Page 28 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

“So, are you excited to finally see the place?” my brother Cash asks me from the front passenger seat of the truck.

“Yeah,” I grunt, staring out the passenger window as the scenery changes. Trees blur into houses, and houses give way to towering skyscrapers as we near the city of Charlotte, North Carolina.

Excited doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about finally seeing the brewery—my brewery—the project that I poured four years of blood, sweat, and dreams into while stuck in the hellhole of prison.

But I don’t say that out loud to my brothers. I don’t have to. They already know what this place means to me.

Getting here wasn’t simple. The judge had to grant me special permission to travel, and I had to make damn sure this visit was justified as a work trip.

The last thing I need is someone calling the cops or questioning my adherence to the parole requirements.

I’m getting closer to the end now, that moment where I’ll no longer be watched closely by the state and can travel as much as I want.

As we drive, I wonder what it’ll feel like to see the place in person for the first time.

It’s our family’s new brewery that I’ve been dreaming about since I was eighteen years old.

A place designed to host special events, showcase our family’s products, and solidify the Marshall name in North Carolina as a dynasty not to mess with.

Will it live up to the vision I’ve held onto all these years? Will it feel like I belong here?

I think it will. The strange sensation in my stomach makes me think so.

Lawson navigates the highways with ease, the city sprawling out around us before giving way to side streets where we’ve decided to make our flagship location.

My brothers are chatting in the front seat, Cash going on about sales stats that he knows nothing about and the baby chickens that he’s obsessed with while Lawson responds with his usual sharp analysis and annoyed growl, but I barely register their words.

My focus is locked on the approaching moment.

The truck slows and rolls into a private driveway off to the side of the storefront. My throat tightens as I spot the hand-painted sign hanging from the wooden frame over the entrance— Whitewood Creek Brewery —framed by blooming dogwood trees and string lights that twinkle in the afternoon sun.

When we pull up, I take a deep breath before stepping out of the car.

The exterior is simple yet striking—sturdy wooden beams frame the sign bearing our family’s logo, perfectly aligned with the rest of the Whitewood Creek Farmstead brand.

It’s Lawson’s design, of course, clean, to the point, and polished to reflect the rest of our branding, but it’s what’s inside that steals my breath.

I step through the doors, and the space unfolds before me. Reclaimed wood ceilings stretch overhead, warm and rustic. Rose-gold accents glint under the soft light, and the original flooring we brought in—refinished from the first barn my grandfather built decades ago—grounds the place in history.

The open-concept layout feels expansive but welcoming, with enough room for over a hundred guests, a stage for live bands, and even space for us to bring in games.

Long wooden tables and mismatched vintage chairs create a space that feels lived-in and loved already.

Exposed copper piping lines the walls behind the bar, a nod to our distillery roots.

It’s perfect, better than I imagined during those nights in a cold cell when all I had were sketches, prayers and hopes.

My brothers hang back, letting me soak it all in. They don’t say a word, just watch as I take slow steps through the place that’s as much theirs as it is mine.

I run my fingertips across the edge of the bar. The grain in the wood tells a story of what we’re trying to convey. Rough, imperfect, reborn, a lot like how I’m feeling right now.

Pushing open the large barn doors at the back, I step outside and stop in my tracks.

The outdoor area is a revelation. You’d never guess you were in the heart of a bustling metropolis.

Thick, lush greenery surrounds the space, creating a private oasis.

The bushes and a couple trees buffer the city noise, wrapping everything in a cocoon of stillness.

It feels like a sanctuary—a world away from where I’ve been and everything I’ve been through.

There are string lights already hung above a wide wooden patio, and a fire pit surrounded by Adirondack chairs—some handmade by Cash back on our farm and transported here a few weeks ago.

There's a small herb garden on the side, fresh rosemary, lavender, mint, something Regan helped plant that we’ll be able to infuse into the food and drinks that we’re offering.

This feels like more than another business for us, it feels like our legacy.

For the first time in a long time, I let myself feel the weight of it. Not just pride, but relief. Hope. This is what I’ve worked for. This is where it all begins again. A new business, a new start, a new life.

A small, hand-built pond with a tiny man-made dock rests in the center of it all, perfect for my idea of hosting smaller, private events for guests who want an outdoor ceremony in the heart of the city, a rarity in Charlotte.

It’s perfect. Everything I imagined—and somehow more.

And yet, the first thought that strikes me isn’t pride or relief that Cash got my vision.

It’s Molly. I want her to see this. To know that I’ve been working on something bigger than myself.

To show her that even while locked away, I was dreaming.

This isn’t just a job or a paycheck anymore, it’s my passion, my salvation, my life.

I can’t wait to bring in the spirits from the distillery that I manage and see this place filled with families, laughter and clinking glasses.

I want her to be proud of me and I want her to enjoy this view too.

“What do you think?” Cash’s voice pulls me back to the moment. He steps beside me, his tone casual, but I catch the hint of anticipation in his question. “Did I get it right little brother?”

I nod, my eyes sweeping over the space one more time. “Yeah, you nailed it.”

A grin stretches across his face as Lawson approaches, tablet in hand, typing away like always.

“The grand opening’s set to be a private event.

We’ve got a solid guest list—social media influencers from Charlotte, new staff members, and a few industry contacts.

The chef we’ve hired is world-renowned. Used to run a farm-to-table spot down in Texas.

Georgia vouched for him, and we’ll have lots of menu items that include our eggs from the family farm. ”

“Sounds good,” I say, though my mind is still half-lost in the moment.

“Most of the RSVPs are in. Our brand’s catching fire, especially after those social media posts about the farm went viral that Regan created.

Sales for the distillery haven’t hit that level yet, but this event could change everything.

It’ll show people that the Marshall name isn’t just about eggs or sustainability—it’s about excellence across the board. ”

“Agreed,” I reply, my voice steady. Who knows where this could lead us. It’s been the egg farm and distillery for so long, maybe we’ll branch into other industries and businesses next.

“Come on,” Cash says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Let me show you the upstairs seating area. You’re gonna love it.”

I follow him up the newly installed wooden staircase, the craftsmanship impeccable, just like everything else in this place.

Cash has always been the builder in our family, good with the animals and our properties.

Regan and I come up with the wild-ass, creative ideas, and Cash executes, Lawson markets them, and Troy makes sure everything we’re doing is legal.

That’s how the Marshall five have always worked.

The dreamer twins and the doer older siblings.

The upstairs balcony overlooks the entire brewery—a private area designed for VIPs and special events, a space I sketched in my mind countless times when I couldn’t sleep. Now, standing here, it’s real. It’s everything I dreamed about when I was just trying to survive another day.

There’s a private bar up here too, more intimate.

Plush seating lines the wall-to-wall windows that open up to the skyline beyond.

Someone installed a record player and stocked it with vinyl’s that I used to play as a teenager—Johnny Cash, Otis Redding, Willie Nelson.

I don’t know who did that, but the sight of it has me choking back something that feels a lot like emotion.

The ache in my chest is sharp, but it doesn’t pull me under. Instead, it fuels a fierce sense of pride. Against all odds, my family made this happen. I made this happen. We’re really doing it.

I glance down at my phone, the court-appointed timeline for how long I can be out ticking away.

As much as I want to stay here, to soak in every detail of this dream turned reality, I know I’ll have to leave soon but I’ll be back.

The judge has granted me approval to travel for the grand opening which falls during the last week of my parole, so this won’t be the last time I see it.

My phone screen lights up with Molly’s name, and a rush of anticipation hits me.

I haven’t seen her since the night she walked in on me jerking off—an image I’ve replayed in my mind a thousand times.

The way her lips parted on a gasp as she watched, the lack of hesitation to turn away and the stiff peaks of her nipples through her shirt.

She wanted me as badly as I wanted her, but I knew emotions were too high, and despite wanting to keep her, to sink inside her and ignore my conscious, I needed to tell her to go.

I haven’t been avoiding her, but I can tell she’s been avoiding me.

I’m not embarrassed by what she saw. Not in the slightest. In fact, it was the first time I’ve let myself go like that since getting out.

And the only reason I did was because of the way she tasted and the way she felt when I held her in my arms. Like home.

“Everything good?” Cash asks, noticing the look on my face.

“Yeah. It’s Molly,” I reply keeping my tone neutral. The last thing I need is Cash catching wind that something’s happened between us.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Molly Patrick? Your old friend’s little sister?” He whistles low, a teasing grin tugging at his lips. “She was always so cute with that jet black hair and those scary blue eyes.”

I shoot him a glare that’s sharp enough to cut steel, and he throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you to it then.”

I turn my attention to the message on the screen.

Molly: Hey Colt. Sorry I had to reschedule your weekly parole check-in. Any chance you can meet tomorrow morning at 10?

Colt: That’s no problem. Where should I meet you?

Molly: Let’s try the offices again.

I smirk to myself. If Molly thinks the sterile, private setting of those business offices is going to tamp down the chemistry that’s sparking between us, she’s got another thing coming.

Whatever’s brewing between us has already been set in motion.

There’s no stopping it now and I intend on seeing things through to completion. Just like I did the other night.

Colt: See you there.