Page 23 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

I wet my lips, suddenly aware that I’ve been rambling, filling the quiet with too many words.

Troy’s hand drifts back to my ankle, grounding me.

His fingers, warm and rough, move in slow, unhurried circles against my skin, each pass sending a ripple of heat up my calf, pooling low in my belly, settling somewhere deeper.

For once, this house doesn’t feel suffocating. With him here, the energy shifts—softer, quieter. He’s not just tolerating the moment; he’sinit, settled in a way that reminds me of the steam room. That same steady presence, that same quiet pull. He’s relaxed.

His hands move higher, kneading my calves with slow, deliberate pressure, and I have to press my thighs together to quiet the ache building between them.

I know he notices—the flicker of his gaze, the way his fingers still for half a second before resuming their path.

Heat licks up my spine, and before I can stop myself, the nervous rambling starts again, words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to distract from the way my body reacts to his touch.

It’s not just the feel of him that has my mind spinning—it’s the uncertainty of it all.

The fact that I know so little about the man I work for, yet here I am, spending an entire weekend under his roof while his grandson stays with Eleanor.

And looming over it all is the ever-present risk that at any second, Minnie could burst through the door, eager to see him.

“Sorry,” I murmur, taking a break from another story about what Liam and I did this past week while he was gone.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, his voice sounding sincere.

“I love hearing about Liam.” He lets out a deep sigh and I notice his jaw ticking, like it always does when he’s choosing his words carefully, as if afraid of saying something he’ll regret.

I wish he didn’t feel the need to be so controlled with me, like he’s constantly weighing every word, worried I’m going to write down his thoughts and sell them to the highest tabloid bidder.

“I feel guilty,” he admits, his voice tight, “for not spending more time with Liam. For dropping him off with Eleanor on the weekends because my work week often doesn’t end on Friday and client engagements creep into Sundays.”

The confession surprises me. “Why? You’re his grandpa, not his dad. He still sees you in the evenings most days, right? If anyone should feel guilty, it’s your son.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, and Troy noticeably winces, avoiding my gaze.

I hit a nerve.

Immediately, I regret taking a dig at his son when I don’t have all the details or an understanding of the situation that led him to taking care of his grandson.

“Max was only twenty when his college school sweetheart got pregnant with Liam. It was unexpected, and she didn’t want to keep the baby.

She was in school at the art institute and didn’t feel she’d have the time.

She also claimed that she wasn’t in love with Max.

She ended up changing her mind and once Liam was born, she immediately signed away her parental rights and moved to California. ”

I want to bite my tongue, because the first thought that flashes through my mind is, but weren’t you also twenty when you had Max, and you somehow made it work as a single father? But I keep that to myself.

Troy’s gaze drifts back toward the bay window as he continues, “I understand the implications of a young pregnancy when the mother doesn’t want to stay involved.

Max was around for the first year of Liam’s life, but between school, studying, and the long commute into NYU, I could tell he was overwhelmed even with Eleanor’s help.

I offered to take full custody of Liam. Max and I have always had a solid relationship.

We trust each other. For a long time, it was just the two of us, growing up together.

He still has a lot of maturing to do, but I know he loves his son.

He’ll be a good father… someday. When he’s ready.

And for as long as it takes, I’ll be that for Liam. ”

His words hit me harder than I expected, a wave of warmth spreading through my chest. The way he talks about his son—without bitterness, without resentment—completely shatters the assumptions I had about their relationship and makes me feel terrible for my earlier comment.

“Liam isn’t a burden to me. I love being around him.

I love taking care of him even if I’m not around as much as I’d like to be but one day that’ll change.

I loved raising Max, too, but between getting my law degree, and eventually moving us to New York to launch my consulting business…

there are things that I regret. Moments I missed.

” He bites down on his cheek, and I can sense him pulling back, closing himself off, retreating to protect whatever part of the past feels too vulnerable to share.

I can tell that he’s not used to oversharing, or even sharing, and yet here he is, giving me a glimpse behind the mask that he portrays to the rest of the world.

“I think what you’re doing is incredible,” I say quietly. “Many grandparents wouldn’t go this far. Liam adores you and he adores Eleanor.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s not enough.”

“Maybe, but it’s still a lot.” I sit up, my eyes meeting his. “He calls you papa now. Did you know that? Every time he passes that picture of you, Max, and him in the hallway, he points to you and shouts, ‘ Papa !’”

Troy’s face softens, and for a brief moment I see the weight of his guilt ease, replaced by something gentler. Something I hadn’t noticed before: pride in his grandson.

The silence between us is deafening, almost unbearable without the sound of Liam’s laughter or his little footsteps echoing through the house as I chase after him.

It’s strange—how in just a week, this place went from feeling cold and clinical to something warmer, something almost like home.

I’d never imagine I’d be feeling that way talking to Troy either.

“What did James’ parents say to you tonight?” he asks.

His question pulls me from my thoughts. I blink and sit up. “What?”

“I saw how tense you got when you were talking to the Whitmore’s.”

He was watching me ?

“Nothing,” I lie, refusing to expose the insecurities that were gnawing at me.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t turn to face me, his gaze locked on the crashing waves.

I wonder if he knew why I was uncomfortable—if he also thinks that I didn’t fit in there tonight.

I’m not good at pretending, at slipping into roles the way James does, adapting effortlessly to any situation.

I don’t know how to be anything but myself.

But with Troy, I get the sense he’s good at that. That he doesn’t mind. He wears a mask for the world, shifting into whatever they need him to be, playing the part that they expect. But here, with me, maybe he doesn’t have to.

I watched one of his interviews the other night because I was curious.

It’s like he switches into a different person when he knows the camera is on.

But here, in this quiet space, where his mask is completely removed, I’m beginning to think there’s more to him.

A side that’s warmer. A side that I’m really starting to like.

“Is Minnie coming back tonight?”

His brows knit together, and he turns slowly to face me. “No.”

I nod, but he offers no further explanation. The silence stretches again, awkward and heavy.

I wonder why he didn’t have her dropped off here.

“So… were you with her tonight for optics?” I ask, breaking the silence.

Troy turns his head slightly, studying me. But he says nothing, his expression infuriatingly unreadable.

I glance at the old grandfather clock in the corner—it’s nearly midnight now. Our conversation, while civil and filled with moments of vulnerability, feels stilted, like we’ve both been holding back and maybe that’s because we don’t quite trust each other to be completely vulnerable.

“Do you even like working in politics?” I blurt out.

His stare sharpens, a warning in his eyes.

I sigh, reaching for one of the water bottles he brought along with the frozen peas. Instead of pressing him with more intrusive questions, I decide to shift the conversation—offering him a piece of my own vulnerability instead.

“I got into nannying during college. I was originally a political science major. Government was something I loved learning about in high school and I figured I’d roll it into a career until my parents begged me to take over their ranch.

But I hated it—the degree, the expectations, the people.

All of it. One day, I saw an ad for a weekend nanny position.

Took it on a whim and ended up loving it.

So, I dropped out of school. Never finished my degree and I’ve never looked back. ”

“That’s… impulsive.”

A smile tugs at my lips as I think back on those days.

How lost I’d been until I’d found nannying and the joy and freedom that it brought me.

“Maybe. But I was going through a tough time, and I needed the change. I’d been feeling unhappy for a while, the change to nannying—it saved me. Evie and Ember saved me.”

I trail off, letting the silence settle in again.

“I got into politics because I care about people, but mostly, for my family. To save them.”

My brows lift. “To save—”

But the shrill ring of my phone cuts through my question. I glance down, James’s name flashes across the screen like a warning. Troy sees it too—his jaw tightening, eyes darkening.

“I should… I should take this,” I stammer, pulling my legs away from his lap and knocking the bag of peas to the floor in the process.

I bend to pick it up but so does he. Our fingers brush and sparks zip up my arm like a shock and our gazes connect.

His face is so close, pupils dark and blown out.

I can smell the mint on his breath, the scent of his manly cologne wrapping around me in a private bubble.

This is not a good idea.

I’m still a little tipsy, though sobering up fast, but Troy is my boss, he’s older, and I have to live with him while taking care of his grandson for the foreseeable future.

But there’s also no denying how handsome he is, how attractive I am to his broodiness and how I know so little about him—and yet, I want to know more.

So much more.

“I’ve got it,” he says, taking the bag from my hands and standing, offering his other hand to help me up.

When I stand, I realize how tall he is now without my heels on. Broad shoulders, strong jawline, his masculine stance, legs spread wide and commanding like he’s making space for what I know is between them—everything about him pulls me in.

I get the sudden urge to run my fingers through his hair, mess it up and bite down on his bottom lip. I wonder if he’d like that. And before I can stop myself, I’m rising onto my toes, wrapping my arms around the back of his neck, and pressing my lips against his mouth as I whisper, “Thank you.”

What I thought would feel magical is like kissing a statue. He’s frozen, his lips not moving, and the realization of what I’m doing suddenly hits me like a truck.

I jerk back, eyes wide, my fingers brushing against my lips where ours were just connected. “Oh my God. I—I’m so sorry.”

I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, my face burning with embarrassment. The night cloaks us, but I know he can see it too. Worse, the look in his eyes feels dangerously close to pity.

Grabbing my shoes, I mutter, “I… I’ll just go. Sorry, the alcohol…” I force out a laugh, hoping it sounds casual, as if I’m just some silly, drunk girl who doesn’t know any better. “Can we pretend that didn’t happen?”

He stands there, still frozen, and I think I catch the faintest nod.

“Cool!” I chirp, my voice far too bright as I practically bolt up the stairs, wobbling the entire way on my sore ankle. My heart’s pounding, blood rushing loudly in my ears as I run to get away. I jerk into my room and slam the door behind me, collapsing against it.

Not cool, Georgia. Not demure.

I strip off my clothes, not even bothering to turn on the lights as if I did, he’d come get me.

Fuck, I wish he would.

I slip under the covers, trying to block out the night, trying to forget the mortification I feel over what just happened and trying to forget the way my whole body feels alive.

You kissed your grumpy, older boss!

Tomorrow, I’ll have to face him again. I’ll have to meet those eyes that now hold nothing but pity and regret. But tonight, at least, I can disappear—tuck myself beneath these blankets and pretend, for a little while longer, that I didn’t just make a complete fool of myself.

And yet, my mind won’t let me rest. The heat of his touch lingers on my skin, simmering beneath the surface, refusing to fade. My fingers drift over my chest, grazing hardened peaks before sliding lower, seeking the release my body aches for.

Just a press of my thumb, a slow, deliberate roll of my clit, and I’m shuddering—coming apart to the thought of how it would feel if it were Troy touching me instead. My orgasm is silent, swallowed by the dark, my breath caught in my throat as if he might hear me through the walls.

And when it’s over, I bury my face in the pillow, too ashamed to move, as if stillness could erase what I’ve just done.

Tomorrow will bring the hangover from hell. But for now, I’ll stay here, hidden in the dark, pretending I didn’t just kiss my infuriatingly hot boss… who did absolutely nothing to stop me.