Page 20 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

They’re more than friends, and this isn’t just some casual date.

Maybe they’re not together, not officially, but they’ve seen each other naked—I’d bet my last dollar on it. The way he looks at her, like he’s tasted her, like he owns a piece of her, is all too familiar.

Because it’s the same way I’ve caught myself looking at her tonight.

And that’s going to be a problem.

***

There are plenty of beautiful women at the club tonight, especially Minnie who is currently excitedly talking with her father while attempting to get my attention from across the ballroom to bring her another glass of champagne.

I smile, tip my glass to her as I discreetly grab another, downing it in one swift motion with my back turned.

Expensive champagne has never been my thing—too light, too bubbly.

I prefer the strong, smoky flavor of the local whiskey my family distills back in the mountains of North Carolina.

The one that Colt dreamed up and Cash brought to reality.

But this isn’t the night for indulging in my preferences.

Because we all know my true preference would involve a certain naked nanny underneath me back at my home.

No, this event is about focus—securing votes, shaking hands, making promises.

I have a business to run and a campaign to build—especially with my big announcement about my gubernatorial bid going public this weekend. I need the backing of the largest, most politically powerful state in the country, and I won’t let anything, or anyone, distract me from that.

Yet here I am. Distracted.

By her.

Behind that easy, sunlit exterior, I know there’s something deeper.

Something that’s driving me insane. I haven’t spent much time with her—just a handful of encounters—but in those brief moments, I caught glimpses of it.

A softness. A genuineness. And it doesn’t help that she’s a down-home, Southern girl, the kind I grew up around, which makes her a rarity in a place like New York.

I want to understand her. Why? Hell, if I know. I could say it’s because she’s living under my roof, helping raise my grandson, which makes her part of my responsibility. But that would be a lie. It’s not obligation that has me wanting to know her story. It’s something else.

I want to know her problems. So, I can fix them.

That’s my problem, though. I’m a fixer. Always have been.

As a kid, I learned to fix my parents’ broken marriage by being the perfect son.

When my younger siblings came along, I became their third parent.

And when Max’s mother got pregnant and didn’t want the responsibility?

I fixed that, too. I let her go, took full custody, and became a single father at twenty-one, sacrificing my youth to raise him didn’t feel like a sacrifice at all.

But with Georgia, I don’t know what needs fixing.

I just know something does. I see it in the way she clings to this job instead of following the Smiths to Florida.

The way she refuses to return home to Texas.

She’s running— from what , I don’t know—but I’d bet money she’s desperate to never go back.

One thing’s clear: she isn’t drawn to me for my power or influence. She didn’t take the nanny job for connections. But somehow, she’s landed in the orbit of powerful men anyway.

Still, my eyes keep finding her, like some gravitational pull I can’t fight.

She stands in the corner of the room, looking just as out of place as I feel.

She’s talking to an older couple whose faces I vaguely recognize but can’t place.

James’ arm is slung low around her waist, casual but claiming.

But Georgia’s body tells a different story. She’s stiff and not having a good time.

Then she knocks back another glass of champagne—her fourth if my count is right. At this pace, she’s going to be drunk soon.

Should I interrupt?

She isn’t at work, and there’s no reason for me to swoop in and save her from an awkward conversation.

Besides, who’s to say she even wants saving?

But something about the tension in her posture and the nervousness in her eyes feels off.

This isn’t the Georgia I hired—radiant, carefree, eats naked in a stranger’s kitchen then flicks off no one.

Not willing to back down.

Not your date, not your problem, I remind myself.

But then my gaze falls to her again, taking in the simple white dress that’s hugging her full hips, her soft curves, and the way she wears it so perfectly.

A low groan rumbles from deep within my chest before I can stop it.

Things would be a hell of a lot easier if Georgia weren’t so.

.. distracting . If she had a flaw, just one small thing—a weird laugh, a wart—anything to make her less.

.. perfect. But she doesn’t. She’s not only aggravatingly cheerful, way too damn young, but she’s also beautiful and it’s impossible to forget that.

Especially when I’ve already seen her naked.

What was I thinking? Hiring a woman that I’ve seen naked.

I’d never hire a woman I slept with but maybe I felt like Georgia was an exception.

We’d never done anything. It’d been purely an accident.

Fuck, I should be concentrating on my date right now, on securing votes, on making sure my campaign is rock solid for the upcoming announcement.

Fuck me.

My cock twitches in my suit pants.

I move behind the table of champagne glasses, adjusting myself at the same time that I notice Georgia and James drift away from the older couple and head out toward the deck.

This is my chance—an opportunity to figure out who these people are and why they’ve made my nanny so uncomfortable.

If they recognize me, they’ll speak up. People like them always do, eager to score points with New York City’s most sought-after political consultant and North Carolina’s soon-to-be gubernatorial candidate.

Sure enough, the moment I walk by them, I hear my name.

“Troy Marshall! So good to see you out,” the woman greets, her blindingly white veneers catching the light as she smiles widely.

Her bright blonde hair is piled high in an overly tight updo, pulling her eyebrows and ears unnaturally upward.

“Bray and Craig Whitmore,” she offers, extending her hand, with her husband following suit.

Ah, yes. James’s parents—fixtures in New York City’s upper crust and close friends of Mayor Meadows. Up close, Craig Whitmore looks like an older version of his son, though his eyes are less trusting and more guarded.

“Good to see you again,” I say, though I have no memory of ever meeting them.

Bray’s smile widens, clearly pleased that I’ve “ remembered ” them.

“How’s the campaign going for your run in North Carolina?” she asks, sipping her champagne delicately.

“Everything’s on track. My official announcement goes out next week, though it seems the news has already been leaked throughout the political circle in New York City.”

Craig nods knowingly. “Nothing stays quiet in New York.”

I smile thinly, fully aware that the leak was intentional on my part.

Better to control the narrative than let the press run wild with it.

Something I’ve learned from years of experience.

This way, I knew the wealthy elite in New York wouldn’t sell the news down south.

Their sense of pride at being ahead of their peers in the South is the only thing that’s kept their mouths shut.

“And how’s your grandson?” Craig asks, shifting the conversation to a more personal topic.

I keep Liam out of the spotlight as much as possible, knowing full well it’s only a matter of time before the press catches wind of his existence.

The vultures will circle, spinning their narratives, digging for an angle—twisting him into a pawn for their headlines, a bargaining chip in my campaign.

But I won’t let that happen.

I don’t shield Liam because I have something to hide. I shield him because he’s mine to protect. Because I love him, not for optics, not for sympathy votes, but simply because he’s my family. And that’s the only thing that has ever mattered.

“He’s doing well,” I say, keeping my tone light. “I believe you just met the new nanny I hired.”

Bray raises a thin, penciled brow as she brings her glass back to her lips. “Liam’s nanny is here. Tonight?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Surely their son had mentioned Georgia’s job with my family, but then again, perhaps he’s kept certain things private from his parents. Maybe there’s more to his relationship with them than I know.

Bray glances at her husband, who shrugs, equally in the dark.

“Ms. Cameron. She’s here with your son tonight, correct?”

Bray’s eyes widen in sudden realization. She stammers, clearing her throat and looking completely uncomfortable. “Oh, I see. You’ve hired Georgia.”

“That’s right. Ms. Cameron,” I correct her pointedly. “She’s an incredibly qualified nanny who my grandson has taken to quickly.”

“I see,” Bray responds, still looking like she swallowed something sour.

There’s an awkward pause where neither of us are saying anything before I gesture to the champagne flutes in my hands. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my date and deliver these.”

They nod politely, and I walk away, wondering if I’d done the right thing by sharing that Georgia is working for me. Why had James kept this from his parents? Is he ashamed of Georgia’s career? Is there more to their relationship?

When I finally spot Minnie, she’s deep in conversation with the wife of a New York senator.

I hand her a glass and blend into the conversation seamlessly, knowing this is the perfect opportunity to charm my way into securing this woman’s husband’s continued support for my work.

But I can’t bring myself to engage in another painful discussion.

Ever since I watched James and Georgia slip away—and discovered that his parents have no idea of her connection to me and Liam—I’ve been itching to find her.

I try to focus on the conversation as the silent auction for some overpriced, hideous artwork begins.

The funds raised are going to the city’s humane society, and there’s talk of refreshments, fireworks on the veranda, and dancing later.

But my frustration is growing. Not only because Georgia’s missing, but because I can’t see to focus on anything but her.

She’s your responsibility , that’s why you care. She’s Liam’s nanny.

Yeah, sure, that’s why.

“Excuse me,” I mutter after enduring another painfully stiff slow dance with Minnie, who moves like a cardboard cutout.

Normally, I’m able to compartmentalize my personal feelings from my professional obligations, but tonight it’s becoming impossible, and her perfume is overbearing.

I’m craving the fresh, mountain air of North Carolina and the sights and smells of New York no longer have a hold on me.

I can’t tell if it’s hiring Georgia, or visiting home this past week that’s shifted something within me.

“I’m going to catch up with a client I’ve been meaning to talk to,” I say.

Minnie nods, accustomed to the social juggling that comes with dating someone in my position. She heads off to mingle with her group of socialite friends, leaving me free to... well, to do whatever the hell stupid thing it is that I’m about to do.

I grab another glass of champagne, using it as an excuse to appear occupied, and slip out of the ballroom out onto the veranda.

I scan the pool area, looking for her but come up empty.

Annoyed, I head back inside and make my way down the country clubs curved hallway, checking rooms as discreetly as possible.

This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a damn stalker—or worse, like I’m her father making sure she’s not hooking up with her boyfriend.

I do some quick mental math, reassuring myself that I’m not that much older than her.

Fourteen years. Not exactly scandalous though she’s the same age as my sister.

But still, this is a mess. There’s no way anything can—or should —happen between me and Georgia.

She’s Liam’s nanny, my employee, and completely irrelevant to my political career.

The last thing I need is a complicated relationship, let alone a girlfriend or wife, especially when I’m about to launch my campaign.

She’s a distraction. Nothing more.

But despite all that, I can’t shake this nagging sense of protectiveness.

It’s as though she’s already become part of my family, instantly bucketed into the space I have in my head where my four siblings, Max and Liam belong.

Maybe that’s why, when we’d run into each other in the steam room months ago—wrapped in the sauna, our identities shrouded in mystery—I’d let her go without pressing for more.

No one knew who I was back then. I’d kept a low profile, avoiding the media and staying behind the scenes with the politicians I advised. But all of that’s about to change.

Where the hell is she?

I head upstairs, checking the conference rooms one by one until I finally reach the Bluefish Room. The exact room where we first figured out who the other was.

I freeze just outside the doorway. I can hear Georgia’s voice, soft and giggly—clearly drunk now. Then James’s voice follows, low and unmistakable.

Every instinct screams at me to burst in and stop whatever’s happening. I know I should turn around and walk away. But that doesn’t stop me from standing there, listening, the rush of blood pounding through my ears.