Page 2 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

“Uh, I feel like I’m a little underdressed.”

James grins at me, completely unfazed. “No, everyone else here is just overdressed.”

“They’re wearing suits. And dresses.”

“Yeah.”

“You said this was a forties and up pool party.’”

“I said a forties and up party… by the pool.’”

I groan, rubbing my temples as my gaze sweeps over the terrace of the Hamptons country club. Servers move between tables, setting up for the mixer event James somehow conned me into attending.

“James,” I hiss. “We aren’t even supposed to be here. We’re not forty years old!”

He plants his hands on his hips, looking way too pleased with himself. And of course, he isn’t wearing a suit either. Just swim trunks. Bare chest. Like this was his plan all along.

“I know,” he says. “But imagine how thrilled they’ll be when a couple of hot, late twenty-somethings roll in wearing swimsuits.”

I roll my eyes and sink into one of the poolside lounge chairs. “When does this thing start?”

He drops into the chair beside me. “Thirty minutes.”

“Perfect. Just enough time for a power nap.”

“You rest. I’ll scope out our options for tonight.”

I snort, tugging the brim of my hat down over my face, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling settling in my stomach. Because something about tonight feels like it’s going to be… eventful.

It’s another blistering June day in New York, the kind where the pavement practically sizzles underfoot, and the humidity wraps around you like a second skin.

It’s felt unnatural to be off work on a Wednesday, like I’ve accidentally skipped a step in my routine.

But the family that I nanny for are in the city for a high-profile photo shoot, part of the grand announcement of Mr. Smith’s new position as Florida’s next governor.

When I offered to tag along—fully prepared to wrangle the kids between wardrobe changes and forced smiles—they waved me off, insisting I take the day to myself and that the shoot coordinator would handle the kids.

So, for the first time in what feels like forever, I woke up with absolutely no obligations. No beach plans, no snack-packing, no mediation over which cartoon character gets dibs on the iPad. Just me and an entire day stretched out ahead, unplanned and wide open.

I kicked things off with a morning run—winding through the sleepy beachside town that I live in during the summers with the Smiths, cutting across the sand until my calves burned—before strolling through the local shops I always pass but never have time to explore.

I capped it off with breakfast at my favorite coffee shop, tucked into a corner booth with an iced vanilla latte and a romance novel, soaking in the rare stillness of a day that was completely mine.

But by midday, the itch of boredom started creeping in.

Thankfully, James was also off work and back in town, so we decided to spend the afternoon lounging at the country club pool—courtesy of the membership the Smiths had gifted me so I could take the kids.

It’s expiring soon with their impending move, which makes today feel even more nostalgic.

And for a while, it was perfect. The sun, the water, the mindless relaxation.

I was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, a day off wasn’t so bad after all.

Then James found out about theexclusive 40-and-up singles partyhappening at the club tonight.

I laughed. Said absolutely not. No way.

And yet, here I am, later that night, dressed in my skimpiest bikini, a high-waisted, cheeky-cut bottom paired with a barely-there triangle top that I’d never dare wear around the kids—and layered a breezy linen cover-up over it, because James can talk me into just about anything.

And let’s be honest—getting into a little mischief on an otherwise uneventful day is kind of our thing.

While the event is technically for the 40-and-up crowd, one of his friends happens to know the organizer, and apparently, a little rule-bending is no problem.

I should be more suspicious. We don’t look anywherecloseto forty—me at twenty-eight, James at thirty—but apparently, none of that matters tonight. The only thing that does? We’re both single. James is determined. And when he gets an idea in his head, there’s no stopping him.

“To be fair, you didn’t have to pick your tiniest bikini. You’re about to give every old, rich man at this country club a heart attack in that outfit,” James teases from where he’s now lounging next to me.

I adjust myself in the chair, a smile tugging at my face, my eyes sealed shut. The sound of the seagulls off in the distance calms my nerves and the quiet lapping of the pool water relaxes my mind.

“Maybe I’ll snag a sugar daddy who’ll bankroll my stay in New York so that I never have to go back to Texas.”

He throws his head back in laughter while my mind drifts towards the very real possibility of me needing to move back to my hometown in Lonestar Junction, Texas in a few short months.

I’m dreading it. The looming pressure from my parents, the what the hell do I do next, thoughts.

I push those thoughts away focusing on the present instead.

“So, have you decided what you’re going to do when the Smiths leave at the end of the summer?” James asks, nudging me with his barefoot to be sure I’m awake.

“I’m not sure. I can’t imagine going back to Texas to work. There isn’t much to do in my hometown and anything in San Angelo would be too... corporate.” I wrinkle my nose as James laughs.

He knows that his career is way too corporate for my taste.

“Nannying is all I’ve ever known. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.” Well, mostly...

“I bet my parents could find you a nanny job in the city,” James offers, like it’s the easiest solution in the world. “That way, you could stay.”

I don’t doubt that his family has the connections to make that happen. But the last thing I want is to owethemanything.

Over the past five years, I’ve crossed paths with his family just enough to know exactly how they feel about me.

Usually, it’s when James needs a date for some over-the-top Hamptons event, and despite my repeated insistence that we’re just friends, they’ve never quite believed it.

In their eyes, I’m the reason James hasn’t settled down, the reason he’s still drifting instead of securing a polished, society-approved wife.

And maybe they’re right—because I definitely don’t fit the mold.

A girl who grew up running barefoot through ranch fields, tagging along on my twin cousins’ cow-tipping and manure-slinging escapades, doesn’t exactly screamUpper East Side material.

I don’t belong in the world of New York’s elite—politicians, power players, people who measure success in influence rather than joy.

But the difference between me and them?

I don’t mind one bit. And I’m pretty damn sure they see that too and that’s what annoys them the most.

“I’ll figure it out,” I wave my arms casually, trying to shut down the conversation.

Because I always do. Going with the flow of life has worked out for me so far, I’m not planning on stopping any time soon.

Last time I made a plan for my life, it blew up in my face royally.

Sometimes, when you push too hard against the current to make things happen, you end up drowning.

James chuckles good naturedly next to me as I start to drift off to sleep. “You’re right, Georgia, you’d definitely never cut it in the city.”

And on that note, I drift off to sleep.

Sometime must have passed because the next thing I know, a sharp poke in the ribs jolts me awake.

I blink, disoriented, and find James grinning down at me. “Georgia, wake up. It’s starting…” he hisses.

I sit up quickly, my hat—once shielding my face from the sun—flopping onto my lap. As I take in my surroundings, the shift in atmosphere is impossible to miss.

The crowd has thickened, and the sun has begun its slow descent. The families and kids from earlier are gone, replaced by clusters of older guests gathered around tables draped in lavender tulle, murmuring in hushed voices as they sip what looks like hundred-dollar bourbon and champagne.

Beyond them, the rest of the crowd is a mix—some younger, some middle-aged, some completely gray. Different backgrounds, different faces. But one thing ties them all together—their tax bracket.

Sure, I can’t tell their net worth just by looking at them, but after working in politics and living in the Hamptons for so long, you start to pick up on the subtle signs—those who carry quiet wealth and those who flaunt it with a little too much pride.

The filthy rich.

The gentle laughter of the crowd filters towards where James and I are still laying by the pool, and I’m reminded that I’m extremely underdressed.

People are mingling, chatting casually, snacking on hors d’oeuvres and the pool lights are flickering romantically.

But there’s nothing about the scene that screams “ over forties party .” It all feels far too refined for what James had hinted at: “Crazy sex. The fifty-year-olds are the wildest. Heard they are into threesomes!”

“So, what’s our plan?” I ask, sitting all the way upright now and rubbing my hands together like a fly preparing for its first meal. I may be severely out of my depth here, but when it comes to James, I’ve never cared about feeling out of place simply because he’s never made me feel that way.

“We have no plan,” he responds, before swinging his legs over the edge of the chair and standing up, extending his hand to me.

He’s still wearing only a pair of swim trunks with no shirt, and it doesn’t look like he has any plans on changing which is good news for me since all I brought is what I have on. “Let’s go grab some drinks and mingle. Act natural. It’ll all happen organically. ”

“But what if someone wants to... I don’t know...?”