Page 17 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

The rest of my afternoon—and well into the evening—is spent obsessing over an outfit for the exclusive Hamptons party at the country club and trying not to dwell on the fact that, for the second time since meeting Troy, he’s seen me naked.

Completely by accident.

Okay, maybe not completely by accident.

Because how much of an accident is it, really, to wander around his house, make myself a sandwich, and eat it in the nude ?

I push the thought aside, cranking up some country music to drown out the heat simmering beneath my skin.

The familiar twang of a guitar fills the room as I curl my strawberry-blonde hair into soft, effortless waves, the kind that look like I didn’t spend an hour perfecting them.

My makeup stays simple—barely-there foundation, a sweep of mascara—but I swipe on a bold red lip, because if I’m playing the part tonight, I’m going toownit.

Then comes the dress.

White satin, vintage Gucci. A secondhand treasure I found in the city and couldn’t believe was my size.

It’s loose enough to drape elegantly over my curves but cinches at the waist in just the right way, the hem skimming my thighs with every movement.

The neckline dips into a soft V, enough to hint without revealing too much and the back is completely open.

The fabric catches the light when I turn, making my sun-kissed skin glow from the afternoons spent at the beach with Liam.

I finish the look with delicate gold jewelry—a thin chain necklace with a teardrop pendant that rests just above the neckline, small hoop earrings, a slim bracelet that jingles softly when I move.

None of it is real gold, but I hope it doesn’t look that way.

These parties are a spectacle of wealth, a world I don’t belong to but have no problem slipping into for the night.

For shoes, I go with strappy gold heels, high enough to give me an extra few inches but still comfortable enough to dance in—just in case the night calls for it.

A final spritz of perfume, warm and floral with hints of jasmine and vanilla, settles over my skin lightly. It clings to the air as I make my way downstairs, pouring myself a glass of red wine and sipping carefully, mindful not to smudge my lipstick or spill on my dress.

I look ready. Or at least, I hope I do.

My nerves are already shot from the idea of going to this fancy event with James—where he blends in, and I stick out—and I can tell there will be no relaxing tonight. I imagine walking in with a cowboy hat and straw in my teeth, shouting, ‘Howdy y’all! I’m Georgia Cameron from Texas!’

When the doorbell rings at seven sharp, I dash to answer it. James is standing there, looking ridiculously handsome in a crisp, short-sleeved white button-up, white pants, and loafers. His dark blonde hair is slicked back, and a cocky grin stretches across his handsome face.

“You look amazing,” he says, stepping inside and pulling me into his arms, spinning me around for full effect. I squeal, completely unconcerned about whether any of Troy’s neighbors catch us acting like a couple of overgrown kids on his doorstep. Let them watch.

I’ve met a few of them this week—polite, pleasant, curious . Eager to know who the mystery woman was slipping in and out of their broody neighbor’s house. When I reassured them I was just the nanny, most of them blinked in surprise, murmuring that they didn’t even know he had a son.

I kept to myself that it’s not his son I’m watching—but his grandson.

From what little I can tell, Troy doesn’t make a habit of socializing around here. And I have no interest in breaking that unspoken rule—or his trust.

“I missed you this week,” James says, his voice booming with warmth, “all I did was sit in boring meetings, talk about new skyscraper designs, and think about how much I hate the concrete jungle that I live in.”

I smile at him. “Well, you’re the one who decided to go back to work in the city.”

He chuckles. “You left the cottage so there was nowhere else for me to stay, and I don’t think Troy would be cool with me moving in.”

I snicker. “Um… your parents multiple million-dollar beach front house is always an option.”

He rolls his eyes because we both know that’s the last place James would willingly stay while in the Hamptons.

“Will they be at the club tonight?”

He puffs out a mouthful of air and sighs. “Yeah.”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

“May. At the start of the summer.”

I nod, chewing on my bottom lip nervously. I guarantee his parents will not be pleased to see he’s brought me to this event tonight. Embarrassing their son and strong family name.

“In all seriousness, you look incredible. This outfit might be your best yet and did you get a tan without me this week?” his hands reach for my waist with a playful tickle and just as I start to giggle, swatting him away a deep, booming voice comes from over his shoulder in the door that we’ve left wide open.

“Will you please move so that I can get in my house?”

Oh, shit...

James turns to the side revealing a very grumpy Troy standing on the steps to his home with a beautiful woman hanging on his arm. Her bright blonde hair and deep, brown, almond shaped eyes are rimmed in heavy eyeliner and what looks like are very tastefully done false eyelashes.

That is, unless her eyelashes are naturally that ridiculously long. If so, I’m super jealous.

Her dress is more cream than white, hugging her body so tightly it drapes down past her ankles, giving the illusion that she’s gliding rather than walking.

It’s stunning, and I can’t help but wonder if I should have worn something longer tonight.

But I could never pull off a dress that tight—especially not now, with ovulation hormones causing bloat.

Loose, forgiving fabric is more my style anyways, perfectly suited for the indulgent food and alcohol I plan to eat at tonight’s party.

Then my eyes land on Troy—and he’s furious .

At me?

For what? I have no idea, but the weight of his glare settles on my skin like a physical touch.

He’s wearing an all-white tuxedo, perfectly tailored to his tall, broad frame, the crisp fabric a sharp contrast against his dark, tousled hair.

Somehow, even after stepping straight off a plane, he looks put together.

Handsome. His scent drifts toward me from the doorway—clean, masculine, threaded with that familiar musk I remember from our interview and the day I moved in.

And dammit . He’s grown out his beard.

Thicker now, framing his sharp jawline, giving him an edge that makes my stomach tighten. It shouldn’t look that good on him. But itdoes.

I straighten my spine, acutely aware of the tension thickening the air between us.

Troy is my boss. And sure, he might not be thrilled that James is here right now, but technically, I’m in the clear. Hedid say I could have guests over if Liam wasn’t home or asleep.

So why does his presence make my pulse hammer like I’ve done something wrong?

“Hi, Mr. Marshall, sir, welcome back,” I stumble over my words trying to keep my tone neutral, though my mind flashes back to those text messages—and the fact that he caught me naked at the kitchen table just a few hours earlier.

A flush creeps up my chest as his eyes linger on me, almost knowingly.

I wonder if he’s thinking about that too.

His eyes narrow slightly at my use of “ sir ” and the woman beside him fixes a wide smile onto her perfectly made-up face.

“Oh, you must be the nanny,” she says in a saccharine tone, extending a delicate, manicured hand toward me.

Her soft but punchy scent reaches me before she does and up close, she’s even more striking. Her skin is flawless. I mean, does she even have pores? Or sweat? Wouldn’t that be nice …

I’m guessing this is the type of woman Troy dates.

Soft edges. Wealthy. Completely flawless.

Probably sleeps with them all the time. I wonder if this woman is going to get a good look at his alien cock tonight.

Looks like it might break her tiny body in half, and if so, I’m super jealous it’s her getting wrecked and not me.

“I’m Georgia,” I respond, shaking her hand with a smile that’s genuine despite the awkward tension. “You’re beautiful,” I blurt out because it’s true.

I admire her polished look, her confidence radiating like she’s just stepped out of a magazine.

Even though I know I’ll never be a size 0 like her, I’d love to have an ounce of her confidence.

“I think I want to be you when I grow up,” I continue jokingly because when things are awkward or uncomfortable, this is what I do.

Word vomit to fill in the weird silence.

And honestly, I’m a girls’ girl. This woman, with all her poise and grace, oozes confidence and I love hyping women up.

James rolls his eyes beside me, and my gaze shifts to Troy, who appears to be biting back… a smile?

Wow. A smile from Mr. Grumpy. Didn’t think it was possible.

I raise a brow at him, silently expressing my surprise. The moment his eyes catch mine, that little tick in his cheek vanishes, and his expression shuts down again, eyes turning cold and unreadable, jawline firm.

“Thank you, darling,” the woman replies. She doesn’t return the compliment, but it doesn’t bother me. When you look as confident and put together as she does, you’re probably used to people saying they want to be you when they grow up. “I’m Minnie.”

Troy sighs, tapping his foot impatiently. “Alright, can I get through?” he asks, voice laced with sarcasm, like he’s requesting permission to enter his own home.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” I stammer, scrambling out of the way to let them inside.

Minnie practically glides in, all effortless grace and poise, like she belongs here—like she’s walked this same path a hundred times before. Troy follows close behind but stops just inside the doorway, his voice low and firm as he asks her to wait in the hallway before heading upstairs.