Page 9 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee, elbow propped on the bar, locked in a silent, slow-burning war of Chess with Colt, when I hear her—Mrs. Mayberry, Queen of Gossip and self-appointed ruler of Whitewood Creek’s brunch circuit.

Her voice cuts through the quiet hum of the Tuesday morning shift, rough and commanding like she’s halfway into her third mimosa, which by my calculations, she probably is.

“Apparently they still don’t know who’s gonna be on the ballot for mayor this year,” she announces, loud enough for the bartender at our Charlotte location to hear. “There’s really no one decent with the right kind of experience. I heard Smythe might throw his name in the ring.”

I glance over in time to see Mrs. Bellview gasp, hand to her pearls like someone just suggested we elect Satan himself.

“But Smythe has zero experience,” she says, scandalized. “He’s never even run the pie eating competition.”

Mrs. Mayberry nods like they’re delivering breaking news. “Exactly. All these fine young men and women in this town, and not one of them willing to step up and shoulder the pressure. I mean, someone’s gotta coordinate the State Fair, and that’s a full-time job in itself.”

That catches my attention.

The Whitewood Creek State Fair isn’t just a fair—it’s our damn Super Bowl.

A chaotic, glorious mess of livestock contests, carnival rides, deep-fried everything, and more small-town pride than most people can stomach.

The mayor plans the whole thing—decorations, events, entertainment, committee wrangling, plus keeping the vendors from stabbing each other over booth space.

It’s the crown jewel of the town calendar…

and the exact reason no sane person wants the job.

But more importantly, it’s a key component of drawing attention to the Marshall family businesses.

“Maybe we should nominate Cash Marshall,” Mrs. Mayberry says, real casual-like, as if she didn’t just name drop me in front of anyone who can hear their conversation.

“He’s well spoken. Charismatic. People like him.

Might not have the experience, but he’s clever enough to figure it out.

” She pauses. “Just don’t know if he could focus long enough to get anything done with all the women around. ”

Colt doesn’t even look up from the board. He slides his pawn forward like he’s been expecting this all along.

I take a slow sip of my coffee and clear my throat into the mug, not even trying to hide the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

I’ve been the subject of worse gossip in this town—hell, half of it I probably started myself.

And my love life and dating are definitely at the top of interest for women like Mrs. Mayberry who swear everyone is destined for a great love like the one she had with her late husband who passed away just a few years ago.

I flick a glance toward Colt, whose eyes are still on the board, his expression unreadable.

“You hearing this little bro? They’re really suggesting I run for mayor of this town.”

“Come on, Cash. It’s not like you have anything else going on. You should do it,” Colt's serious voice responds.

I clutch my chest dramatically. “Hey, I take offense to that. I have a very vibrant life here in Whitewood Creek.”

“Maybe a vibrant sex life,” he murmurs under his breath.

Regan pops her head out of the back of the kitchen, two plates stacked full of freshly picked blueberry pancakes, homemade syrup and a heaping of scrambled eggs so high there has to be at least seven of them in there.

“He’s not wrong. All you do is hang out at the bar now that it’s molting season, and go to the high school sporting events shirtless so that all the single moms will hit on you.”

“The moms love me. I love this bar, and what are you two, the Grady Twins ?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Are you talking about those creepy twins from The Shining?”

“I sure am.”

Colt’s lip twitches into a smile as he shakes his head, not meeting my eye, and forks another scoop of the eggs that Regan just dropped off into his mouth.

“Hey, can we take it easy on the eggs, please? You do realize it’s off season and they aren't as expendable as usual.”

Regan smiles. “I know, but I’m thoroughly enjoying watching Colt beef up this winter.”

Colt chuckles darkly. “Molly’s enjoying it too.”

“Gross,” I shoot back as he rolls his eyes.

“How are my little chickee’s doing?” Regan coos.

Regan’s always been the Marshall family’s floater—the one who steps in wherever she’s needed, whenever we need her.

Back when Colt was in prison, she took over the egg farm without missing a beat, while I handled the distillery and started laying the groundwork for the brewery in Charlotte.

But now that Colt’s been home for seven months, she’s slipped back into her usual role, bouncing between the businesses and handling whatever we throw her way.

Some weeks, she’s on the road with our older brother Lawson, helping him pitch our products to retailers we’re trying to partner with.

Other times, she’s in Charlotte, managing the restaurant and brewery there.

And when she’s home, she splits her time between helping me and Colt with the distillery or lending a hand at the egg farm.

But now, with the opening of our Whitewood Creek location, Regan's found a fresh passion—crafting a rotating holiday menu that features ingredients she’s growing herself on Whitewood Creek Farm.

She’s turned part of the property into a massive garden, filled with everything from berries and corn to sweet potatoes, onions, and lettuce.

Colt and I helped her dig it up and prep the soil, but she’s done all the hard work since—studying, planting, and mastering the tricks of the trade to make sure her harvest thrives.

And honestly, she’s killing it. With Lawson's son Beckham stepping in to help at the farm stand with selling, we're setting up the next generation of Marshall's to take over and run things when we all burn out and retire someday.

Regan's a jack of all trades, much like me, though she’s far more creative and definitely less of a town flirt.

Between her and Colt, creativity seems to run in their veins.

Colt’s always been the designer in the family, even creating the visuals for several of Lawson’s pitches.

And Regan? She’s a chameleon—able to pick up just about anything, master it, and make it look effortless.

Where I rely on charm and quick thinking, she brings a unique flair and a quiet brilliance that keeps our family businesses thriving. It doesn't hurt that she still lives at home with me and our dad so we're around each other the most.

“Remind me again why you think I should run for mayor of our cute little town?”

Regan leans over the bar, her blue eyes twinkling with delight, “For one,” she holds out a finger, “You’re Mr. Whitewood Creek.”

I snort. “That’s not actually a title but it's one I'll claim proudly.”

“No, it's not an official title, but everyone calls you that behind your back.”

“And to your front,” Colt adds.

“God forbid a man love his hometown.”

She snorts. “Nothing wrong with that. It’s a great thing and will help aid you in winning this election.”

I chuckle. “Go on…”

“Don’t stroke his massive ego,” Colt warns from next to me. I glance over. The pile of pancakes we’d both had to share is now completely gone.

“Geesh, you still eat like you’re fresh out of prison.”

He bats my arm away and turns back to his eggs, hunching over the plate like he’s scared I’m going to take them away from him.

“Okay, so number two. You know everything about this town. The mayor is required to coordinate the harvest parade that kicks off the State Fair. You’ve done that before, so you know what to do to make it a big deal. You know what it takes to capture the essence of small town joy during autumn.”

“That’s true.”

“The mayor’s job is to handle everything for the state fair at the start of November.

The planning committee has had a couple meetings, and I’ve been to them, but let me tell you—they’re a hot fucking mess.

The women bicker nonstop, and the men?” she drops her voice so that Mrs. Mayberry and Bellview can’t hear us.

“Clueless, except when it comes to setting up tents. Mrs. Mayberry is stressed. Do you hear her over there? I swear I’ve never heard her complain so much.

They need someone who can get them to agree on a theme, set a direction, and keep everyone in line.

They need a person who can bring people together. ”

I smirk. “Well, I am universally adored.”

Colt snorts.

Regan rolls her eyes. “Right. Anyway, with me and Lawson helping on marketing and campaigning, we can win this thing. And with you as mayor, it’ll be great for the restaurant and brewery in town.

Your face on posters all over the state will pull in out-of-towners.

Think of it like another business venture for our family. ”

“This place is already thriving.”

“Sure, but it’s mostly locals—usually when you’re working. And let’s not forget how you keep giving away food for free.”

Colt shoots me a glare. “Yeah, cut that shit out, Cash.”

I throw my hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay! Geez. It’s mostly been for Smythe.”

“I don’t care who it’s for—we’re not a charity.”

“Fine.” I lean against the bar. “So, to summarize, your reasons for me running are: handsome looks, hot body, good for the family businesses, face plastered all over the state of North Carolina, beloved by all, and a general knack for getting people to agree to get shit done?”

Regan pushes off the bar and crosses her arms. “Basically.”

“You drive a hard bargain, little sis.”

“Okay, but here’s the clincher.” She leans forward, her voice dropping like she’s about to share the world’s best secret. “How much of a fuck you would it be to the last mayor if a Marshall took over? That guy was one of the biggest reasons Colt got locked up. It’d be the ultimate middle finger.”

I stop teasing and lean back to let that idea sink in.

She’s not wrong. One thing about us Marshalls is we stick together.

The mayor of Whitewood Creek messed with our family years ago, and we’ve been holding a grudge ever since.

Him getting ousted for corruption was satisfying, sure, but Regan’s got a point—taking his old position and throwing the best state fair North Carolina’s ever seen under our name?

That’s the kind of poetic justice I could get behind.

The Bobbsey twins are starting to make a lot of sense. I don’t have much going on during molting season, and once the fair is over, the mayor’s role is mostly ceremonial. Campaigning, planning the fair, and then running the town that I’ve loved my whole life as an icon? That doesn’t sound half bad.

I slap the bar loudly, startling Mrs. Bellview who’s devouring a breakfast burrito at her table and lets out a loud yelp.

“Sorry, Mrs. Bellview!”

She waves me off with a warm smile. “Oh, no problem, Cash. It's nice to see you today.”

Colt grunts and shakes his head. “Beloved by all,” he mutters. “Except you don’t know jack about being a politician—or anything about local government.”

Regan grins. “We’ll get Troy to help. And we’ll play up the fact that you’re the governor of North Carolina’s little brother. People will eat it up and won't care that you're completely incompetent.”

I nod, my grin widening despite the major diss my little sister just delivered me.

“I like it. Let’s fucking do it.” Lowering my voice dramatically, I add, “Get me on the ballot, Regan. Let’s win this thing. Move over, big brother Troy—there’s a new, much better looking, politician in the family.”