Page 45 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

One Week Later…

“So, I’ll call you when we’re on our way back home tomorrow,” Colt says, his eyes serious.

“That sounds good,” I reply with a smile. “Have fun. I wish I could be there with you.”

He kisses me—deep, slow, reverent like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.

It’s the kind of kiss that always makes me forget we haven’t been doing this forever.

His thumb brushes just beneath my jaw as he holds me there.

I can feel his heart racing and I know that he’s nervous about everything.

Traveling while still under parole and being apart from me for the first time.

His lips leave mine only to lift my hand and brush a kiss against the diamond ring he’d placed there just a week ago.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his eyes locking on mine with what looks like worry behind them.

I smile, squeezing his hand to reassure him. “I love you too. We’ll be fine—just me and my Roxy girl. Plus, I’ve got to start packing up my duplex now that I’m allowed back inside.”

“Stay at the main house,” he says, his tone firm.

I roll my eyes playfully. “Where else would I stay?”

His home by the creek isn’t finished yet, and there’s no way I’m staying in the RV alone.

My duplex, deemed safe from the bed bugs attack just a week ago, might as well be ancient history.

After Colt proposed, he made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t moving back in there—or anywhere else that wasn’t with him.

And I couldn’t be happier about that. Decorating the home that’s almost finished by the creek is a new, exciting adventure I’m looking forward to doing with him.

Making it my own is exciting and I can’t wait to finally feel settled.

“I’ll sleep in your old room, just like old times,” I reassure him. “I’ve got everything under control. Y’all have fun and don’t worry about a thing with the farmstead.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods. “I know, but no one else will be there.”

“The employees will be around during the day. It’s just one night,” I remind him.

He nods again, pulling me in for one last kiss before slipping into the car that Lawson’s driving.

This is his final week of parole, the last stretch before he can drive himself outside the city limits without needing an approved guardian.

Eight long weeks of monitoring, therapy, and community service are coming to a close, and culminating in the grand opening of the family’s Charlotte bar and restaurant.

I know how much this moment means to him—the relief, the freedom, the excitement of finally moving forward with his life.

And I couldn’t be more ready to step into this new chapter with him.

As his wife. By his side. Not just as his friend or parole officer, but as the woman who gets to build a life with him.

The grand opening of the brewery isn’t just another business venture for the Marshalls.

It’s the culmination of years of relentless effort, spearheaded by Troy, the eldest of the family.

He battled against countless roadblocks—stubborn city officials, an uncooperative mayor, and a sheriff with a vendetta—facing resistance at every turn.

For the Marshalls, this isn’t just about launching a business; it’s about reclaiming a part of their story, transforming painful memories of Colt’s past into a brighter, shared future.

Our professional relationship officially ended days ago.

All the paperwork—mine and his therapist’s—was submitted to the judge and approved.

Still, this last painful week requires Colt to stay within the county limits unless granted special approval to travel.

Even then, there are strict time constraints.

To avoid any risks of a violation, Lawson volunteered to drive him and Cash to Charlotte for tonight’s celebration.

The whole family booked hotel rooms to stay in the city overnight.

It’s only a two-hour drive from Whitewood Creek, but with the alcohol I’m sure they’ll be consuming at the brewery’s grand opening, this was the safest plan.

And honestly, knowing he’s so close to freedom and everything we’ve been working toward, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if it means being away from him for the first time since we’ve officially gotten together.

The taillights disappear around the bend, swallowed by trees and dusk.

Silence rushes in too fast, too heavy. I stand there for a second longer than necessary, gripping Roxy’s collar and wondering if he’ll turn back around for one last kiss.

My hand feels oddly empty, and I hate how quickly I’ve gotten used to Colt’s presence—his laugh in the kitchen of his RV, the weight of his hand on my lower back, the low rumble of his voice filling the quiet and the way he’s always paying attention.

I shake it off. “Come on, girl,” I whisper. “We’ll get some packing done then head back to your home to rest.”

Rest. The word almost makes me laugh. There hasn’t been much of that since Colt proposed.

He’s been insatiable, and I’ve been just as guilty.

It feels like we’re trying to make up for lost time, time we hadn’t even realized we’d been missing each other.

We’ve often gone into work exhausted, wired from copious amounts of caffeine and sex but with zero regrets.

The drive to my duplex is short, but as I pull into the driveway and step out, a strange unease washes over me.

The place feels cold, almost foreign—like stepping into a memory that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

Dust floats in the shaft of light cutting across the hardwood floor.

The curtains I once proudly picked out with Regan—yellow linen with little wildflowers stitched in the corners—now feel out of place, too cheerful in the hush that’s settled over everything.

It’s been over four weeks since I last set foot here, and though I’d once been proud of this little space—my sanctuary after the divorce—it now feels hollow. Clinical. Lonely. Nothing like how I thought it’d feel to have my own place.

I move through the quiet rooms, gathering the last of the kitchen items that I need to pack. Roxy stands ramrod straight in the living room, her ears perked, her gaze fixed on the front door.

“What is it, girl?” I ask, walking over to scratch behind her ears. But she doesn’t move, her focus is locked in on the doorway like she hears something.

I glance out the window, flicking off the lights to see better, but the street outside is quiet and empty with the exception of my neighbors’ car.

It’s just in your head.

Deciding not to take any chances, I grab my overnight bag and decide to call it quits. “Come on, girl. Let’s head back to the farm.”

I nudge her toward the door, but unease gnaws at me.

I wish I’d brought a leash. Roxy has never needed one; Colt has trained her to perfect obedience without one, but tonight, as we step outside, I can’t help but wish for the extra sense of control as I notice just how vigilant and out of character she’s acting.

The unease crystallizes into fear when a voice emerges from the shadows on the other side of my neighbor’s car.

“Molly.”

One word. Soft, male. Unmistakable.

I go still, air freezing in my lungs. A single bead of sweat slides down my spine, cold as ice. My stomach plummets.

No. No, it can’t be. Not here. Not now.

But I know that voice. I know it the way you know fire—by the scorch it left behind. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed, or how hard I’ve tried to forget, I’d recognize that voice in any lifetime.

I freeze, Roxy presses hard against my leg, her body tense. Slowly, I turn toward the source of the voice. A figure steps around the car—the only other car that I noticed was parked in the lot and my heart pounds in my chest.

It’s not in your head anymore. He’s here.