Page 50 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

Two months later...

The Whitewood Creek brewery hums with quiet chaos. Tools clatter, boxes shuffle, and the faint scent of sawdust mixes with fresh paint. I peel off the plastic that’s covering a stool at the bar and then slide into it, the smooth wood cool under my fingertips.

The place already feels alive, even with chairs still wrapped up, and tables awaiting their final polish it looks like it could be ready for customers tomorrow.

Regan darts between tasks, wiping down surfaces and barking orders to whoever’s closest. With just a month left until the grand opening of Whitewood Creek Brewery and Restaurant – Whitewood Chapter , the entire Marshall family is working around the clock to get things together.

“Place looks good,” I say, flipping through the stack of paper menus waiting to be laminated. I grab the first one, slide it into the machine, and watch as the glossy sheet emerges.

One down, a hundred to go.

Colt appears behind me, his large hands wrapping around my waist. He pulls me back into his solid chest, his lips brushing against my ear. “You smell amazing.”

I grin but don’t look up. “Don’t get any ideas, big guy. There’s too much to do today.”

“Leave it to my siblings and let me make love to you,” he teases, his voice low and warm.

I twist to look at him, my eyebrow arching. “I don’t think so. I need their help with planning the wedding you insisted on having in December—at the creek, remember?”

His playful growl rumbles against my back, but I know he’s not mad.

Yes, we finally picked a date. Originally, we thought fall would be perfect, but between the State Fair in November, the distillery and egg farm’s summer rush, and everything else life has thrown at us, it’s been impossible to find time to plan so December it is. Hopefully, a white, winter wedding.

“You’ll survive,” I tease, turning back to the menu. Carefully, I laminate another one, smoothing out any bubbles before adding it to the growing stack.

Regan slides onto a barstool next to me, her wild auburn bun swaying as she moves. Strands of hair escape, framing her flushed, pretty face and bright blue eyes.

“Did you hear the rumors?” she asks breathlessly.

I glance at her, pausing mid-laminate. “What rumors?”

Colt shifts behind me, draping an arm around both our shoulders, leaning in like we’re swapping secrets.

Regan’s lips twitch into a grin. “It’s not confirmed yet, but word around town is the mayor of Whitewood Creek might be in big trouble with city government.”

“What kind of trouble?” I ask, my curiosity instantly piqued.

“The kind that could get him ousted.”

“Yikes. About time,” I mutter. Colt lets out a low grunt, his jaw tightening.

The mayor. Just hearing his title is enough to make my blood boil. He’s one of the key players who buried evidence in Colt’s case, ensuring a longer sentence than he ever should’ve ever served. The thought of him losing his job is almost too satisfying.

Regan leans forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “With the election coming up in November, there’s a good chance he won’t even make it onto the ballot, let alone win.”

“I wonder what that’ll mean for the State Fair,” I say absently, adding another laminated menu to the stack.

Typically, it’s the mayor of our small town who leads planning efforts for the fair. While mostly a figurehead position, the state fair is the most important event in all of North Carolina which means it’s a crucial role to fill. It’s also the largest source of revenue for our small town’s economy.

Before Regan can respond, the front door swings open, the sound of heavy boots echoing against the polished concrete floors. Cash Marshall strides in, larger than life as always, his hair a tousled mess like he’s been wrestling the chickens that he manages all day.

“What are you guys talking about?” he asks, tossing his keys onto the counter and giving us that signature Marshall grin—the one that says he’s here to stir the pot.

Regan spins her stool to face him. “The mayor might be in hot water.”

Cash raises an eyebrow. “Define hot water .”

“The kind that could end with him behind bars, or at least, fired,” I say, unable to hide my smirk.

Cash’s grin widens, that signature playful, mischievous smile of his—the one that could light up a whole damn room and have women tripping over each other for a chance with him.

I swear, Cash Marshall hasn’t had a bad day in his entire life.

To him, every day is sunshine, every challenge is an opportunity, and every setback is just a setup for something better.

But this smile? This one right here is almost blinding, like he’s ready to throw a full-blown party right here in the middle of the half-finished brewery.

“Sounds like cause for celebration to me,” he says, reaching behind the bar to grab a bottle of the family’s whiskey. He pours three generous shots, sliding two our way and keeping one for himself.

Colt shakes his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “No thanks, brother.”

Cash shrugs, unfazed. “More for us, then.” He nudges the glasses toward Regan and me as she laughs easily.

“It’s not even confirmed yet, Cash,” she says, rolling her eyes.

He waves her off, raising his glass. “Details, details. Let’s go ahead and toast to it anyway. Put it out in the universe, and maybe by the time the State Fair planning committee kicks off, we’ll have some new leadership in this town.”

“Cheers to that,” I say, clinking my glass against his.

Colt arches a brow at me, his expression unreadable. He knows. Of course, he knows. We’re trying to have a baby, and after another frustrating cycle of perfectly-timed attempts and carefully-managed expectations, I woke up to my period this morning—again.

Colt keeps saying, it’ll happen, Molly. We just have to keep trying and be patient, but that doesn’t erase the sting of disappointment that comes every month when I see blood.

Still, I lift my glass. Maybe this isn’t the celebration he’d choose, but for me? For the man who tried to ruin my future husband’s life finally getting what he deserves?

Oh, I’ll toast to that every single time.

The whiskey burns warm on its way down, smooth and sweet with just the right bite.

Before I can set the glass back on the counter, Colt’s behind me, his arms wrapping protectively around my waist. He tilts my chin back and presses his lips to mine, slow and tender, tasting of whiskey and full of promise that we’ll be a family someday.

That I’ll see that plus on a pregnancy test soon.

Regan lets out a soft “Aww,” clasping her hands dramatically over her heart. “My best friend and my twin. Love you guys.”

Cash, never one to miss a chance to tease, groans. “If I ever find a Hallmark love like yours, I’ll throw up.”

I laugh, resting my hands on Colt’s arms as he holds me close. But all I can think about is how grateful I am that life brought us here, back together, when everything could’ve gone so much differently.

For a long time, I carried so much resentment for my past. Marrying Jordan? Falling for a man who shattered me so completely? Spending my twenties trapped in a cycle of pain I didn’t know how to escape?

It felt like wasted time, like an endless series of wrong turns leading nowhere. But now, looking back, I see it all differently.

Life isn’t linear. It’s messy and winding, full of storms you think you’ll never survive. And while I would’ve given anything to skip the pain, to avoid the scars that have marred my heart, I know now that sometimes you have to walk through the storm to find the rain.

And this—Colt with his arms around me tight, the warmth of his love steady and unwavering, the excitement over starting a family with him—this is my rain. My fresh start. My new beginning.

I tilt my head back to look up at him, my heart swelling with gratitude. “Love you,” I whisper, and he smiles, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Love you too, Molly. Always.”

THE END.