Page 10 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

“No, wait, please tell me what happened again,” James swipes at his eyes, tears rolling down his face as he tries to hold back his laughter.

?? He’s sprawled out on the edge of my bed in the cottage we’ve been sharing all summer when he’s in town, laughing so hard I’m half-worried he might throw up on the brand-new silk sheets I indulged in to celebrate my stay in New York.

“Come on, it isn’t that funny.” Okay, even I know my interview with Troy Marshall is equal parts bizarre, confusing, and hilarious.

“You’re really about to nanny for the same guy whose cock you sat on in the country club steam room?”

“I mean, it wasn’t just his penis that I sat on.

It was a good mixture of thigh, cock, and pelvis - at least, I think.

The thing was massive, I couldn’t have dodged it if I’d tried.

” I toss that last bit in just to keep him going because I know it’ll get him laughing even harder.

This is what we do—no doubt, we’re the most immature adults in the Hamptons, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

He finally catches his breath and sits forward, pressing his fingers into his sides to stop the laughter as if he can push it back into his gut. “Did it slip inside of you?”

“No! Oh my god, James, there was no way that thing could slip anywhere. And stop talking about it!” I try to straighten my face but end up doubling over in laughter again.

“How am I going to do this? I have to be professional now. He’s my employer.

And a grandpa! I can’t think about his enormous package every time I look at him. ”

“You don’t have to do shit,” he shoots back laughing again. “It sounds like he needs some humor in his life. Please tell me he didn’t get hard after you sat on it?”

“He was flaccid!” He definitely wasn’t once he started gripping it. But I leave that part out.

James shakes his head. “He better have been. That guy has a tight reputation in New York. I still can’t believe that he’s the random stranger you sat on. I bet he was as uncomfortable as hell with you in there.”

When I first told James the story months ago, I left out the part about him fisting his cock and the sexual tension that I’d felt.

But now, after spending more time around Troy, I’m starting to wonder if I imagined the whole thing.

Because there’s no way the gruff, silver-templed politician—the condescending lawyer I interviewed with yesterday—is the same man who stroked himself in front of me, then wrapped me in a towel like I was something delicate, something worth protecting, in that country club steam room.

“So, you’re all packed up?” James asks, shifting the conversation away from Troy and back towards the real reason he’s here. My move out of here.

“I think so.” I take one last look around the small house that I’ve called home for the last four months—and for five, blissful summers before that. I sigh nostalgically. “It really is a cute cottage. I hope whoever lives here next has as much fun as we have.”

“You don’t have to take this job, you know.” James crosses the room and wraps his arms around me, his embrace protective and reassuring.

He knows I’m anxious about the change. We’ve always been in tune that way—like an unspoken bond that picks up right where we left off, no matter how much time has passed.

He’s like the big brother I never had, an honorary cousin to Wilder and Cody Cameron, who’ve always felt more like brothers than actual cousins.

“I know,” I say, turning to smile at him, “but this is good for me. I’m not ready to go back to Texas or my old life, and he really does need help.

The guy has a two-year-old grandson who’s been with the same nanny since he was a baby, but she can’t keep up with him anymore.

I don’t want him to be shuffled between sitters while Troy is off traveling, campaigning, and advising politicians.

The kid’s parents aren’t even in the picture. How sad is that?”

James studies me for a moment, then nods. “It’s pretty messed up. I get it. I had a revolving door of nannies growing up. My parents never gave me any consistency.”

“Exactly. At least I can be that for Liam because I’m not going anywhere,” I say, feeling more confident in my decision now.

This is the right move. “And Troy’s barely around.

He’s leaving for a business trip next week, so it’ll just be me and Liam most days.

I doubt I’ll even see him. Plus, I’ll still be here in the Hamptons, so you can come visit whenever you need a break from the city, and we can take Liam out on the town. ”

He grins. “You know I’ll be here as often as I can.”

I rise on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek affectionately. “Good. Now be the amazing best friend you are and drop me off at Mr. Marshall’s address on your way back to New York City, please?”

James stoops down, effortlessly grabbing my bag from the floor and slinging it over his shoulder as we lock up the cottage. The key clicks into the lock pad, a quiet finality, and then we’re off—just a short drive to Mr. Marshall’s estate.

The ride is silent, but my mind isn’t. I watch the familiar beach houses blur past, their weathered charm so ingrained in my memory from countless summer days that I barely notice them anymore.

But then the landscape shifts. The road curves into a gated stretch of coastline, where exclusivity is measured in sprawling lawns and security cameras.

The Smiths’ beach home—the one I once thought of as impressive—now feels laughably modest in comparison.

And then, there it is. The Marshall estate.

A towering three-story masterpiece perched on the shore, its wraparound porch hugging the house like an embrace, offering what must be panoramic views of the water.

The pristine white siding gleams, and the floor-to-ceiling windows catch the light just right, making the entire house glow like something out of a luxury magazine.

Polished. Imposing. Perfect.

Just like Troy.

“Damn,” James mutters, eyeing the place as we pull up. “I knew Troy was a big shot—seen him around town working with the mayor—but I didn’t know he was living like this. What position did you say he was running for?”

“I don’t know...” I respond because Troy still hasn’t filled me in on that and I’ve yet to search his name. Maybe I’m na?ve in not doing better research before interviewing, or accepting this position but I think it adds a little surprise to my life.

He pulls into the driveway and hops out, slinging my bag over his shoulder again while grabbing my roller suitcase with his other hand.

As we reach the front door, I press the doorbell, feeling a bit awkward.

I consider telling James he can go now, but I know he wouldn’t leave without making sure I’m safe.

He’s always been protective, but after what Troy said about visitors, specifically other men, I’m not sure if his presence is going to cause more harm than good.

Before I can decide on what to do, the door opens, and Troy’s standing there, more casually dressed than I’ve ever seen him, though I guess I’ve only ever met him twice now. Once in a suit and the other time stark naked.

Dark jeans, a light green collared shirt unbuttoned at the top that makes the green flecks in his hazel eyes pop, and his deep brown hair styled without care. The faintest hint of salt water and coconut wafts towards me through the open door mixed with coffee.

He gives James a once-over, and his expression shifts—brows furrowing, lips thinning.

“Georgia,” he nods curtly, barely glancing in my direction.

James steps forward and extends his hand. “Hello. I’m James Whitmore, Georgia’s friend.”

Troy shakes it, and I can instantly feel the tension that’s oozing between the two men.

Neither of them looks willing to break the handshake first, and I want to disappear.

It’s like a silent pissing contest that I desperately want no part of—especially not between my boss and my honorary big brother.

“Thanks for dropping me off, James,” I say, trying to break the awkwardness and hint that it’s time for him to go.

I should’ve warned him that Troy doesn’t like strangers around his grandson, but here we are, and James clearly isn’t ready to budge now that Troy’s being his typical broody and demanding self.

“Liam isn’t here,” Troy says flatly, his eyes now locked on mine as he drops James’s hand. Or maybe James does. I can’t tell who let go first. “If you’d like your friend to bring your bags inside before he leaves, he’s welcome to.”

Troy opens the door wider, a gesture that feels like a taunt, but since Liam’s not around, I shrug, not interested in playing into whatever is going on between the two of them.

“Sure.” Hey, he offered, and I’d rather not carry my bags up three stories.

I gesture for James to follow me inside as he hauls my bags in with ease.

The air between us is thick with Troy’s stern, emotionless tone, and I already dread not pushing harder to stay at the cottage.

I knew he was all business from the interview, and I sensed his seriousness the night we met in the steam room, but this level of coldness is unnerving and unwelcoming.

At least I won’t have to see him much.

I take a deep breath, count to five and remind myself that nannying is really always about the kids anyway. It was rare that I spent any time around Mr. and Mrs. Smith and likely, will be even more rare that I run into Troy Marshall.

This is fine. Totally fine.

“Your room’s upstairs, second door on the right. Private bathroom. Liam’s is on the other side of the hallway,” Troy says, his voice clipped and professional.

I nod, already halfway up the stairs. “And where’s your room?”

His eyes narrow, and I instantly regret the way that question came out.

“I’m asking because I wouldn’t want to disturb you,” I explain.