Page 10 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

Whitewood Creek Farmstead and Egg Farm is easily one of the most magical places I’ve ever set foot on.

? Nestled against the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina and surrounded by endless stretches of land, it’s a serene haven for chickens and the heart of Whitewood Creek Distillery, where the Marshalls craft their own spirits.

Tiny green shoots peek out of the soil, promising towering cornstalks in a few months.

The setting sun dips behind the mountains, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink that seem to reflect off the floral-covered peaks.

My chest tightens at the sight of seeing it for the first time in a decade, overwhelmed by the bittersweet beauty of it all.

When I left town, I never thought I’d come back.

Yet now that I’m here, I realize just how much I missed this place and its breathtaking scenery—even if the memories it holds aren’t always kind.

Maybe it isn’t Whitewood Creek that I miss but the Marshall property because that’s the one place that’s always felt like home.

Turning down the long, winding road that leads to the Marshalls’ home, I smile at how little has changed since I left. The old log-cabin-style home comes into view, and sure enough, Regan is already on the front porch where she still lives waiting for me.

She stands when she sees me, brushing her hands down her tattered Levi’s shorts before giving me a hesitant wave.

I know she’s nervous about facing Colt—worried that he’s mad or disappointed in her.

Maybe he is. But I also know that helping these two find their way back to each other feels like the right thing to do.

Growing up, Regan and Colt were inseparable, just like me and Maverick.

Watching them drift apart feels wrong, like something essential is out of balance in the universe.

If I can be the bridge between them, I will.

Sometimes, even broken connections deserve a chance to heal.

“Hi,” she says rushing towards me and flinging her arms around my neck before stepping back and wringing her hands together nervously.

“It’s going to be fine. You two just need to talk. Seriously. The first time might be awkward, but it’ll get better once you tell him why you didn’t visit and how happy you are that he’s home.”

She nods her head and twists her long, auburn bangs around one of her fingers.

When I first moved back a few weeks ago, she’d told me that she cut them after a night of stress worrying about Colt and then immediately regretted her decision so now, she’s growing them back out. I think they’re cute and fit her.

“Okay, so how are we going to do this?”

“Where is he?” I ask.

“Cash said he’s building a fire pit and working on the foundation of his home,” Regan explains, shifting nervously back and forth on the balls of her heels.

“Why don’t I head down there first, talk to him, and after about thirty minutes, you call me? I’ll tell you to meet me down there,” I suggest.

She nods quickly. “Okay, that sounds good.”

Placing my hands on her shoulders, I give her a reassuring grin and squeeze.

Regan’s only a couple of inches shorter than my five-foot-eight frame, but she’s always seemed smaller somehow—more sheltered by her brothers, more petite, more unsure of the world.

Even though we’re the same age, I’ve always felt an urge to protect her which is silly considering I’ve been the one being protected by her twin brother.

“We’ve got this,” I tell her.

“Okay. I’ll call you in thirty minutes and then head down to meet you.”

I throw her a thumbs-up before heading back to my car for the short drive to the back of the property where she said Colt is building his new house.

It’s not long before the tree line breaks, revealing a cleared space that stretches right up to the Creek.

A wave of nostalgia hits me hard as soon as I see the water bubbling there.

This creek was our playground growing up—me, Regan, Colt, and Maverick.

We’ve spent countless summers here, wading through the cool water, catching crayfish with makeshift nets, and escaping the relentless heat in a town where pools were a luxury few could afford.

The fact that this is the spot where he’s chosen to build his house feels almost surreal.

I spot Colt immediately. He’s chopping wood next to an old, rusting RV parked on the land, his movements smooth and deliberate as he swings the ax through the air like a man who knows what he’s doing.

When my car’s tires crunch on the dirt, he pauses, turning toward me and lifting his hand to block out the piercing sunset.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled white T-shirt, swiping it across his face to wipe.

And holy, hell .

Time stops for a second as my eyes lock on him.

His biceps ripple with each movement, and his abs glisten under the warm sun, taut and sculpted like they belong on a damn statue.

Tattoos snake across his tanned skin—smooth, inked stories covering his chest, arms, and back.

One tattoo wraps tightly around his rib cage, a haunting image of a devil and an angel, the kind of work that must have been agonizing to sit through when he got it in prison.

My gaze lingers on the stark black lettering etched into his chest just above his strong pecs, the word INNOCENT with a thin black line crossed through it.

When did Colt get so big?

I swallow hard, torn between wanting to stare at the man standing in front of me and knowing that I need to talk to him about Regan.

I put the car in park as he realizes it’s me, waves, and I take a moment to compose myself, taking a deep breath and trying to calm my racing heart.

Sure, I’ve always had a tiny, harmless, totally manageable crush on my brother’s best friend.

Who wouldn’t? The Marshall brothers are some of the most attractive men in the entire town—probably the whole East Coast. Colt was always the kindest one, the caring one, the one who had my back and Maverick’s when we were just a couple of misfits trying to find our place with a reckless and neglectful father.

But he’s never looked like this before. This… this... temptation.

Pull it together, Molly. You’re here for Regan, not to drool over her brother.

Besides, what are the odds he’d ever see me as anything other than Maverick’s little sister? A recently divorced little sister, at that. If he hasn’t noticed me by now, it’s not going to happen.

I use that thought to propel me forward while I slide out of the car and head his direction, doing my best to look unaffected while he keeps swinging that damn axe like a mountain man.

Each powerful strike sends his muscles rippling, cords of strength that look like they could snap at any moment.

My eyes drift to the tattoos again, and I can’t help but admire just how good they look on him.

He didn’t have them when we were younger, but he wears them like a second skin now.

“Hey, Mols. How’s it going?” he asks, glancing up and flashing me a brief smile before stooping to gather the chopped wood.

He hauls the pieces into his arms and walks them over to a pile in at the edge of the clearing, and I swear I’m losing it.

He’s in nothing but a pair of worn Wrangler jeans slung so low on his hips it’s obvious there’s no underwear involved.

What about chafing? And is he… barefoot?

Fuck, I forgot how big his feet are.

I force myself to answer, but my voice wobbles. “Hey… hey.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice how flustered I am. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a man and I’m totally overreacting. Maybe this weekend I should go out with Regan to Krissy’s, get drunk and find someone for some meaningless sex so that I can stop obsessing over him.

Tossing the wood onto the pile, he grabs that dirty T-shirt again, swipes it across his face, and then throws it on the ground before stepping toward me, still shirtless, still so damn sexy.

Before I can say another word, he pulls me into a hug tight against his chest—friendly enough, sure, but with his bare, rock-solid, sweat covered chest pressed against mine, it feels like a lot more than casual.

My brain short-circuits as I feel his heat through the thin fabric of my top, and suddenly, breathing becomes very difficult.

“You’re getting me all sweaty,” I mumble into the soft hairs that dot his chest.

He chuckles and pulls back, flashing me another smile.

It doesn’t look effortless, feels like he’s forcing it to appear happy, but it’s genuine enough to rank up there with adorable and sexy at the same time.

He’s trying to appear okay, and it shows, though he might not feel the happiness behind it yet.

I take a moment to study his features up close: soft, full lips; hazel eyes that seem lighter, happier, than they were when I saw him at the convenience store earlier this week; and that buzzed light-brown hair, slowly growing back in.

We used to tease him in high school about looking like a young Tom Hardy , but this version of Colt?

He’s the grown-up, hardened version—an edgy, rugged, Tom Hardy in Mad Max. All sharp angles and bad-boy vibes.

He’s familiar and different all at the same time and suddenly, I’ve forgotten what the hell I’m doing here.

“You here to see what I’m working on?” Colt asks playfully, turning back to his tools. He gathers them up and strides toward the smooth stone platform he must be building—a base for what looks like will be a fire pit.

“I came to see Regan.” I follow him a few steps behind. “But she was busy, so I figured I’d come visit you.”

“Well, that’s a nice surprise. Haven’t gotten too far yet,” he admits with a shrug, “but I can show you the foundation I’ve started if you’re interested. Just finished chopping some wood for a bonfire tonight.”