Page 12 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

I can never sleep on planes.

Not when my grandson is a thousand miles away. Not when my son’s on a different continent. And not when a maddening, infuriating woman has occupied more space in my mind than I’m willing to admit.

If I’m not worrying about whether I’m making the right decisions for Liam, then I’m stressing over where Max is in the world and whether he’s making smart choices—or if I’m about to end up with another surprise grandchild dropped off at my doorstep.

And if it’s not my immediate family, then it’s the Marshall farmstead, the upcoming election, Colt, and now Georgia —the woman who crashed into my life and I can’t seem to stop thinking about, no matter how hard I try.

The overhead air jets on the plane switch from cool to warm air as we descend, immediately taking me back to that moment in the hot, steamy room.

I had no way of knowing she was the woman from that night months ago.

And if I had known, I can’t say I would have done things differently.

The steam room had caught me off guard, a rare moment of unpredictability in my carefully curated life.

I rarely indulge in women or alcohol these days, but after my third glass of whiskey while meeting with a difficult client at the club, I’d been savoring the peace and quiet of the sauna, letting the warmth settle in, finally free of the constant hum of work and the weight of a thousand responsibilities that knock at the door to my mind.

That brief moment of peace was shattered when she entered the room and sat down on me — naked.

It was completely out of line—unprofessional, inappropriate, borderline harassment allowing her to stay standing in in front of me as long as she did. Yet I couldn’t look away from her intoxicating form.

And neither could she.

There was a tension between us, palpable, like a force neither of us could quite control.

Wrapping her in a towel and sending her on her way was the only logical thing to do.

The steam was thick enough that I hoped she wouldn’t recognize me, wouldn’t piece together who I was behind the low profile I work so hard to maintain in a city of millions.

And I thought that would be the end of it.

But when she showed up for the interview, I realized just how wrong I’d been.

She’s qualified, that’s a given, but I didn’t have to hire her even though I was desperate for a replacement to Eleanor. I hired her mostly because I feel a strong desire to keep her close.

I shake my head, forcing my mind away from Georgia and her persistent need to disregard my instructions. One of the few people in my life who dares to talk back to me, and I admit it’s an infuriating blend of frustrating and... sexy?

My thoughts drift to my younger brothers and sister—the ones I’m about to see for the first time in years.

Even though I’m the oldest, the one who left North Carolina for New York City well over a decade ago with a law degree in hand, they never let me forget where I came from.

They’ve given me hell for walking away from the farm, for taking Max with me, for choosing a life so far removed from the one we all grew up in together.

Even if they understand why I had to go.

Thirty minutes later, the wheels touch down with a jolt, and I’m already unbuckling my seatbelt before the plane slows on the runway. The urgency settles low in my chest—a familiar, restless pull toward home, though I’m still not sure if it’s comfort or confrontation waiting for me there.

As soon as I clear the terminal, I spot my driver and stride toward the car, eager to put the airport behind me. The moment I settle into the back seat, I pull out my phone and dial my executive assistant, Diane.

“Hi, Mr. Marshall. How was your flight?”

“Fine. Can you check in with Ms. Cameron on Thursday? See how she’s doing with Liam, and if she needs anything. I don’t want to smother her, but I want to make sure we’re available if she needs help—maybe Eleanor can fill in if needed.”

“Of course, sir. Was there anything in particular that you’re worried about?”

The fact that I barely gave her any instruction and then left for a week to another state.

“No. The Smiths vouched for her, and she was clear that she could handle it. Please don’t tell her it’s me checking in.”

Mostly because I can’t afford to piss her off and try to find a new nanny during election season.

“Great. I’ll check-in with her on Thursday and will not mention you’ve asked me to. Do you need anything sent over for your presentation on Wednesday?”

I rub my jaw, feeling the stubble that’s already creeping in.

No matter how often I shave, my dark beard always manages to make its reappearance within hours.

It’s a genetic curse, or blessing, that I’ve had to make peace with, even though it means I’m constantly shaving to look presentable for the endless consultations and meetings I attend.

“I think I’m all set for Cooper & Sons , but could you send a few extra razor blades to the farm’s address?”

“Absolutely. And what about your visit with Colt on Friday?”

I pause for a moment. Diane knows everything about me.

That was part of the deal when I hired her—no secrets.

As my executive assistant for over a decade, she’s proven herself to be the keeper of my most sensitive matters when I was a lawyer, and now a political consultant, including the difficult situation with my youngest sibling, Colton.

“I’ve got that covered for now, but let’s touch base after I talk to his lawyer. I need to get the latest on the appeal.”

“Understood, Mr. Marshall. Reach out anytime.”

She hangs up, and I appreciate the efficiency.

No need for pleasantries. Strictly business.

It’s the New York way—something I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to after coming from small town, southern charm, but now?

I can’t imagine life without it. People in the south are too focused on appeasing feelings and emotions and less on taking action.

And those people include the ones I grew up around in my small, hometown of Whitewood Creek, North Carolina.

The massive infrastructure of Charlotte fades away, transforming into nothing but farmland and one lane roads lined with peach trees.

Their branches are full of heavy, ripe fruit, while vast fields of farmland sprawl out in every direction.

Neatly fenced pastures dotted with grazing cattle and rows of corn sway in the breeze.

Poultry farms spread over the land, their weathered barns and coops scattered among the orchards.

I roll down the windows, taking in the fresh, now early October air. It smells of earth, animals, and a hint of hay, while the quiet hum of tractors and the distant noise of farm machinery create the perfect soundtrack to this serene, rural landscape.

The closer I get to my childhood home at Whitewood Creek Farmstead and Distillery, the more I smell it.

Fresh, North Carolina, mountain air.

Our farm thrives because we run the cleanest, most ethical operation in all the state.

Our standards for cleanliness, humane practices, and ethics are unmatched.

That’s why the usual stench of chickens is almost non-existent compared to the other poultry farms the make up the states’ economy.

But no matter how much ventilation, masking, or scrubbing we do, you can’t fully escape the smell of fresh manure.

Whitewood Creek Farmstead, nestled in the mountains of North Carlina, is one of only two farms in the entire state that ethically and humanely raise chickens solely for egg production.

We’re a no-kill farm, a tradition our family has taken pride in for generations, and it’s the cornerstone of our success.

As millennial and Gen Z consumers become more conscious about the sources of their food, our ethical practices have carved out a niche for us and gained popularity on social media apps.

This popularity allowed us to expand, opening the distillery and producing Whitewood Creek whiskey and spirits over the past five years.

We grow our own organic, non-GMO grains, malt them on-site, and age the liquor ourselves.

It’s a time-consuming labor of love, born from Colt’s passion before he left, and with Lawson’s talent in sales and marketing, Cash's construction knowledge and ability to build just about anything, and Regan’s strength in charming anyone, it’s become a secondary, lucrative venture for our family, one we home to spin into a bar and restaurant soon.

As the driver turns down the long, winding dirt road, the wooden sign marking our family’s farm and businesses sways gently in the breeze.

On either side, fields of corn stretch out, hiding the farm from sight.

Though our focus has consisted of eggs and whiskey, Cash insisted on maintaining the corn harvest to ensure our chickens are fed with nothing but non-genetically modified feed we grow ourselves.

A few miles down the road, we round a bend, and the first thing that comes into view is the large, cabin-style home where my siblings and I grew up.

Sturdy, weathered by time, and filled with more memories than I can count.

A few miles beyond it sits the house I built when Max was born—empty for now, waiting for the day I finally move back, hopefully in November.

Further back, nestled deep in the property’s expanse, is Lawson’s place—the home he built with his own hands, where he’s raising his son, Beckham.