Page 11 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

“Opposite end of the hall,” he replies flatly before turning away. “Come to the kitchen when you’re done unpacking. I’ll walk you through Liam’s routine. I leave for my business trip in the morning, so my free time is limited tonight.”

I’m half tempted to stick my tongue out at the back of his handsome, perfectly styled head but then I swear I hear a sigh, so I restrain myself, turn and race up the stairs with James hot on my feet.

When I reach my new room, I’m surprised at how spacious it is—far bigger than I’d expected.

But the décor? It’s like walking into a beige nightmare.

Everything’s neutral: white comforter, beige walls, white carpet, brown dressers.

The room is pristine but utterly lifeless, styled exactly like the downstairs.

If this reflects Mr. Marshall’s personality, it explains a lot. I bet a camel would enjoy living here.

James frowns, scanning the room. “Well, this is the opposite of how you decorated the cottage. Fits Mr. Marshall’s style though—bland, boring, uptight.”

I laugh, but deep down, I wonder if there’s more to Troy than his buttoned-up exterior. Four months ago, I caught a glimpse of something different in that steam room, but who knows? Maybe this serious, business-only version is all there is.

“It’s fine, I’ll make it my own.” I grab a handful of clothes from my suitcase and stuff them into the dresser, not bothering folding or hanging anything up.

“I’ll be okay,” I say, flashing James a big smile, though I’m not sure I believe it.

There’s something about having Troy’s presence looming in this house that feels suffocating—not just because of our awkward first encounter, but because he’s so tightly wound, I feel like no matter what I do, it’ll be wrong.

I can’t stand being around people who are hyper critical.

Lowering my voice, I say, “You should probably go now.”

James taps his foot, and I can tell he’s reluctant to leave me just yet. “I don’t like leaving you here, but to be fair, I haven’t heard anything bad about him. Even if he’s a bulldog, he doesn’t have a playboy reputation and has never been in the headlines before.”

“What exactly have you heard?” I ask, rubbing my temples.

“He’s ruthless with his political consulting—gets results, though.

If a candidate hires him, they’re basically guaranteed to win their race.

Beyond that, his personal life is incredibly private but no one who knows him has anything bad to say about him.

It’s just all politics. It’s like he doesn’t have a personal life. ”

Okay... already knew most of that.

“Mr. Smith mentioned something about him gunning for a government job?”

James shrugs. “It wouldn’t surprise me. I didn’t even know he had a two-year-old grandson. He keeps that quiet too, it seems.”

I nod. Oh well, too late for second thoughts and doubting my decision now.

“Alright, well, I love you. Don’t forget—Hamptons White Party’s next Friday at the Club. I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday?” he says.

I nod, remembering that Troy had said Liam’s former nanny would have him on the weekends so that I would get off work.

“Yeah, sure.” I wrap my arms around James one last time before he pulls away, already heading for the stairs.

“If I don’t hear from you in twenty-four hours, I’m coming back!” he calls over his shoulder, loud enough for Troy to hear in the kitchen.

I wince. Great. Troy’s going to love that.

The door clicks shut behind me, sealing me into the unfamiliar quiet. I exhale, pressing my back against the wood for just a second before pushing off and making my way to the bed. I sink onto the mattress. It feels brand new and way too hard for my preference.

Basically, like everything in this house.

Sharp angles, bland colors, paintings on the wall with no personality, stiff sheets that have yet to be broken in. Nerves twist in my stomach and my palms begin to sweat.

Okay, time to face the music.

***

A few minutes later, I’m seated at the kitchen table across from Troy while he rapidly shares Liam’s schedule with me.

“His nap is at noon,” Troy says, his tone firm.?

“Got it,” I reply.

“And bedtime is no later than 7o’clock sharp.”

I nod, watching as Troy sighs, his jaw clenching and unclenching in that familiar way from my interview. His large, calloused hands rest on the glass kitchen table, and I can’t help but stare at the veins that run across the top of them.

Why are they so rough if he works solely in politics? I hadn’t noticed any tools or gym equipment lying around, but he clearly works out based on the bulging muscles beneath his clothing.

Maybe he plays the guitar? Not that I saw one lying around, but hell, with hands like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did something unexpected in his spare time.

If he has any. Not that I should be thinking about his hands.

Or his face. Or any part of him, really.

For a guy who’s forty-two, he looks more like he’s in his thirties and though I never thought I’d be into an older man, Troy’s face is distracting.

Body too.

“Are you going to write any of this down?” he asks, voice full of annoyance dragging me out of my daydreaming.

I shrug. “No need. I’ve been a nanny for years. I took care of both Evie and Ember from newborns to well past two. Two-year-olds aren’t all that different.”

Clench.

Unclench.

Clench.

Unclench.

“Were you this strict with your son?” I ask, trying to distract him from cracking a molar.

He was just twenty years old when had him—that couldn’t have been easy.

I’d love to know how he managed it while finishing his law degree and beginning his career, but something tells me that’s a topic Troy doesn’t want to discuss. At least not with me.

Maybe not with anyone.

Is Troy divorced? Where’s Max’s mom?

His jaw tightens—so hard I wonder if his dentist has warned him about stress fractures. A muscle ticks in his cheek, his nostrils flare, and for a second, I think he’s about to snap. But then he exhales, measured and controlled, forcing himself back into that perfectly composed shell.

He’s holding back, restraining himself from saying what he really wants to express.

There’s a part of me that’s curious about what he’s like when he’s not so buttoned-up, stripped down like he was in the steam room, but another part thinks it might be terrifying to see that side of him in the light of day, away from the protection of the steam.

Even seeing him in casual clothes today feels deeply unsettling.

“I kept Max on a strict routine,” he replies, his voice tight. “Routine is important. It gives children predictability. Helps them feel secure when they know what to expect next and when. Adults, too. Humans were created to adhere to schedules, the seasons, plans.”

“Okay...” I draw out the word, not sure how to respond because I completely disagree with him.

Is he implying I don’t have routine in my personal life?

When I nannied Evie and Ember, we had general guidelines for naps and meals, but every day was a little different.

They thrived on the adventure of it all.

The magic in the surprise and allowing the day to unfold naturally without so much rigor.

“I’m not against routines if that’s what you’re hinting at.

But I don’t need to write anything down.

I’ll put Liam down for his nap around noon and get him to bed by seven each night.

You hired me for a reason, so I’d appreciate it if you trust that I’ll make sure Liam always has a safe, fun, and educational day.

I don’t need to micromanage every second of his time to make sure that happens. ”

He checks his watch, completely ignoring my response as if my words are beneath his consideration. It’s like he’s already decided I’m going to do a shitty job when I know this will be fine.

At least he hasn’t fired me yet.

Even if I don’t crave structure in my personal life, I can separate work from the rest. That said, I’m not going to parent the way I'm sure Troy would. Kids thrive in moments of free play, the wild and spontaneous days where they discover things on their own. They don’t learn by being confined to rigid schedules or being forced to sit and memorize things.

Especially Liam, who, according to Troy, isn’t talking much at two-years-old.

That’s something I want to help with, but sitting down with flashcards?

No thanks. Neither of us would get much out of that except a lot of tears.

Mostly from me.

“Liam’s back in twenty minutes. Eleanor’s dropping him off. Prep dinner now, bedtime routine starts in an hour. I leave tomorrow morning—gone all week. The fridge is stocked. Questions?”

I shake my head because geez, this guy’s like a drill sergeant.

My gaze catches on his and holds. The sun is slipping below the horizon now, its last golden rays catching his eyes, turning them into swirling caramel.

I want to ask where he’s going on his trip, if he’s happy—because the man sitting in front of me doesn’t look like he is.

And life is too damn short to spend it miserable.

But instead, I respond with “Nope. I’ll be ready when Liam arrives.”

He stands, nodding. “If you need anything during the week, try my admin Diane first. She has access to my accounts and can help with anything minor. She also knows my schedule and the best way to get in touch with me, no matter where I am.”

I nod again, wondering if I’ll even get a ‘thank you’ or something that feels a little less robotic and demanding.

He hesitates, his fingers pressing into the edge of the table before pulling away. A breath in, a slow exhale and he blinks slowly. “Okay, well…” His voice drops, quieter than before. “Good luck.”

That’s it. No thanks, no thumbs-up. Just a ’ good luck taking care of my grandson. ’

I toss him a thumbs-up anyway, which only makes his brows furrow, lips press into a tight line, and head shake in disapproval. Without another word, he turns and heads upstairs probably to rage pack his suitcase and curse me out.

I remain at the kitchen table, my gaze drifting out the large bay windows toward the sparkling ocean.

Troy Marshall is going to be a tough nut to crack.

But I’m not sure I even want to crack him.

There’s an undercurrent of what feels like sadness beneath that rigid exterior, a past I wouldn’t mind unraveling—though I doubt he’ll ever let me close enough or be around enough for me to try.

I can’t blame him for being frustrated. Becoming the guardian of a two-year-old grandson while your son’s halfway across the world, on top of everything else he’s juggling, can’t be easy.

But the stormy energy he’s bringing home isn’t going to help Liam learn and thrive.

So, if Mr. Marshall’s determined to be a storm cloud, I’ll focus on being the sunshine in Liam’s world.

In that moment, I decide. My job isn’t just to care for Liam—it’s to make sure he laughs, that he feels safe, that he never has to shrink under the weight of someone else’s storm. Because if Troy’s determined to be a thundercloud, then I’ll be the sun Liam needs.