Page 1 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

“The white party is the second week of September,” James reminds me, pointing a French fry in my direction as he nudges another shot across the messy table.?

“There’s no guarantee I’ll still be here then. The Smiths are leaving the first week of September.”

“I already told you, Georgia, my parents can easily find you another nanny gig if you want to stay in the city. And besides, I need you as my date for the party.”

I roll my eyes. “When are you going to settle down with a nice, socialite girl and finally leave that wild cowgirl, Georgia Cameron, behind?” I mimic his mother’s high-pitch voice, giving it my best aristocratic tone.

He flicks the fry at my head and winks. “I like my cowgirl best friend who doesn’t care about these fancy events and would rather sneak off to take shots with me instead.”

I laugh. “So, what’s the plan for tonight? I’ve got the whole day off and don’t have to watch the kids until noon tomorrow.”

A devilish smirk crosses James’ face as he rubs the sun-lightened scruff on his jawline.

“We’re getting wasted, stealing a golfcart and hitting the greens.

Come on!” He grips my hand and yanks me out the door, bursting into the fresh sunlight on the side of the club where the golf carts are all stored.

Fifteen minutes and too many attempts at putting and failing, I groan, gripping the bar near the roof of the cart as James takes another turn a little too fast, nearly tossing us out onto the fresh green.

“This was a terrible idea.”

“No, it’s the best idea. You’ve been here for a week now, and we’ve yet to go golfing. Shame on us!” he shouts over the roar of the engine before pulling up to hole number seventeen and leaping out like we didn’t just down six shots of vodka with our lunch at the clubhouse bar.

We may be twenty-eight years old now, but when James and I get together during the summer, it’s like we’re eighteen again, trying to make up for the months that we miss apart when I’m living back in Texas.

I follow him as he grabs his club, swaggering up to the green like he’s about to win the Masters .

“Take another shot from the bottle,” he says, pointing at the bottle of whiskey we’ve tucked underneath the cart with the clubs. I groan but grab it anyway, lifting it to my lips.

He smiles, pleased, before dropping the ball to the ground and taking a swing—completely missing it. I burst into laughter, collapsing onto the grass as I hold out the bottle to him. Tears stream down James’ face as he laughs with me.

I’m happy for him. I know how hard he works in the city and how stressful his job is.

He’s always talking about moving to the country, living a simpler life and downgrading, but we both know he’s built for the corporate grind and with the privilege he was born into, his family would never allow anything else.

We come from two different worlds, yet somehow, we’ve had this bond since we met—two outgoing souls with pasts covered in both complicated and lighthearted moments.

As the sun sets, James joins me on the grass, leaning against the cart. He swipes the bottle from my hand, taking a long drag.

“What is it about summer in the Hamptons that makes me forget all the darkness and melancholy that creeps in during the winter when I’m living in the city?” he asks.

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Aw, winter in New York City can’t be that bad, can it?”

He side-eyes me. “You’ve never lived here during December. You just head back to your warm, mild weather in Texas during that time. It’d be a lot better if you were here.”

I sigh. “We’ll see…”

We fall into a comfortable silence, his arm draped lazily around my shoulders as the last of the sun dips below the horizon. The warm June air wraps around us, and except for a few stragglers off in the distance on the course, we’re completely alone.

“How are you really doing, Georgia?” James asks, his voice suddenly serious, eyes narrowing in concern.

I know he means well, but it’s a reminder of why I don’t open up often—that concerned look people give when they’re quietly worrying about you and want to check in on your mental health.

It’s also not how James and I operate. We’re both wild, reckless, always pushing each other to the edge and cheering on every bad decision.

Act first, deal with the fallout later. Certainly not an opposites attract friend paring.

So, when he asks me something serious, it catches me off guard, making me uncomfortable in a way I’m not used to being around him.

“I’m good,” I say, nodding. “Yes, I know I don’t have a plan for when the Smiths move to Florida, but I’ll figure it out. I feel like everything is going to work out exactly as it’s intended to.”

Another stretch of silence follows until I break it with a mischievous grin. “Bet you won’t jump in that.” I point to a pond on the course just a few feet away on the other side of the tee.

“Oh, you think I won’t?” he springs to his feet, yanking me up with him as we take off running.

He strips off his shirt, now in just his swim trunks, and I toss my cover-up, diving in behind him, squealing as the cool water hits my skin.

“There aren’t snapping turtles in here, are there?” he asks, flipping on his back to float next to me.

I laugh. Such a city boy thing to ask. “Could be. But after growing up in Texas, if it’s not a scorpion or a bobcat, I’m not worried.”

The sun sets slowly, casting a warm glow across the sky, the full moon already hanging overhead.

I smile up at it, feeling the magic of summer—the promise of more good days ahead.

Away from the city, away from the noise, away from Texas.

It feels like everything is possible out here near the coast yet close to the city. It’s my favorite place to be.

“It’s breathtaking. I really wouldn’t mind staying in the Hamptons, but I could never afford it on my own, and I don’t think I’m cut out for living in New York City.”

James nudges me with his foot from where he’s floating next to me. “Then let’s go into the clubhouse and find you a sugar daddy so that you can stay.”

We flip to our feet, wading out of the pond but not before we notice two men standing nearby on the shoreline, watching us.

Both are dressed like the quintessential preppy, wealthy types who are the exact opposite of everything I find attractive and why I’d never want to live in the city.

One’s wearing a deep blue polo shirt, the other in purple.

Their golf caps are pulled low over their faces, gloves on, slacks neatly pressed.

I guarantee they wear suits Monday through Friday and yell at their administrative assistants to bring them more coffee.

James rolls his eyes at the sight of them, arms crossed like they own the place and are judging us for our reckless swim.

“Politicians,” he murmurs.

He might blend in with these types when I’m not around, but when we’re together, he’s fiercely protective of our bond, always leaning into his carefree, rebellious side.

“Gentlemen,” he says with a nod, grabbing my hand and pulling me up the bank with him.

His grip is firm, protective, and for a second, I feel self-conscious in my skimpy bikini in front of these strangers.

But the tipsiness from earlier still has me giggling and walking with a little more sway in my hips as we stride past them, their annoyance clear as our golf cart blocks their path.

Sliding into the seat, James starts the engine, ready to speed off, but not before I catch the eye of the guy in the navy-blue polo.

His gaze is intense, lingering in a way that sends a shiver down my spine. I’m sure he’s not my type at all, hair probably perfectly coifed, nails way too clean, skin buffed, but there’s something attractive about the way he’s carrying himself.

Polo shirt stretched across a broad chest, tanned skin, hair just a little bit longer underneath his visor brushing at the back of his neck, and legs spread apart like he’s comfortable mounting a horse.

And the way he’s looking at me with such intensity—I shiver—it makes me wonder if I’ll see him again.

And oddly, I kind of hope that I do...