Page 21 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

It’s so dark out here tonight. The kind of dark that feels alive and wraps you in a heavy blanket under its cover. The only light comes from the golf cart’s headlights, cutting through the thick trees as Cash drives—erratically, I might add.

I can’t decide if he’s just a bad driver or if he’s swerving on purpose to get a reaction out of me.

Either way, it’s working. My pulse jumps every time we lurch around a bend and I'm gripping the handlebar at the top of the vehicle like my life depends on it.

I tug my jacket tighter around me, trying to block out the bite of the crisp autumn air that's whipping past, tangling my already unruly hair.

“You all right?” he shouts over the hum of the cart, a boyish grin lighting up his whole face.

He looks like a kid in his element—pure joy and reckless excitement as he navigates the winding path towards the creek.

Meanwhile, I’m struggling to relax, torn between laughing and yelling at him to slow down or he’s going to get us killed.

His deep, unrestrained laugh rolls out into the night, and somehow, it makes it easier to breathe.

What is it about this guy? Everything with Cash just…

flows. Effortless and unforced. My guard’s usually ironclad—especially with new people—but with him, it keeps slipping.

I still don’t totally get his angle, but maybe that’s because there isn’t one.

Maybe this is just who he is. A genuinely kind guy who makes everyone around him feel at ease.

I catch myself smiling back at him without even thinking. His energy is impossible to resist—like I’ve had two shots of espresso and somehow slept ten full hours on the comfiest bed. For the first time since moving to town I feel light. Happy.

Talking to his dad earlier felt like getting a glimpse at an older version of Cash, and I loved it.

Every bit of it. Kent Marshall is a man who doesn’t stop talking but somehow also makes you feel heard.

He reminds me a little of my nephews with his endless stories full of tales that you aren’t sure are true, except he’s more measured—like a man who’s lived, loved, and learned. A family man through and through.

You can tell by the way he talks about his kids and this town that he’s proud.

Not just in the casual, parental sense, but in that deep-rooted, everything-I-have-is-because-of-them, way.

When the conversation shifted to politics and the upcoming mayoral race, he told me more about his eldest son, Troy.

About how proud he is of the work Troy’s done for North Carolina—ousting a corrupt mayor, rising to governor, making real change in New York and now here.

His voice lit up when he spoke about it.

You could hear the joy woven into every word, the kind of pride that lives in your bones.

But then he surprised me.

He said this mayoral election matters. That even if the role is mostly symbolic, it still sets the tone for the town.

He said this place needs someone real, someone who gives a damn about doing the right thing by our small town.

Then he looked me straight in the eye and said he thought I was that person. And that… hit me.

Hard.

I didn’t expect it. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear someone say that I was the right person for this.

Especially someone who’s only just met me.

Especially when his own son is running too.

But he wasn’t trying to play sides, he was just being honest and his authentic self.

And that kind of faith, that quiet belief in me from someone like him. .. it landed somewhere deep.

Growing up, I was always trying to measure up to my older sister Laken in our parents’ eyes.

Not just in smarts—since she was the one destined to be a doctor while I bounced between political internships, marketing jobs, and campaign work, trying to figure myself out—but also in beauty.

It took years for me to come into my own and feel comfortable with my big green eyes and curvier shape, and even now, though I’m confident and have matured, I still hear that nagging voice in my mind every time I look in the mirror.

The first voice you hear as a child should lift you up, tell you you’re cherished, that you’re perfect as you are.

Mine didn’t. My parents gave us everything we ever wanted—clothes, toys, an education, expensive family vacation cruises, and a safe place to live.

They weren't abusive, but their words… those critical, cutting words… they stuck. They’re what taints my memories, and no amount of therapy has ever been able to silence them completely,

Sometimes I wonder what’s worse—the memory of how those words felt when I first heard them, or the way that they’ve shaped my inner voice, and I can’t distinguish between my actual feelings and what I’ve been told to believe.

We round another bend and finally a large, beautiful brick house comes into view which I assume is Colt and Molly’s. I haven’t met her yet, but Lydia’s told me enough to make me curious about the small town police officer who fell in love and captured the youngest Marshall’s heart.

Cash parks the golf cart next to a circular, stone fire pit and I hop off, grateful to be on solid ground again.

"I think I'm going to throw up."

He barks out a laugh as he shakes his head. “Wait right here. I’m going to grab us a couple blankets.” Then he jogs off towards the darkened house leaving me behind.

While he’s gone, I wander down toward the creek.

It’s not very full right now, just a quiet ribbon of water running between dry banks and the slightest gurgling as it passes over rocks and twigs.

I figure that’s normal for this time of year when the rain slows and the cold sets in.

Thankfully, the ground isn’t muddy and it’s dry enough to sit on the dirt without worrying about a mess.

Cash returns a few minutes later with two blankets in hand.

He spreads one out on the ground near the water and hands me the other.

I wrap it around myself, grateful for the warmth, even though my jacket already does most of the job.

He sits down beside me, so close that our shoulders brush.

Even with the blanket bundled around me, he seems determined to share his warmth like he’s been doing all evening.

The warmth of his family, food, and even his company.

And this time I don't stiffen, I let him.

“So, this is Whitewood Creek,” he says with a smile.

“I like it. It’s not quite what I expected for a whole town to be named after it.”

“In the spring, it’s more like a river. We fish off it, and a lot of folks around here catch crawdads to eat. Kids float down it on tubes and spend their summer's cooling off in the lake that it connects to a few miles from here.”

“They float all the way past Colt’s place?”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “There’s a dam that forms in the spring when the water gets high enough. It stops before the farmstead’s property line. The lake stays full of visitors but out here the land is privately owned by us.”

“I see…”

He smiles softly, and we fall into silence, the babbling of the creek filling the space between us like a gentle melody as we both soak in the stillness of the night.

“So,” he says, breaking the quiet, “what awkward shit did my dad say to you?”

I laugh and turn toward him. “Nothing. He’s… he’s a really nice guy. I can tell he loves his family and this town a lot.”

Cash nods, his smile warm. “I figured you two would get along.”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugs. “Had a strong gut feeling and my gut hasn’t let me down yet.”

“Well, I wish I had that kind of support and relationship with my parents.”

His expression softens. “Hm… what’s your relationship like with them?”

“Non-existent. They gave me a good life, but you know… sometimes they were just so... critical. It was best for me to distance myself from them once I hit adulthood.”

He listens—really listens—his eyes locked on mine the entire time.

A week ago, that kind of intensity might’ve made me squirm.

But now? Now I like it. I like the way he makes me feel seen.

Not just listened to, but heard. The weight of his attention is almost physical, warm and steady, like sunlight on bare skin.

It’s too much and not enough all at once, so I drop my gaze, letting it settle on the water bottle in my hand instead, grounding myself in something small and safe like the slightest bit of condensation caught in the plastic grooves.

“I can’t imagine what they’d have to be critical about,” he says, his voice deeper now. “Seems like you’ve got your head on straight. Plus, you changed your whole life to help your sister with her kids.”

I laugh, but it’s less happy and more a bitter sound. “Compared to Laken, I’m a bumbling mess.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t see it.”

“You didn’t grow up in my family.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

There’s something in his voice that’s strong and steady, touched with a softness that wraps around me like a blanket.

The stillness between us isn’t awkward. It’s patient.

Safe. And maybe that’s why the words come out before I can stop them.

Not because I planned to open up to Cash tonight about the uncomfortable parts of my childhood, but because he’s not trying to fix it.

He doesn’t offer hollow sympathy or pretend like he understands what I’ve been through.

He just lets me speak, without judgment, without interruption.

It’s a quiet kind of acceptance that I’ve never experienced before.

And maybe that’s why I give him more of myself than I usually would with someone I barely know.

“My mom…” I start, trailing off before clearing my throat and shaking my head, “she always made a big deal about food. About what I was eating.”