Page 15 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

My eyes burn as I blink at the screen, caught in the endless scroll of yet another performer’s social media page.

Hour three. That’s how long I’ve been glued to this laptop, hunting for someone—anyone—who might actually wow our planning committee with my skills.

Someone who might convince Cash I’m serious about this.

About doing my part. About proving I deserve to be elected as the new Whitewood Creek mayor.

“Do you know anything about an artist named Macie Jenkins?” I call out to my sister Laken, who just got home from work and is changing in her bedroom with the door wide open.

“Yeah, I think she’s from a small town in Georgia,” she replies, her voice muffled as she pulls a shirt over her head. “I’ve only heard a couple of her songs on the radio, but they’re pretty good. She’s a new country music artist, right?”

“Mhm…” I hum, absentmindedly scrolling through a few more of her social media pages for clues and then clicking on one of her live videos that shows her singing in a pink cowgirl hat and staring into the camera.

I have no clue who Macie Jenkins is but she's cute, sings well, and looks like an up and coming star in the country music scene which is exactly what I need. Not too popular, but not so unknown that no one will turn out to listen to her. Right on the cusp of greatness.

My stomach growls on cue, a sharp reminder that I haven’t eaten yet today—or last night, for that matter. Somehow, it’s been almost twenty-four hours since I last saw Cash and I’ve been running on coffee and confusion while over-analyzing every single interaction we had.

After Cash’s little show-off session at his family’s distillery, I went home hungry but couldn’t bring myself to eat.

Instead, I laid in bed, tossing and turning, trying—and failing—to sleep because I knew I’d have an early morning with my nephews.

When I woke up, the oatmeal, cereal, and banana I set out for the boys looked completely unappetizing.

So, I busied myself with working out, scrubbing the three bathrooms in my sister’s home with a toothbrush and bleach, and then set to scroll the internet, searching for our state fair’s entertainment.

But mostly, I’ve spent this day being distracted and confused.

I don’t know what’s more confusing—how I ended up so wildly attracted to Cash Marshall, my so-called rival and public enemy number one, or how I’m supposed to survive the next few weeks without letting him completely derail me.

With his suggestive comments. That infuriatingly attractive body.

And, worst of all, that easygoing charm that makes him dangerously likable.

Then a terrible thought creeps in.

What if that’s the whole point? What if all of it—his charm, his smiles, the flirty little digs—are just a calculated move to get in my head? To throw me off my game, keep me distracted, keep me doubting myself. What if dazzling me with his good looks and niceties was always the plan?

Men like that make me sick. The ones who don’t actually earn the roles they’re given.

The ones who coast on charisma while the smart, highly qualified woman—the one who might come off a little grumpy and pessimistic, sure—gets overlooked.

Again. It’s maddening and downright wrong.

And for that reason, I won’t spend any more time thinking about him or his sweaty pecs tonight.

I sprawl out on the couch, stretching my limbs as far as they’ll go, and plop my tablet back onto my lap.

Tomorrow, I’ll be forced to face him again.

This time, it’s for entertainment planning for the fair.

The committee’s notes from last year include local bands, petting zoos, and a big-name country music headliner that drew a good crowd.

I’ve been multitasking all day knowing that this moment was coming and hoping someone would magically fall into my lap.

Unfortunately, every established artist I’ve investigated is already booked or the cost is outside of the fair’s budget. So now, I’m down to rising stars and up-and-comers. And that’s how I stumbled across Macie Jenkins, who might just be my best option.

Laken steps out of her room at the exact moment an autoplay ad hijacks my screen.

One of those irritating government initiative promos you can’t skip without suffering through at least sixty seconds of forced patriotism and dramatic background music.

But it’s not the ad that nearly makes me drop my tablet.

It’s the face that fills the screen. And just like that, my heart does something it absolutely should not be doing because it’s Cash’s face—or at least, it might as well be.

How the hell did I miss that our state governor is Cash’s older brother Troy Marshall?

Troy's deep and soothing voice flows through the computer speakers, strong and commanding as he talks about his new initiative to bring healthier meals into the school system and his support for diversity initiatives. He’s got this perfect mix of confidence and compassion, his words delivered with a calm authority that makes it impossible not to listen.

He’s firm in his stance but warm in his approach, breaking down the issue in a way that’s both educational and inspiring.

His jawline is sharp, his hazel eyes warm and the way he wears a suit is downright sinful.

I've worked with lots of politicians in my career, and I notice instantly that Troy is one of the most well-spoken who believes in what he’s saying. And yet, despite the fact that I know he is a married man with a wife and two kids—not to mention, absolutely not Cash—my body betrays me.

Heat blooms across my chest, and my nipples tighten against the thin fabric of my sleep shirt just because he looks and reminds me of Cash.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I mutter under my breath, turning the tablet off like that’ll somehow shut down the traitorous thoughts that are running through my head.

But I know the truth, it’s not really about Troy.

It was never about Troy. What I’m seeing—what I can’t unsee—is what Cash will look like in seven years when he’s Troy’s age.

Will he have a wife and two kids like him?

Speak with that kind of authority and sureness in his voice?

And that image? It’s enough to send my brain into overdrive and my pulse racing.

Dammit, he's only going to get hotter with age. How is that even fair? No dad bod for Cash.

“Uh... you okay, sis?” Laken asks, giving me a strange look.

“Oh yeah. Just fine,” I chirp in a voice that sounds anything but fine.

She raises a brow then a knowing smirk crosses her face. “Yeah, Troy Marshall has that effect on most women.”

I sigh. “Does he have to be so well spoken too?”

She laughs and grabs some earrings from the table and starts slipping them in while looking in the mirror.

“You know, his brother Cash is pretty much the identical version of him. Just a little younger.”

“I’m painfully aware,” I grumble.

She pauses and turns to face me, then leans a hip against the table casually while her sharp eyes assess me. “Oh snap. Please don’t tell me you have the hots for Cash Marshall?”

“No, of course not. That would be insane. I mean he’s my rival to become mayor of this forsaken town and frankly, way too high on life.”

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t call it forsaken and want the job it at the same time. I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules.”

“Whatever, you know what I mean. I don’t love it here.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not!” I snap.

She laughs. “Chill. It was a joke. I know you don’t like Whitewood Creek and you're biding your time until you can make your exit back to Charlotte.”

“Right, right...” I mumble, but my brain is still stuck on stupid Cash—his ridiculous washboard abs, that annoyingly sexy sweat that somehow smells warm and manly, and ugh. Why does going back to Charlotte sound so much less appealing now?

Snap out of it.

“What are you wearing?” I ask, finally noticing that my sister’s rocking a silk dress and knee-high boots like she’s about to hit some downtown hotspot which I know isn't possible since there is no downtown in Whitewood Creek.

Just the town square off main street that she lives around with its cute shops and character.

“The boys are at their friends’ house for a sleepover tonight,” she says, grabbing her lipstick off the countertop and painting a red swipe across the bottom before smacking them together loudly.

I glance out the window at the quiet street outside. “It’s a Tuesday.”

She grins. “I’m aware. But I haven’t had a night off during a weekday in months.”

“Okay...”

“So, we’re going out!” she shrieks so loud it causes me to jump.

“Uh, what?” I blink at her, then around the room for clarification. “Who’s we? And to where? Pretty sure there’s literally nowhere to go in this town unless you’re craving gas station nachos or a trip to the feed store.”

She smirks and grabs a throw pillow off the couch, chucking it straight at my head. “Just put on something warm and cute—it’s cooled off. We’re checking out that new brewery. And maybe you’ll see your boyfriend there.”

“Um—” But before I can defend myself or point out that Cash is most definitely not my boyfriend, and that she's acting like we're in middle school, she’s already heading toward the door, slinging her purse over her shoulder with zero room for debate.

“Get your ass moving. Now.”

I sigh, already trying to think up excuses.

I get it—she never gets a night out between work and the boys, and yeah, I’m not exactly lining up to take over babysitting duty during my off hours.

But after yesterday , stepping foot into that brewery feels like a massive mistake waiting to happen. Will Cash be there tonight?

“Are you sure you want me to come?” I try one last time.