Page 4 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

“Carissa called out sick again,” Colt grunts.

“Fucking shit,” I cuss.

“Move your arm a little to the right, it’s off center,” my big brother Lawson directs me as I shift the sign that we're hanging over the bar an inch to the right. He steps back, taking in everything to be sure it looks straight then nods. “Yeah, that looks fine.”

I lift my drill and drill four holes with screws into the sign, cementing it into the woodwork of Whitewood Creek Brewery & Restaurant’s hometown location. “It better be good, because I’m not ripping this shit out ever again.”

He chuckles and shakes his head then steps behind the counter to help me finish organizing the liquor bottles for tonight’s' happy hour rush.

“So, who’s covering for Carissa?” my little brother Colt asks, hanging up the bar's phone and sliding onto a stool like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

I guess spending almost five years locked up earns him a pass on doing the menial, soul- sucking tasks, like working the bar for our family's business when our staff decides to flake.

“Who knew running a restaurant in our hometown would be harder than running the Charlotte location?” he adds, shaking his head.

“It’s like the local employees know we’re here, so they count on us to cover whenever they feel like bailing,” Lawson chimes in, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded over his chest.

“Yeah, well, none of us want to see it fail,” I point out, because obviously but I feel like I need to add something to the conversation other than my striking good looks and quick wit.

Colt mutters a distracted “ Yeah ” before reaching for the glass of water in front of him.

I glance down the bar and spot Molly, my future sister-in-law, buried in her phone. Grinning wide, I sing-song, “Molly…”

She looks up, already exasperated with my antics, and holds her phone toward my face like it’s a shield. “I’m about to leave for work. Sorry, Cash. You know the fall is a busy time for the police department.”

“Ugh,” I drag out the sound and shift my attention to Colt. “Colt?”

He doesn’t even bother to answer, just hits me with a you’ve got to be out of your fucking mind if you think I’m working this bar tonight glare.

Right. That’s a no. It’s not like he’s the ideal candidate anyway.

Prison’s left its mark on him, roughened his edges in ways that don’t exactly scream “welcoming bartender to our family's down home eatery,” and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know how to make half the drinks on the menu.

And customer service? You can forget about that.

So, I turn to Lawson. Bat my lashes. Turn up the charm. Hazel eyes and my strong jawline working overtime.

“Don’t even try it,” Lawson says, rolling his eyes. “Beckham has a football game tonight. You know I don’t miss his games when I’m in town. You’re the only one with nothing going on. Good luck, little bro.” He claps me on the shoulder and strolls out like this doesn’t feel like betrayal.

Do I want to spend my Saturday night working the bar because our bartender decided to call off due to a hangover?

Absolutely not.

But do I have anything else going on tonight? Also no. Lawson, as painful as it is to admit, is right though if I could find our little sister Regan before happy hour starts, I'd bet she's just as available as I am.

It’s autumn, which means molting season for our egg farm—the branch of the family business that I run.

For hens, molting season’s a natural process where they lose most of their feathers and grow new ones.

The cooler weather and shorter daylight hours also mean they lay fewer eggs, so we scale back on our regular employees’ hours.

It’s considered the “off” season for a farmstead like ours.

With fewer bugs and fresh grass to munch on, the chickens slow down, and so do we.

And I freaking love it.

Everyone seems to be in a better mood—my crew, the animals, even me. The pace of life steadies, and I get more time to catch up on things I’ve been putting off and spend time with the animals. Connecting with them, tidying up the facility and enjoying the holidays.

So yeah, when we need someone to travel to Charlotte for our flagship bar, or step in at our new location here in Whitewood Creek, especially during busy nights, I’m the obvious choice.

The Whitewood Creek Egg Farmstead and Distillery has been in our family for generations.

My grandpa laid the foundation, literally and figuratively, designing new ventilation systems and situating the farm at the back of the property so the smell of chicken manure wouldn’t drift toward the homes.

My dad took things a step further, transforming the farm into a sustainable, eco-friendly, GMO-free, and fully organic operation, and my siblings and I have brought it into the future.

We’re also a no-kill farm—our hens lay eggs, and when they stop, they live out the rest of their days in peace on our chicken sanctuary with just the Blue Ridge Mountains and the creek our town was named after as their view.

That’s a legacy my siblings and I are proud to uphold—and one we plan to keep going for generations to come.

Troy, the oldest at forty-three, recently became the governor of North Carolina.

It’s a big deal, and he earned it after years of grinding as a high-profile lawyer in New York City.

He’s married now to Georgia Cameron, a ranch-raised Texan with Southern charm for days.

They split their time between the Governor’s Mansion in Raleigh and their home here on the Marshall property where my nephew Max, Troy's twenty-three-year-old son, is living though I haven't seen him much lately.

Lawson, next in line at thirty-six, handles all the sales and marketing for our businesses.

He’s a single dad to his twelve-year-old son Beckham, and they live in the house Lawson built on the property when he found out he was going to be a father.

Though he and Beckham’s mom never married, they’ve made it work—she’s happily remarried with two more kids of her own and still lives in town.

Then there’s me, thirty-four years old. I’m the head of the egg farm and the guy who brings to life whatever wild ideas Colt, Regan and Lawson dream up.

I’m good with animals, good with my hands, and good with people.

If I’m not working with the hens or building something for one of our family ventures, you’ll probably find me fishing at the creek on our land, shooting hoops in the town men’s basketball league, attending a high school football game or helping someone out who needs an extra set of hands.

I like to keep busy, stay active, and avoid sitting still for too long.

I still live at my dad’s house because, honestly, it’s just easier.

No point in building my own place when I’m hardly there, and living where you work does have its perks.

Plus, I get to keep an eye on the old man who’s starting to slow down considerably.

Finally, we’ve got the youngest: the twins, Colt and Regan, who are twenty-nine.

Mom had only picked out the name Colt, convinced she was having one baby.

So, when Regan arrived first—a girl, no less—they had to scramble for a name.

“ Regan ” had been her back up name for Colt, so it stuck.

Colt runs the distillery side of things and is the brains behind all our new ventures.

Regan floats between everything, lending a hand wherever it’s needed, and keeping things running smoothly for all of us.

That’s the Marshall family in a nutshell—busy, driven, and always working to keep our businesses and traditions thriving.

We all pull our weight, have each other’s backs and make sure that shit gets done and that’s why, right now, three hours later, I’m in the thick of happy hour on a Saturday night at our Whitewood Creek Bar, mixing mojitos and whiskey sours full of our family’s specialty liquors and making sure my servers are busting their asses and happy.

“Another martini,” Alyssa, one of our servers, says with a smile as she leans a hip against the bar counter.

Alyssa and I grew up together—she’s two years younger than me, easy on the eyes, and while I’ve never made a move, I get the sense she wouldn’t exactly object if I did.

Thing is, I’m not the settling-down type.

Casual hookups are more my speed. The women in this town?

They’re not looking for that. They want the full package—husband, house, kids.

And let’s face it: a thirty-four-year-old guy still living with his dad doesn’t exactly scream husband material .

Sure, everyone knows that in our family, building a house on the land is kind of a rite of passage, but I haven’t made it there yet partially because I don't want to and because I want a woman before I do that.

I want her input. Her feminine touch on the designs.

It'd be a partnership if I ever settle down and that’s just not on my radar.

She places her tray on the oak with a little sigh, eyes scanning the packed place. “It’s a madhouse out there tonight.”

“Not much else for people to do around here when it gets cooler but drink,” I reply, shaking the martini shaker. “Good for business, though.”

She nods, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “The place has really taken off since we opened.”

“It has.” I pour the drink smoothly, slide it onto her plate, and give her a quick nod. “Here you go, darling.”

“Thanks, Cash.”

“You bet.”

As she heads back to the floor, I grab a rag and start wiping down a seat that’s just been vacated.

The bar is packed tonight, shoulder-to-shoulder with locals trying to escape the chill outside.

Before I can even finish clearing out the empty glasses, someone slides into the spot.

I reach for a menu and toss it onto the counter, lifting my eyes slowly—and freezing for half a second because the person who just sat down is startling.

Light, chestnut-brown hair that falls just past her shoulders.

Tiny little straight nose. Big, full red lips that are set in what looks like is a permanent, critical scowl.

But it’s her eyes that knock the wind out of me.

Huge, round, and the kind of green that doesn’t seem real—opulent, almost, flecked with gold like late-summer grass kissed by the sun.

There’s a warmth there, but also something sharp hidden behind the way she's looking around the place.

She doesn’t look familiar, which throws me off.

I know everyone in this town—it’s why the locals affectionally call me Mr. Whitewood .

And yes, it’s a name that I’ve taken to quite fondly.

I’m Whitewood Creek’s unofficial mascot.

Town cheerleader, biggest fan of our residents, the guy who loves living here and will never leave.

But her? She’s new. Wicked pretty. And she's caught my eye.

Interesting.

“What can I get for you?” I ask, keeping my tone casual as I lean against the bar, turning up the Cash charm.

She tilts her head slightly, considering me with a mix of curiosity and exasperation.

“Well,” she starts, her voice soft and full of exhaustion, “if you’d asked me that question earlier today, I would’ve smiled sweetly and said, you tell me what’s good, cowboy. But now, I’m worried that’s going to end up with me chucking the drink at your head because it’s nasty.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. Hard.

Something tells me this night just got a hell of a lot more interesting.