Page 22 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

The drive back to Troy’s house is short, but every second feels like torture seated next to him, replaying the look on his face and the annoyance laced in his words.

After he demanded that I recount every detail of my sexual past with James, one that’s limited to a single night, I sank into silence—partly because I was embarrassed and annoyed, but mostly because I know that I’m way too drunk to handle a serious conversation with him right now.

One wrong word, and I’ll either regret it or end up getting myself fired.

I don’t drink like this anymore. But tonight, trapped in a room full of people who made it painfully clear I don’t belong—especially James’ parents with their veiled barbs and critical stares—I lost count.

Lost control. I’d downed more champagne than I should’ve, hoping it might help me blend in or at least dull the discomfort.

A sigh drifts through the car, though I can't tell if it's his or mine. My head is heavy, fogged with champagne and regret, everything blurring at the edges. Tonight is one colossal failure, and I hate that I care. I turn my face toward the window, hoping to hide the embarrassment that’s twisting in my chest. Then I feel it—a single tear slipping down my cheek, catching on my lip like a silent confession.

The moment we pull up to his beach house, I shove the car door open, desperate for escape. I move too fast, stumbling slightly in my heels.

“Shit,” I mutter as my ankle twists, and I stumble, but before I hit the ground, Troy is there, his strong hand gripping my elbow to steady me, his arms wrapping around my waist and brushing against the exposed skin to right me.

“Easy, Georgia.” His face is a storm of emotions: Displeasure?

Anger? And even though we’ve barely spoken this week, I can feel the disappointment radiating off him.

It’s in the way his brow furrows, the tight set of his jaw line and his unforgiving, panty-melting hazel eyes.

I don’t know what James was talking about, this guy doesn’t seem like he likes me at all.

“I’m fine,” I snap, straightening myself and hobbling toward the house, cursing my ankle as I climb the steep steps on what feels like wooden stilts. He follows me, silent and brooding, and I can just imagine his internal monologue right now.

Another person who can’t take care of themselves.

Can’t wait to get back to Minnie. She isn’t a hot, embarrassing mess like Georgia.

Speaking of Minnie... Is she coming back here tonight? I shouldn't care, shouldn't feel this tightness in my chest at the thought of her slipping through the front door like she belongs here more than I do. But I do. And that pisses me off.

The question buzzes inside my head like the bubbles of champagne, but I keep them to myself. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what Troy or Minnie do. What matters is that he thinks I embarrassed him tonight. Just like James’ parents thought I embarrassed them by even showing up with their son.

And frankly, I’m fucking over it all.

I’m a confident, capable woman. The Smiths always shielded me from public events unless I was there to entertain the kids or keep them out of the spotlight. Maybe that’s why this wave of embarrassment feels so foreign, so suffocating, so unnatural.

And why should I feel embarrassed? I’m not less than anyone.

My upbringing and my last name don’t define my worth.

I’m proud of the roots I have and my family’s thriving ranch.

More than that, I’m proud of my character.

The character that doesn’t consist of looking down my nose at people like they are beneath me because of their tax bracket.

I reach the front door of the home and open it with the key that he gave me, Troy’s presence like a shadow behind me, letting me do it on my own.

At least he’s aware enough to know I’m not in the mood for chivalry.

I stomp inside, only for my heels to give one bigger fuck you ! I trip, nearly crashing to the floor, but once again, Troy catches me.

“Can you slow down?” he snaps, his voice edged in frustration.

“Let me go!” I shout back, trying to steady myself without his help. The moment I put pressure on my ankle though, a sharp pain shoots through it.

Yeah, that’s not right.

I wince.

“You sprained it,” Troy sighs, sounding absolutely exhausted with this night.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I fire back. His brows raise as his grip on me tightens in warning.

I probably shouldn’t be mouthing off to my boss. But after tonight—and after he kicked me out of the damn cottage, leaving me stuck here with him instead of letting me wallow in peace—I’m fresh out of fucks to give.

“I’ll get ice,” I grumble, turning toward the kitchen, but Troy shakes his head.

“No. Sit down.”

“I can do it myself.”

He shakes his head again, and there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s holding back a laugh. As if he ever laughs.

His voice softens noticeably. “I’m sure you can take care of yourself, but I’d like to get the ice for you. Please, sit on the couch and wait, Georgia.”

I narrow my eyes at him, debating whether it’s worth the energy to keep arguing. But exhaustion wins out, and with a heavy sigh, I slump onto the leather couch. My hands cover my face, fingers pressing into my temples as my head hangs low.

What a night.

This wasn’t how I pictured my first Hamptons end of summer party—not even close.

I’d imagined glamour, champagne, charm and a night I’d never forget.

Instead, I’m hanging out with my angry boss back at his house.

The humiliation burns hot under my skin, but I’m too tired, too overwhelmed, to do anything but sit in it.

A few moments later, Troy returns, cold bag of vegetables in hand. He sits beside me, breaking up the frozen peas on his strong, suited thigh.

“Will you let me?”

I lift my head just enough to meet his gaze. “Okay...” because his tone has changed, and his brown eyes seem softer now.

He reaches down for my foot, his touch surprisingly gentle, and shifts my body so that I’m laying back on the couch, sinking into some of the new cushions I picked up this week with Liam. I wonder what Troy thinks of the changes that I’ve made to his home. I wonder if he’s even noticed or cares.

He moves my foot until it’s perched on his lap carefully.

His hands are rougher than I expected—strong, capable.

Not the hands of a man who only knows boardrooms and political deals.

My mind flickers, uncontrolled, to the image of him in something other than a suit.

Maybe jeans, work boots, sleeves pushed up, arms flexing.

A ridiculous thought. And yet... I don’t hate it.

Ridiculous.

Between his job as a high-powered political consultant, traveling all over the country, and whatever time he spends with his grandson, Liam, there’s no way he’d have time for another side job.

Troy carefully undoes the strap of my shoe from around my ankle, his fingers brushing lightly against the exposed and sore skin.

For a second, it feels like he’s lingering a moment longer than necessary.

But that’s just the champagne talking, right?

I’m drunk, imagining things but damn if he isn’t skilled in removing a woman’s shoe.

He slips my foot out of the heel, and the relief is instant. Those stilettos have been torturing me all night, and now that they’re off, I feel like I can breathe again. But the throbbing ache of my ankle still pulses gently beneath the surface.

His palm grazes the swollen curve of my heel, warmth trailing in its wake, a stark contrast to the cool night air.

He pauses, seeming to assess the damage, before reaching for the bag of peas next to him.

With steady hands, he lifts my foot slightly, cradling it as he presses the cold bag against the part that must be swollen.

I wince at the icy shock that shoots through me, but his grip is firm, calming, holding me in place so I can’t move and make things worse.

The alcohol has me feeling unsteady, a soft buzz in my head that makes everything feel just a little fuzzy. I let my head tip back against the arm of the couch, eyes drifting shut as I try to settle into the chill seeping through my leg.

My ankle throbs—definitely sprained—but there’s something else. A slow, creeping warmth that doesn’t make sense. It takes me a moment to realize it’s him. His fingers. The thick pads of his thumbs pressing into my skin, working firm, methodical circles that send heat curling up my spine.

The room tilts slightly, and I don’t trust myself to look up. But his touch is still there—steady, warm, grounding. He adjusts the cold pack, shifting it to cover more of the swelling, the cold biting into my skin. But that warmth? That stays. That lingers.

I exhale slowly, thinking it’s quiet, subtle. But when my lashes lift, Troy is already watching me, his gaze heavy, waiting. His voice is a low, quiet rumble when he asks, “Is that better?”

“Yes… thank you,” I whisper.

We’re sitting in complete darkness, the only light coming from the moon through the bay windows, casting a faint glow over the living room.

The ocean stretches out beyond the glass, a vast, quiet expanse, but neither of us seems to notice how beautiful it is outside because our attention is locked on each other.

It should feel awkward, holding this much eye contact without speaking, but it doesn’t.

Neither of us wants to look away, as if we’re studying each other’s faces in the shadows, the quiet amplifying every thought that hangs heavy between us.

“You’re good at this.”

A deep chuckle rattles through his chest. “Icing an ankle isn’t that difficult.”

“You do this a lot?”

He’s quiet, his gaze shifting from mine to the bay windows in front of us. “I have a lot of practice taking care of people when they’ve been hurt.”

My heart stutters, an uneven beat that I feel deep in my chest. I don’t know exactly what he means by that. Max? Liam? Or does it go beyond them—to anyone he considers his responsibility? His family?

And if it does… does that include me?

I blink heavily, trying to focus through the champagne haze as my eyes trace the strong, familiar lines of his face.

My attraction to Troy has always been there, no matter how much I tried to ignore it.

No matter how much I told myself he wasn’t my type.

His dark hair, the thick, black beard he clearly didn’t have time to shave before rushing back from wherever his last flight took him and the consistent wearing of wingtips, suits and ties—it’s not the look I typically go for.

But the way his broad shoulders fit perfectly under those tailored suits, shoulders that I know must carry a lot, how they taper down to his lean waist, flat stomach, and those large, powerful thighs that I saw in the dark... my mind flashes back to the steam room.

I shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, not when we’re trapped alone in this home together all weekend, but I can’t help it.

The steam, the dim lighting, and the way his naked body looked—especially the fact that I couldn’t miss the massive cock he had dangling between his legs.

It’s an image branded into my mind. I clear my throat, trying to shake the thoughts away.

My head is buzzing with a million questions I’ve been dying to ask him since I started working for him, but I know I’m still drunk, and they’ll come out all wrong.

“How was your trip?” I ask, settling for something safe.

Troy shifts the ice on my ankle, making sure it’s situated just right.

Somehow, both of my feet are now resting on his lap, shoes removed, just inches away from where I know his cock is beneath his tuxedo pants.

I’m glad I decided at the last minute to paint my toenails and shave my legs.

Who knew I’d be this close to his body tonight.

He sinks back into the couch, hands behind his head now, eyes closed as he rests. “Eventful,” he says, his voice low and cryptic.

That doesn’t give me much to work with.

I know so little about what he does beyond being a political consultant, and he’s clearly not in the mood to share more tonight.

“Where did you go?” I pry.

One eye opens, giving me a look that feels like a warning to not ask any more questions.

“Never mind,” I mumble quickly, “I don’t need to know.”

Silence follows, and I watch as his strong jaw flexes like he’s working through something in his head, searching for the right words that he ultimately decides not to share. The quiet stretches on painfully so I do what I always do when things feel tense: I fill the silence with my wild rambling.

“Liam had a good week.”

Troy’s gaze flicks back to me, his eyes assessing. “That’s good.”

“He’s starting to put sentences together now. Today, he pointed at a dinosaur balloon outside of the ice cream shop we visited and said, ‘ That’s a dinosaur! ’”

Troy exhales, but I can’t tell if it’s a sign of annoyance or if he’s just listening to me talk so I barrel on, needing to fill the space between us with words so that things don’t get more awkward.

“We went to the park. He climbed this little rock wall all by himself and when he reached the top he shouted, ‘ I’m big!’ And we’ve had a few trips to the beach too.

I’m going to teach him how to swim at the indoor pool in the country club when it gets colder.

I helped him build a sandcastle and taught him to say, ’ I’m two years old ,’ when people ask his age.

He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet but he’s close.

Such a smart kid. Inquisitive, you know?

He takes his time warming up to new things, but I can see the wheels turning in his mind, soaking everything in.

And that’s what matters—he’s curious about the world, and as long as he’s curious, I can teach him.

One day, it’ll all just click for him. Did you know his favorite color is orange?

I decided to buy a few orange pillows for his bedroom, hope that’s okay.

They go with the new beach toys I bought him.

I also hope you didn’t mind these new pillows that I purchased for the couch.

It felt like you needed some color in your home. ”

I exhale, taking a pause to steal a look at Troy. He’s watching me closely, his expression hard to read, but there’s something there—something that look a lot like amusement in the way his lips tip up at the corner.

“Take a deep breath, Georgia,” he says chuckling.?