Page 18 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

It’s been a full hour of Cash leaning over my shoulder while we painstakingly go through last year’s fair entertainment lineup and my carefully curated suggestions for this year. All of it the result of my pre-drunk and post-drunk research binge last night.

To his credit, Cash looks genuinely impressed by the effort I put in—which, yes, was probably overkill considering he’s done this before, and I could have just asked him.

But that’s just how I operate. I research obsessively, cover every angle, and make damn sure I’m never the one playing catch-up.

Especially not when it’s my first time helping plan the fair.

It’s the same approach I used running the mayoral campaign in Charlotte. And honestly, it’s what it takes to manage something as massive as a state fair.

Even with this inconvenient, slow-burn attraction I have to Cash Marshall, I’m still convinced I’d make the better mayor.

Symbolic position or not, I have the skills and the experience.

He just has the charm, the quick wit, and the frustrating ability to win over every last person in this small Southern town with nothing more than a crooked smile.

What I wish had happened when I’d gotten here is that he’d just agreed to all my suggestions and moved on. But no. Of course not. Instead, he’s made me go over everything twice so he can “understand it in detail” and “look prepared if he gets asked questions by Mrs. Mayberry.”

Meanwhile, his warm breath keeps fanning over the back of my neck, his sweat-and-pheromone-laced scent is invading my personal space and clinging to my skin, and his low, throaty, ridiculously sexy voice is doing things to that I didn’t think were possible.

I swear he’s doing it on purpose.

Every time I lean back to create some distance, hoping he’ll get the hint and pull away, he leans in, grinning like he knows exactly how much he’s affecting me.

At one point, I swear he scooted his chair even closer to mine though I’m not sure how that’s possible considering our knees are already touching underneath the table.

And as if that’s not bad enough, today I'm ovulating. Of all the times. My traitorous body is practically in heat, betraying me with every interaction, every murmur of his voice. I can feel myself getting embarrassingly wet, my body priming itself for fertilization by one of Cash’s imaginary—yet somehow vividly detailed in my mind—“meaty, greedy” sperm.

Because that's what they have to look like, right?

Do I even want kids? No clue. I like my life the way it is.

Okay, not exactly the way it is. It'd be nice to not be unemployed and living in a town I don’t consider home, but none of that seems to matter right now.

My nipples are rock hard, my chest feels permanently flushed, and my brain can’t stop spiraling with each brush of his fingers.

Did I mention he’s wearing a backward baseball cap today? Or that same dirty, ripped, white T-shirt and light-washed jeans he always wears?

He dresses like he doesn’t give a damn, and yet here I am, reduced to a puddle because somehow, he manages to make sweat look—and smell—good.

If working all day with chickens was supposed to deter me, it doesn't. And yes, I know I'm being completely over the top obsessive right now, but this is how I get when my body temperature increases by a single degree, and an egg is scooting out of my fallopian tube doing a happy line dance to some old Shania Twain singing Man! I feel like a woman.

“Okay, so that’s it then,” I say, turning off the tablet and quickly wiping my sweaty palms down the front of my joggers.

He nods. “Looks real good, Rae.” And finally— finally —he leans back and gives me some breathing room.

I should feel relieved, but somehow the air between us feels hotter and heavier than before. This tent is massive—big enough for the petting zoo animals that we’ll house here in just a few short days—yet Cash insists on sitting as close as possible. I don't get what his angle is here.

“So, we’ve got the animals, rides, local bands, a comedy show, a dunking booth, and go-kart races,” he says, his voice still in that lazy drawl.

“We’ll need the committee to handle the permits, hire the inspectors, secure the animals, and make sure the vendors for the rides are locked in. That just leaves one thing.”

I glance up at him, trying to focus and not get lost in those warm hazel eyes or the smile that he wears so easily.

“What’s that?”

“The headliner,” he says, leaning back in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world, while my brain screams at me to keep my composure.

“I’m telling you, Macie is good. I know you didn’t get to hear her last night, but she’s at that perfect tipping point—small enough to be affordable but just on the edge of breaking out.

I think we can secure her. I just need a little more backing to get a response from her manager.

Maybe your brother, Troy, could reach out to her talent management team? ”

Cash rubs his jaw thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly like he’s already running through a plan. “I believe you that she’s good. Let me see what I can do.”

“Awesome,” I murmur, my voice a little too soft, a little too breathy.

I glance toward the open tent flap, the early evening light streaming through in long, golden stripes across the grass.

The air outside looks cooler now. I pull in a breath, trying to ground myself with the crisp, autumn air and try to reorient myself.

We’ve been in here for hours, and somehow it feels like five minutes and forever at the same time.

“You did good, little Darko.”

I groan, snapping my attention back to him. “Seriously?”

He just winks as he stands, and then helps me pull my chair out to follow him. Before I can dwell on that gesture for too long, he’s opening his mouth to say something else, but someone interrupts us as they enter through the open tent loudly.

“Good evening, you two!” Mrs. Mayberry from the planning committee and the town's notorious gossip, strides in, followed by a few other committee members lugging folding chairs and mugs full of hot cocoa.

Whatever moment we were about to share is over before it began and it’s probably for the best.

“I’ll hold that thought,” he says with a crooked grin.

Right. That thought. I wonder what it could be.

“We’re here, kids!” Mrs. Mayberry calls out with a bright smile, like she hasn’t just walked in on the exact moment that my mental stability took a nosedive.

But somehow, that easy cheer in her voice snaps me out of it.

Grounds me. Reminds me I’ve got a job to do—and that now is not the time to unravel over Cash and his maddening effect on my nervous system.

I straighten my stance, forcing my focus back where it belongs. I’ve got something to prove—that I’m the one person in this town immune to Cash’s charm, no matter how objectively attractive and capable he is.

The next hour blurs by in a haze of charts, notes, and steady back-and-forth as Cash and me, to my own surprise, actually make a solid team.

We present our plans for the fair’s entertainment lineup with barely a hiccup between us or a disagreement from our group.

And when we finish, there’s a beat of silence before the room breaks into easy approval—nodding heads, a few impressed smiles, even a clap or two.

Relief and pride sweep over me as I smile. Maybe I can do this after all. Maybe I belong here more than anyone thinks.

“So, you think you’ll be able to get Macie?” Mrs. Mayberry asks, looking at Cash expectantly.

He nods, flashing a quick smile my way. “Yeah. I’m going to talk to Troy.”

“Oh…” someone coos, drawing out the sound like they just heard someone mention a celebrity’s name.

And frankly, I get it. Just mentioning Troy Marshall—the oldest and most swoon-worthy of the Marshall brothers—has that effect on people though Cash is starting to take a rapid second place in this town.

“Will he be back?” a younger woman pipes up, her eyes wide with too much hope.

Okay, calm down, home wrecker. He’s married with two kids.

But weren't you lusting over him last night?

Yes, but only because he looked like an older version of Cash, narrator.

Right. Sure.

Cash shrugs casually. “He usually comes for one or two of the nights.”

Someone actually claps for that. Like full-on, hands-coming-together applause. For what? Troy’s presence? Not sure that was clap-worthy, but who am I to judge?

“Alright,” Cash says, turning back to me, “was there anything else you think we missed covering before they break off?”

I glance down at my tablet, scanning my notes. “No, I think that’s everything.”

Cash nods, flashing another of those maddeningly charming smiles at the group. Before I can pack up and escape his gravitational pull, Mrs. Mayberry steps towards both of us with one last curveball.

“Another thing for you two,” she says, clasping her hands together in that way that always precedes bad news. “We need to finalize the pies that’ll be sold.”

“We pick the pie flavors?” I raise a brow.

She nods, her smile unwavering. “With the Americana Classic theme, pies will be a big deal this year, but they’re always a big deal—as Cash knows very well.”

Okay, that feels like a dig directed at the newbie. Who knew pies could carry this much weight at a fair? What did Cash do, participate in a pie eating competition in the past?

“Sure, what do you need us to do?” Cash asks.

Mrs. Mayberry gestures toward the back of the tent, where two very large white cardboard boxes have been deposited on the folding table.

“We have five vendors for you to test out today.”

Pies.

A whole night dedicated to tasting pies. Of course. This is my life now.

“Five vendors? For pies?”

Cash smirks as Mrs. Mayberry smiles politely. “Well of course, my dear, the fairgrounds are massive, and we’ll need them positioned all around the perimeter. Pies are very important to the State Fair.”

Yes, I’m getting that now.

“But we’re only awarding a contract to four of them so you must eliminate one. Choose wisely.”

Her words sound more like a threat than instructions.

“Okay…” I say slowly, wondering where this is going.

Cash steps in with his trademark easy confidence. “So, you just need us to try out these five vendors’ pies and narrow it down to the top four who’ll be set up around the grounds.”

“You got it.” Mrs. Mayberry smiles brightly as she begins unloading pies, arranging what turns out to be a total of ten tins across the folding table.

“We’ll leave you to it while we work on the entertainment arrangements.

Once the pies are done, the rest of the food and goods should fall into place easily. ”

Because pies are the marker of a well-run fair?

Oh…kay.

She starts to turn but pauses mid-step, pivoting back to face us. “Oh, and one last thing. We need to finalize the competition list. We’re using the same judges as last year, per tradition.”

She pulls a neatly folded sheet of paper from her pocket and hands it to me. “Here’s the list of competitions from last year. Give it a review and let us know if you approve.”

I take the paper and scan the list quickly: Best cookies, best pies, best overall cake, best birthday cake, best chocolate dessert…

The words blur together, exhaustion from the long day dulling my focus as my stomach churns.

It’s been a grueling two weeks of nonstop planning, and while I can see the finish line approaching ahead, I can’t help but wish we could delegate some of this.

Still, I plaster on a smile towards the older woman.

“Thank you so much. We’ll test the pies and email the committee shortly with our picks.”

“Thanks, dear!” Mrs. Mayberry calls over her shoulder as she bustles out of the tent, her grey hair bobbing as she moves.

The tent door swings shut behind her, sealing us back inside, and that’s when I realize it’s fully dark outside now.

The sun’s long gone, replaced by the kind of deep blue evening that sinks into your bones.

There’s a crispness to the air—a damp, end-of-day chill that makes me wish I were home, curled under a blanket with my heating pad, a glass of wine, and a predictable scary movie playing in the background.

My boots—practical, scuffed, and chosen per Cash’s oh-so-wise suggestion—feel heavier with every step, like I’ve been dragging the whole day behind me.

The tank top I threw on this morning is no match for the cool that’s settled inside the tent, and a shiver slides down my spine as I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

Earlier, I’d actually thought about wearing something different—something brighter than my usual black go-to.

I know what happens when I do. I’ve caught the way Cash looks at me when I mix things up, when I add even the smallest pop of color.

But after a morning of wrangling Laken’s kids and downing too much beer last night, I didn’t have the energy to play that game.

So, I defaulted to comfort, routine, and the safety of black.

When I glance back at Cash, he’s leaning against the white, plastic table, arms folded casually, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He’s been noticeably quieter this evening—quieter than his usual chatty self.

He let me take the lead during the meeting with the committee, standing back while I presented the ideas that I came up with last night.

He even stayed silent when I talked about Macie as our headliner.

His gaze meets mine, and there’s something unreadable in it, something softer than his usual teasing smirk. For a moment, the air between us feels heavier, quieter, like we’re on the verge of picking up right where we left off an hour ago.

"You alright?" he asks.

I nod. "Yeah. I’m alright.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything more. Just watches me quietly.

So,” I say, breaking the silence and gesturing toward the table, “what’s the plan for these pies?"