Page 8 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

She smiles, clearly enjoying herself. “I know it might sound menial to some people, but I love it. There’s a methodical rhythm to it—organizing, categorizing.

It just makes sense to me. I’m pragmatic that way and appreciate structure and patterns.

What about you? Do you have any plans to work while you’re living in town? ”

I wince internally, trying not to let it show.

Of course, she doesn’t know my lack of career is a sore spot for me considering I’m not working and have zero direction or plans regarding what I want to do next.

I’ve also never gone this long without a job before.

Even when I’ve switched jobs or been laid off, I always had another one lined up and ready almost immediately.

“Nothing at the moment. I’m trying to find something, though. You have anything in mind?”

Her eyes brighten with interest as she scoots forward in her chair. “Well, what did you do before moving to Whitewood Creek? Maybe I can help you find something?”

I blink, caught off guard by her kindness.

Charlotte wasn’t exactly an unfriendly place to live, still holding onto some of its small town, southern charms, but it was still nothing like this.

Where a woman I just met less than twenty-four hours before is willing to go job hunting with me and have lunch on a random day of the week for no reason other than to connect.

Frankly, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like Lydia—so generous with her time and friendship, always eager to help. I just hope she isn’t going to suggest a position as her church’s newest deacon.

“Well…” I start, hesitating. “I’ve held about eight different positions in local and state government so that’s where all of my experience has been.”

Her eyes widen as she chokes on a sip of water. “Eight?”

I cringe, that familiar heat crawling up the back of my neck—the one that shows up right on cue whenever someone starts doing the math and silently wonders what’s wrong with me.

Why I’ve bounced around from job to job like a human pinball.

“I sort of… get bored easily and move on,” I admit, trying to sound casual even though it never feels that way.

“Or I get laid off. That’s politics, right?

New candidate comes in, shifts the focus, restructures the team, and boom—your position disappears like it never mattered in the first place. ”

I tack on a shrug for good measure, like it’s no big deal, but the truth is—it is.

It’s been hard. It’s left a mark. I’ve always imagined I’d be one of those people who landed a solid job and stayed.

Not forever, maybe, and not with some lifelong passion like Laken, who will probably retire in the exact same office she started in, but at least long enough to not feel like the new girl every damn time.

Long enough to build something that looked like consistency.

Long enough that my resume didn’t read like a list of failed experiments. But so far, that hasn’t been my story.

Lydia nods, her expression understanding but a little distant, like she can’t fully relate. After all, she’s spent her whole life working for the police department and her father’s church—roots firmly planted.

“Okay, well, if you could do anything what would it be?”

“My last job was my favorite,” I admit, leaning back.

“I was the campaign manager for the mayor of Charlotte. Marketing, sales, crafting content to share a politician’s platform—I loved it.

Plus, I actually believed in her policies and liked her as a person.

I’d kill to do something like that again.

Something where I get to tell a story with my words while still contributing to meaningful change. ”

Before Lydia can respond, our server arrives with the food, placing the plates in front of us with a smile. “Here you ladies are. Let me know if you need anything else. Enjoy!”

“Thanks,” we both say as she walks off.

Lydia cuts into a sausage in her dish while I slice into my egg, the dark orange, golden yolk spills out perfectly, coating my meal. I take a bite, my eyes widening.

“Whoa, that’s good.”

She grins. “GMO-free, organic, sustainable chickens. And get this—they’re from a no-kill farm. When the hens stop laying, they don’t cull them.”

“Seriously? What do they do with them?”

“Let them chill. They get to live out their retirement staring at the Blue Ridge Mountains, drinking from the creek and snuggling with Cash until their time comes naturally.”

I pause because that’s one of the most shocking things I’ve heard in a long time. Not to mention now I’m imagining big, handsome, muscular Cash cuddling some sweet, old hens while they cross over to the other side.

“That’s… kind of beautiful.”

She nods, clearly pleased. “It’s his whole thing.”

“Cash’s? What do you mean?”

“All the siblings have their own part of the business they manage. Cash’s is the egg farm. He oversees everything—the hens, both layers and retirees, and the crew who works out there.”

“Wow… I didn’t know that.” Mostly because I never would’ve pegged him as the egg farmer type.

Then again, I’m not sure what that even means.

Some guy in overalls, a pitchfork in one hand and a piece of straw dangling from his mouth?

Whatever mental image I try to conjure, it somehow ends up being way too attractive. Which feels deeply unfair.

“Yeah. You should see if you can get a tour of the farmstead some time.”

Yeah... I don’t see that happening.

Suddenly, Lydia’s eyes light up with an idea. She chews quickly, swallows, and sits up straighter.

“Oh my gosh, I’ve got it.”

“Please tell me it’s not joining the egg business as a farm hand,” I deadpan.

She laughs, her blonde hair bouncing as she shakes her head. “Nope, though that would be funny to see. This is sort of related to what you’ve done before, though.”

“Oh?” I sit forward in my seat.

She stands abruptly, marches over to the bar, and whispers something to the bartender on duty.

My eyes flick to him immediately—it’s not Cash, something I’d already noticed from the moment that I walked in, but I still wanted to check again, you know, just in case he somehow snuck in and started slinging drinks when I wasn’t paying attention.

To prepare myself. Not because I was hoping he was here.

Duh.

The bartender nods, reaches behind him, and pulls a flyer that was tacked there off the wall.

Lydia takes a photo of it with her phone and then hands it back to him before practically skipping back to the table in her high heels.

She slides her phone across to me, her excitement palpable as she points at the screen.

“This.”

I pick up the phone, my brows furrowing as I read the flyer.

General Election for Mayor of Whitewood Creek, October 5th

I glance up. “What’s this? Does the mayor the town elects need a campaign manager?”

She shakes her head, smiling wider. “Oh, no. Whitewood Creek’s too small for all that. The mayor’s role is more symbolic—organizing local events, representing the town amongst other small towns in the state. But there’s one thing that they’re entirely responsible for: planning the State Fair.”

“The State Fair? You mean the North Carolina State Fair?” I gasp.

“Yep. It’s held here in Whitewood Creek every year.

A century-old tradition. It’s our biggest event and brings in most of the town’s revenue.

Without the fair and the local farms, our economy would collapse.

A lot of vendors and small businesses in town make 90% of their annual income solely from sales received during the state fair. ”

“Wow,” I murmur, genuinely impressed.

Lydia leans in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“The previous mayor was just ousted for corruption. Finally. Turns out he was involved in the messed up case against Colt Marshall.”

“Colt Marshall?” I ask, confused.

She waves dismissively. “Long story. But yeah, corruption, lies, withholding evidence. And yes, there are a ton of Marshall’s hanging around. Colt’s out of prison now and it looks like the mayor is out too. Now we need a new one.”

“Okay… so what does that have to do with me?”

Her grin stretches ear to ear. “You’re going to run for mayor of our town, silly.”

I blink, thinking she has to be joking but the smile that’s spread across her face is telling me otherwise. “What? No. I don’t even know anything about this town.”

“I’ll help you get up to speed!”

“But… why would anyone vote for someone who’s only lived here for like a week?" I lower my voice. "You do realize you're my only friend in this town.”

“Because this town needs change, and despite your sour attitude when I first met you yesterday, I think you’d be perfect for the job.

” She holds up her hand, ticking things off like she’s making a list. “You’re not really that grumpy.

You’ve worked for a mayor before. You know campaigns, marketing, event planning.

Plus, you probably have better organizational skills than half the county.

We’re all kind of a mess and suck at planning things.

We just take each day as it comes to us. Living the small town life dream.”

She’s not wrong. My experience could definitely help pull off something as massive as the North Carolina State Fair.

And frankly, it would look fantastic on my résumé to say I’ve been mayor, even if it’s for a town with a population smaller than my social media list. Perhaps I just wouldn’t have to disclose what the population of said town was when I try to move elsewhere.

“How’s the vote determined?” I ask, curiosity and desperation edging out doubt.

“Next week’s the pre-election,” she explains. “The top two candidates will be chosen to co-plan everything. You’ll work together to pull it off. At the end of the fair, the town votes on who did the best job and then... bam, now you’re the mayor for the next two years.”

“That’s… intense. So, I’d have to partner with someone to plan the whole thing?

” I ask, already feeling my shoulders tense at the idea.

I work better alone—always have. Mostly because, let’s be honest, people are the worst. And yes, I realize that’s not exactly the spirit I should be channeling if I’m seriously considering a run for mayor, but what can I say? I am who I am.

She pats my hand, her confidence unshakable. “You have the skills. I know you’ll crush it. I doubt anyone else will even apply. We just need to polish up your people and social skills a bit.”

I stare down at the screen of her phone, my mind already spinning with the possibilities. Mayor of a small town? This could be the break I’ve been waiting for—a chance to prove myself on an even larger stage. Who knows where this could lead? Back to Charlotte? Los Angeles? New York City?

Okay, now I’m being ridiculous. But maybe a larger town in the south would pick up a mayor from a small town in North Carolina.

Finally, I look up at her. “Text me this photo of the flyer and let’s get me on that pre-election ballot.”

Her smile grows triumphant as I plant the phone back in her open hand.

“I freaking knew it. This is going to be so much fun,” she squeals.

Rae Black... mayor... It sure does have a nice ring to it.