Page 31 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

I know exactly where Cash is taking me as soon as we hit the road.

The sun’s last slivers are sinking below the horizon, leaving everything in Whitewood Creek bathed in a dusky glow. The drive is familiar now, lined with towering trees and cornstalks that frame the winding dirt path leading up to the Marshall's farmstead.

I’ve only been here twice before with Cash, but there’s no mistaking the place. Why he’s taking me back here tonight, though, I have no idea. I don’t ask questions because whatever’s brewing between us feels like it’s about to come to a head. For better or for worse.

The car passes the farmhouse where his dad, Regan, and Cash live, but instead of turning right toward the family distillery, where we went before that night he worked for Colt, we veer hard left. Away from Colt and Molly’s home. Away from anywhere I've been before.

A flicker of unease tightens inside my chest.

Where the hell is he taking me?

And then it hits me—oh God, are we going to visit his chickens? The portion of the property that's the egg farmstead where he spends his days?

“Um… where are we going?”

Cash keeps his eyes on the dark road ahead, saying nothing but there's a calm and confident smile across his lips. The truck bumps along in silence until, finally, a large barn comes into view, its adjacent warehouse glowing faintly under the rising moon.

It’s my first time seeing the egg farm up close, and the sight leaves me speechless.

Short, freshly cut grass surrounds the property, while the mountains rise like a protective wall behind it, their foothills dotted with fiery fall foliage.

Even in the growing darkness, the view is breathtaking.

And, to my surprise, it doesn’t smell like what I'd imagine a chicken farm would stink like at all—not like the ones I’ve driven past on trips to the North Carolina coast, where the air practically scorches your nostrils from the manure.

A small sign flutters in the breeze near the entrance: Pasture-raised. Organic feed only. No-kill facility.

This is Cash’s baby, his pride and joy. And as he parks and glances at me, the vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. This isn’t just a business for him—it’s his heart, laid bare that he's showing me tonight. I'm just not sure I deserve to see it.

“It’s beautiful,” I say softly, my voice catching in my throat. Because… is he showing me just the outside or is he going to take me in there? Inside where the chickens are resting.

His grin widens, boyish and almost shy under the moonlight. It strikes me how youthful he looks out here—like he’s stepped out of a memory, ageless and timeless, the kind of man you crush on before you even know what love is and then end up heartbroken, drafting a novel about him years later.

“Come on,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Let me show you the inside and introduce you to my girls.”

Before I can process what that means, he opens my door, helps me get out and then presses his hand gently against my lower back, guiding me toward the barn steps.

That touch—the quiet, steady kind that’s become so uniquely him anytime we’re together—sends a spark through me.

I wonder if he knows the way he controls my body’s senses with just a simple movement.

We step inside the facility, and I’m immediately taken aback.

Rows of feed labeled “GMO-Free” line one wall, neatly organized next to what looks like an aquarium filled with wriggling bugs of every kind.

The ceiling is high with sky lights that bring in natural lighting.

The space is immaculate, nothing like the chaotic, dirty images I’d pictured in my head of chickens running wild covered in dirt and dust.

“Um… what’s that?” I point towards the massive, glass container.

He smiles. “We bring in bugs from other states during the colder months so that the hens have something to snack on when the grass is mostly dead. We don’t want them surviving on just grain all winter, so this gives them an extra boost of protein during the cold months.”

“That’s… incredibly thoughtful,” I say, genuinely impressed.

He nods, leaning against the feed container. “This building’s where we store most of the hens’ food, along with supplies and equipment—basically, all the essentials to running an egg farm. We also use it as a storefront for media tours, too.”

“You’ve been interviewed?”

“Yeah. A few times now. Social media’s really given us a boost. Regan’s been trying to manage our pages, but the local news has interviewed us a couple of times too.

We usually show them this barn first. It’s more photogenic than the warehouse where the hens live,” he says with a wry grin.

“This was the original structure my grandfather built for the chickens when he first started the place. Then my dad added the warehouse behind it so they’d have a better setup—an open-air space where they can come and go between the fields and shelter as they like. ”

“It’s… a lot. I never realized so much went into the production of eggs.”

He grins. “Come on. I've got more to show you.”

We step out through the back doors of the barn, onto a short walkway that separates the building from the warehouse where the hens stay.

The field stretches out before us, its grass soft and dewy under the moonlight.

There aren’t any hens outside this late, but the view is still breathtaking.

For a moment, I forget we’re even in North Carolina. It looks like something out of a movie.

“It feels like I’m in Hawaii or something,” I say, marveling at the mountain silhouettes in the distance. “Like the set of Jurassic Park. ”

He chuckles. “Did you know chickens are the closest living relatives to dinosaurs?”

I laugh. “Uh, no way. Are you serious?”

“Completely. Genetic similarity. Bone structure. Diets. Egg-laying. Even their movements. And their feet—those talons will really get you if you’re not careful.”

I shake my head with a smile. “I swear, I learn something new from you every day.”

He grins, leading me toward the warehouse. “Got plenty more to teach you,” he says his voice deepening like a promise and there’s something in his tone that makes me wonder if he’s hinting at something beyond the egg farm.

The next door that we walk through reveals a wide, airy space where rows of hens rest quietly in tiny little beds.

“Why’s it so… quiet?” I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“It’s molting season,” he explains.

“What’s that?”

“A slow period where the hens don’t lay as much. It’s like their reset button. Lots of rest and recovery.”

“I see,” I murmur, glancing at the calm, feathered bodies and the way they rise and fall with their breaths.

He walks beside me, hands in his pockets, murmuring softly to a few of the chickens as we pass.

Then he looks over at me, his voice low and steady.

“Sometimes, everyone needs a reset. You can’t always be working, grinding, pushing forward nonstop.

It’s good for the hens and good for the employees who get to spend more time with their families during the holidays. Good for me, too.”

“Is that why there’s sometimes an egg shortage during the winter?”

He nods. “Yeah, one of the reasons. We all need to slow down during the winter.”

I nod because he’s right—sometimes you need a hard reset on… life. Maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing here in Whitewood Creek. Looking for my own reset.

He leads me through another door into a long alleyway lined with hens, each nestled comfortably in wooden enclosures behind plexiglass dividers.

“This is Henrietta,” he says, tapping on the glass near a pretty hen with soft gray feathers.

I snort. “Wow. Real original.”

He smiles. “And this,” he continues, pointing to an all-brown chicken, “is Chickaletta.” His tone is so affectionate, it’s ridiculous but also downright adorable that he’s named them.

“Chickaletta?” I repeat, raising a brow.

He grins sheepishly. “I watched a lot of Paw Patrol with my nephew Beckham when he was little.”

I snap my fingers, the memory clicking. “I knew that sounded familiar. That’s the mayor of Adventure Bay's pet chicken.”

He chuckles. “Exactly. Maybe when I become mayor of this town, I’ll carry her around in my purse like Mayor Goodway does. It feels like a rite of passage. Become mayor. Get a pet chicken.”

The mental image hits me so hard I burst out laughing. Cash, walking around town with a purse slung over his wrist, a chicken poking its head out? Priceless.

He grins wider, clearly proud of himself, and moves on. “And this one here is Chicken Little.”

I raise a brow at the hulking, orange chicken he’s pointing to. “More like Chicken Big.”

He crouches down, lifting a corner to open the glass case and then pets the massive bird gently, running his hand over her feathers like she’s a family pet and something precious. I swear she clucks in pleasure like a cat, something I didn't think a chicken could do.

“She didn’t mean it,” he says softly, as if reassuring the chicken. “Rae’s new. She doesn’t know how sensitive you are.”

I roll my eyes. “Cash, she’s huge!”

“She wasn’t always. When she was born, she was so little we weren’t sure she’d make it.

But she pulled through after a few sleepless nights,” he says, his voice warm with pride.

I wonder if those nights were sleepless for her or him.

“Now she’s one of my best foragers. Loves hunting down little critters in the fields like a tiny T-rex. ”

As he straightens up and keeps walking, I find myself stealing glances at him. The way he talks about these hens, the care in his voice and the pride in his eyes—it’s ridiculously attractive in the most absurd way.

Did I ever think that I’d care this much about chickens? No. But being here, in his world, in the place he loves most, I can’t help but fall for them a little too.

For him.

When we reach the end of the row, he stops and turns to me, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “So, what do you think?”

What do I think?

I think it’s ridiculously sexy that you named your chickens and talk to them like they're family. I think it’s terrifying that you brought me here—the first woman to visit with you, by your own admission, to see this side of you.

And I think I don’t know where this thing between us is going, but I want your hands and lips on me right now.

I don’t say any of that, though. Because before I can even open my mouth, he steps closer, his chest pressing against mine.

His hand reaches up, his fingers catching a loose strand of my chestnut hair.

He tugs on it gently, almost teasingly, before tucking it behind my ear.

Then his hand shifts, cupping my face, tilting it upward like I’m something precious that he can't look away from.

I swallow hard because it’s always the simple things that undo me most. When a man actually takes the time to be patient with my tough exterior and see all that I have to offer. Now that I think about it, no guy has ever been this tender before. This patient.

“Why did you bring me here? To give me a lesson on the town’s booming economy?” I joke softly.

His eyes find mine and hold, steady, unblinking, like he’s rooting himself in me. Then he gives the smallest shake of his head, slow and certain. “No,” he says, voice quieter. “I brought you here so you could see every part of me.”

My lips part, the air catching in my throat as I try to digest that.

It’s warm in here. Whatever system keeps the hens cozy through winter is still humming softly in the background, but my mouth is suddenly dry.

Because who just says shit like that? Like it costs him nothing to hand over his insides.

Like vulnerability isn’t something that scares him.

He doesn’t even flinch. No second-guessing, no backpedal. Just… wide open.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh…”

He nods. “Yeah. Oh.”

And then he leans in and brushes his lips softly against mine. It’s tender, careful, and for a moment I’m transported back to that night by the river—the last time he really kissed me. But tonight, the softness isn’t enough. Not after all the tension that’s simmering between us.

I reach up, wrap my hands around his neck, and pull him down to me, sealing our mouths together. His hands slide around my waist, holding me firm as his tongue sweeps through my mouth unrestrained.

A deep growl vibrates through his chest, sending shivers down my spine as we kiss—hard and hungry—surrounded by the quiet hum of the heating units and the occasional soft cluck from a sleeping hen.

When he finally pulls back, his hazel eyes are wide, burning into mine as he presses his forehead to mine, our breaths mingling while we steady ourselves.

“Put your hands on the glass,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding, “and look at Chickaletta while I take my time admiring you.”