Page 16 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

Earlier that day… ??

“Dinosaur,” Liam says as he points at the sky above us. His sticky fingers tighten around mine, still smeared with melted ice cream.

“That is a dinosaur!” I cheer as we both stop to look up at the mylar balloon tied to a sign outside of the ice cream shop we just exited.

He grins widely, letting go of my hand before breaking into a silly dance—a mix of flapping his arms like chicken wings and wiggling like a worm. I laugh and join in, not caring about the curious stares from strangers who are passing by.

It’s Friday, and my first week as Liam’s nanny is ending. Eleanor had texted earlier, apologizing for running late to pick him up for the weekend, but I haven’t minded the extra time. Liam and I bonded in less than an hour on Monday morning, and by the end of the week we’ve become best buds.

The quiet, shy two-year-old I’d met at the start of the week has completely transformed into an outgoing toddler.

He’s gone from saying a few simple words to practicing short sentences, and he’s always either holding my hand or begging me to carry him.

His toddler body isn’t small, so I learned quickly that carrying him around would double as my daily workout—something I forgot Evie and Ember used to demand at this age too.

Our first week together has been a blur of sand and sun, spent playing at the beach or lounging at the country club, wringing out every last drop of summer in New York before it slips away.

I half-expected Troy to check in at some point—he seems like the type who’d hover, micro-manage, maybe even demand a daily status report on Liam’s sleeping and eating.

But instead, I got a call from his executive assistant, Diane, on Thursday.

Her tone was brisk, efficient. She asked if I had everything I needed, if I had any questions, and—her exact words—whether Liam was still alive.

Seriously.

I assured her that, yes, I was fine, no, I didn’t need anything, and yes, Liam was very much still breathing. She seemed satisfied with that and promptly ended the call, saying she’d pass the message along to Mr. Marshall.

The whole thing left me unsettled. Diane clearly runs a tight ship, managing Troy’s business with military precision, but the fact that he didn’t reach out himself?

That gnawed at me. How could anyone be so consumed by work that they wouldn’t even want to check in on their grandson after leaving him with a complete stranger?

I push the thought away, storing it for later, tacking it onto the growing list of things I plan to ask Troy Marshall—someday. Maybe when we become friends.

Friends.

Ha.

Now that it’s Friday, I know Troy should be heading back to the Hamptons soon—at least, according to the schedule he rattled off last Sunday. I try not to dwell on what that means. That we’ll be sharing a house. Alone. Together. The whole weekend.

Without Liam as a buffer.

Nope. Not thinking about it.

With Troy gone, the house finally breathes.

Lighter. Quieter. Almost like it belongs to me now.

I’ve kept the windows open all week, letting in the sunlight and a fresh ocean breeze that’s filled every corner.

With Troy gone, the place finally feels like a real beach house, not some dark, treehouse tucked away in the woods where light can’t reach.

A ′ sad beige home,′ is how I described it to James.

Liam and I even took a trip to our local Home Goods to pick out some colorful throw pillows for the living room, adding a bit of life to the space.

We bought a few more toys—trucks, tractors, stuffed animals for his room, and new floaties for swim practice at the clubhouse.

All things Troy either refused to or hadn’t thought to buy.

To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s had to play the role of dad, so I’m trying to cut him some slack, even as I mentally struggle to come up with five positives things about him while Liam and I make the lazy walk back from our Saturday outing.

One : He cares enough to have his assistant check in on us, even if he doesn’t call himself.

Two : He’s taking care of Liam when he could’ve pushed that responsibility back onto Liam’s parents.

Three …

I pause, trying to think of a third positive thing about him.

Dammit. I can’t think of a third thing beyond his massive dick.

We turn the corner to our street when Liam suddenly lets go of my hand, squealing loudly, “Ellie!” he shouts, racing towards his weekend nanny who is standing in the driveway of the home.

“Good morning, Eleanor!” I call out in a sing-song voice, and Liam mimics me perfectly, his little voice chiming, “Good moaning Ellie!”

Eleanor is a beautiful, older woman with salt and pepper hair who I’ve learned is like a grandmother to Liam and from what little I got from Troy before he left, Liam adores her. I can see why. She radiates sunshine, warmth, and maternal energy.

She scoops him up, kissing his chubby cheeks and spinning him around as he squeals in delight.

“Thanks for keeping him a little longer today Georgia,” she says with a warm smile.

“No problem. We had a fun morning at the beach and even got ice cream.” I grin, ruffling Liam’s hair affectionately.

His large round brown eyes look anxious, glancing between me and Eleanor as if he’s trying to make sense of what’s about to happen. I crouch down to his eye level and squeeze his hand tightly.

“I’ll be right here waiting on Monday morning when Eleanor drops you off. We’ll spend the whole week together again, okay? I’ll see you in two days.” I hold up two fingers and count with him. “One, two. Just like how old you are!”

He grins, not quite ready to grasp the concept of counting yet, but it seems like he understands the reassurance that I’ll still be here when he comes back. I give him a hug then straighten up as I watch her strap him into his car seat then wave goodbye.

It’s the first time I’ve been alone in the house since Troy left on his business trip, and though the urge to snoop around is strong, I respect his boundaries and privacy and decide to restrain myself.

Plus, what if he has cameras in here?

I smirk, wondering if I should test that theory. James and his constant daring me to do ridiculous things pops into my mind, and I decide, screw it. Let’s see if Mr. Marshall is into voyeurism.

I head upstairs, taking an extra-long shower, scrubbing every inch of my body, and shaving everything from my armpits down for tonight’s big event.

After toweling off, I head back downstairs to make myself lunch, still completely naked and enjoying the freedom to move about.

Once my sandwich is expertly assembled, I plot down onto one of his kitchen chairs and begin enjoying the food, completely forgetting where I am and what I’m doing when suddenly my phone pings with a message from next to me.

Mr. Marshall : Did Eleanor come pick up Liam yet?

“Oh, so now you remember you have my number and can check in on your grandson,” I mutter under my breath, rolling my eyes as I set my phone back down and take another bite of my sandwich.

Mr. Grumpy Pants can wait until I finish my lunch.

But before I can even finish chewing, my phone pings again.

My brows bunch together as I glance at the screen, seeing Troy’s name.

Mr. Marshall : Apologies for not checking in earlier this week. Brutal few days.

I look around the kitchen, craning my neck to see if he has some sort of listening device propped up that I didn’t notice.

No cameras are visible, but I still feel extremely vulnerable.

It’d been a joke, mostly, to walk around his house naked and test my theory.

I didn’t actually think he’d have cameras inside here, or be checking them.

But the hair on the back of my neck is standing up now and I get the eerie sense that I’m definitely being watched.

A large glob of mustard drips from my meal onto the glass kitchen table.

“Ah, shit,” I set down the sandwich, jump up to grab some napkins and then return to the table but this time, I knock over my entire glass of sweet tea. “No!”

I’m frantically cleaning up the mess when my phone vibrates again alerting me to yet another message. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I shout out into the silent home.

Mr. Marshall : I can see that you’ve read my messages. I get a read notification. I don’t like to be kept waiting. I’m an impatient man and about to board my flight, Ms. Cameron.

Oh, fuck you, Troy.

I drop the wet, wad of napkins onto the table then shoot the angriest glare I can muster all around the walls of the kitchen, even though I have no idea if he’s actually watching me or from what angle.

It’s in your head, Georgia.

But just for good measure, I flip a big middle finger and do a 360 spin, pointing it angrily at every crevice in the space – just to cover my bases.

Then I wipe my hands carefully on the lone napkin that isn’t soaked in sweet tea and get to typing.

Georgia : Why, yes, Mr. Marshall. So sorry to keep you waiting with your packed schedule and important life. Your grandson Liam had a fantastic week with me. Thank you for asking. Drop off this morning went pleasantly, and he is safely with Ms. Eleanor until my pickup on Monday morning.

Georgia : Not all of us operate on ‘Troy Marshall Standard Time,’ sitting around waiting for their boss to send them a text message that they must reply to instantly. I didn’t even know you had my phone number.

Mr. Marshall: Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Georgia.

Georgia : Nothing about my response was sarcastic, Mr. Marshall. Just merely keeping things professional and to the point. Something that you’re very good at.

I press send, glaring at my screen as the message turns to ‘ Read .’

No response. Typical.

Whatever.

Hopefully, he’s boarding his plane now and will leave me in peace to get ready for tonight’s party.

After cleaning up the rest of the mess and tossing the napkins in the trash, I throw away the remains of my lunch, no longer having an appetite.

A quick scan of the room confirms everything looks just as spotless as when Troy left six days ago, maybe even better considering every night after Liam goes to bed, I do a thorough sweep—mopping, vacuuming, wiping things down—just in case he shows up early.

I know how frustrating it is to come home to a messy home and it’s the same thing I used to do when watching Evie and Ember but I’m also not trying to get on his bad side.

Unless I’m already on it.

Satisfied, I turn on my heel, ready to start getting dressed, but my phone buzzes again in my palm.

Troy: You missed a spot.