered waist and glutes that look carved by the gods themselves.

I clear my throat, forcing my attention back to the tablet and what we were discussing.

“Okay, so… who’s Darren?”

“Darren Breaker,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Works at the post office. Guy loves organizing this kinda stuff and he's a part of the planning committee though I think he had to work tonight. We’ve gotta delegate tasks where we can. He can make calls to the vendors to confirm their availability and interest in having a booth during his breaks.”

Nodding, I type up a quick email to Darren, attach the vendor list and ask him to vet them for availability and positive reviews. The whole thing takes only about a minute to finish and when I’m done, I glance up again—and immediately regret it.

Cash is soaked now—sweat clinging to him like he walked straight through a downpour.

If it was just a trickle before, now it’s full-on shower status.

His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, one stubborn curl hanging low in a way that’s unfairly adorable.

He looks like a drenched golden retriever—smiling, good-natured, beloved by everyone in town.

Too handsome for me to ever say that part out loud, though.

“Okay,” I say, my voice softer now, “That’s finished.” Guilt creeps in because while I’m here sitting around, openly ogling every perfect inch of his body, he’s clearly doing all the heavy lifting—literally.

“God, it’s hot in here,” he mutters, working the paddle harder as beads of sweat drip down his temples.

He bites the corner of his lip in concentration, and my throat feels dry just watching him take that lip like it did something to him.

The heat is oppressive, and my own shirt clings to me like a second skin, making me want to rip it off and go shirtless with him.

“If you weren’t here,” he adds, his voice a low rumble, “I’d be naked right now.”

“What?” The question bursts out of me before I can stop it, my eyes practically doubling in size as I try to wrestle my thoughts into submission.

He grins, all mischief and charm. “It’d probably be unsanitary for me to do it, but in this heat? I’d take the risk. I sweat like a dog.”

There’s a snarky retort on the tip of my tongue, but instead, my brain conjures an image—his perfectly toned body, those strong thighs that probably rival a sprinters’, and… nope. Abort mission. This man is supposed to be my rival, not the star of my inappropriate daydreams.

I clear my throat, determined to keep things professional. “So… what else do we need to discuss for food and beverage?”

“That’s it,” he says on a grunt as he swipes the oar harder.

My mouth drops open in shock. “You dragged me all the way out here just to tell me to forward an email to Darren? I could have done that at home.”

He glances at me, clearly amused. “Guess so. But hey, wasn’t this an educational opportunity? You got to learn about a mash tun and see the Whitewood Creek Distillery with your own eyes.”

I glare at him, realizing I’ve been played. “We're not in middle school on a field trip. I didn't need this educational opportunity. Also, why was Colt so surprised to see me here tonight?”

He shrugs, his paddle moving in steady, rhythmic motions. “I don’t usually mix pleasure with work.”

“Pleasure,” I repeat, letting the word roll off my tongue. “What exactly is pleasurable about this?”

He doesn’t miss a beat, flashing me that disarming grin. “Your company.”

I snort, trying to shake off the sudden warmth that’s creeping up my neck. “No one’s ever accused me of being pleasurable to be around.”

He glances at me, his expression softening. “I find that hard to believe.”

And dammit, that one little line sends a ripple through me—an unexpected warmth that hits my chest and keeps traveling, all the way down to my toes.

It’s subtle, but strong enough to leave me off balance.

Why does he care so much about me liking him?

He’s already got the whole town wrapped around his finger like it’s second nature.

He doesn’t need me to join the fan club.

But there’s something hanging between us now.

Unspoken, heavy, and electric. And it’s messing with my head more than I’d like to admit.

Because the truth is, I’m painfully single, emotionally starved, and way too aware of the fact that he looks entirely too good for someone who’s using a massive, wooden oar to stir God knows what in this heat.

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to keep staring and wondering what the hell this is turning into. I need to change the subject. Fast. Before I say—or do—something I can’t take back.

“What about the egg farm?” I ask, clinging at something that will tamp down his comments because I’ve always struggled to take a compliment and somewhere within that statement, I feel like one was hidden. “Do you ever bring anyone there to see the chickens?”

He pauses his stirring and raises an eyebrow. “Anyone?”

“I mean… friends. Women. You know, for pleasure .”

I'm joking but also... kind of serious? Because it seems like Cash really loves his hens, and now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t know if he has a girlfriend, or if he’s dating anyone. Fuck, why do I even care? It’s not like I want that to be me.

His dark gaze locks on mine as he pauses before responding. “Never.”

The single word hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate. My breath catches as his expression turns serious.

“I’d never take a woman to the barn,” he says quietly. “It’s sacred. I don’t introduce the chicks to just anyone.”

“Oh.”

It’s all I manage, because really—what the hell am I supposed to say to that?

The chickens aren’t going to care who he brings to visit them, and meanwhile I’m still trying to figurehimout.

Cash Marshall. This golden boy with a fun-loving reputation, a smile that makes people soften, and just enough mystery to make you lean in without realizing it.

He’s sunshine wrapped in a well-worn flannel, a total flirt who somehow manages to feel solid like I can count on him.

Those pieces shouldn’t make sense together—not in one person. But they do. And it’s maddeningly, distractingly attractive.

He gives the bubbling batch one last stir, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he leans in to look in the cylinder again, then sets the wooden paddle aside.

The scent of charred oak and sweet mash lingers in the air as he steps off the ladder, moving with ease.

He rinses the oar beneath a steady stream of water, hands sure and unhurried, before hanging it overhead on a wall hook.

And all I can do is stand there, heart racing, wondering if the distillery’s heat is really to blame for the flush in my cheeks and sweat on my palms.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, turning to me as he wipes his hands on a dirty rag.

“Uh, well…” I hesitate, already feeling the heat creeping up my neck—not from the distillery this time, but from the quiet, loaded way he’s looking at me.

Because spending more time alone with Cash feels like both the worst and best idea I could have right now.

Between the actual heat in this place and the low simmer of tension between us, I’m a flustered mess.

“No, but I think I’ll just grab something at home. Got an early morning.”

If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it.

That easy, unreadable smile stays firmly in place.

But something in his eye’s flickers—like maybe he knew all along I was going to say no.

Like maybe he asked more for my sake than his.

A test I failed. Or maybe passed, depending on what answer he was hoping for.

And I can’t help but wonder if that was the point.

Probably to see if I was just as much of a chicken as the animals that he loves.

“Yeah,” he rasps, “gotta get your nephews up for school and all.” Then he leans down slightly, his hand finding that same spot on my lower back, and guides me toward the door of the distillery. The touch sends a shiver through me, far too natural, far too intimate for our current relationship.

When we reach my car, I let him open the door this time. It’s clear he wants to, and honestly, I don’t have the energy to fight it. He winks as I settle into the driver’s seat.

“Had a feeling you’d turn me down. I’ll see you Wednesday—entertainment’s up next.”

And then he shuts the door with a confident slam and strides back into the distillery, still shirtless, still sweaty, leaving me an embarrassing, horny and overheated mess.