Page 24 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

Beethoven drifts from the alarm clock, pulling me into a morning I’m not ready for. Five AM, and I feel like shit.

I reach over to silence it, but my attention stays on the laptop resting on my lap. I don’t trust phones to wake me up—batteries die, updates restart at the worst times. In my career, there’s no room for error.

But today, I didn’t need the alarm. I barely slept.

Tossing, turning, overthinking—it's been the norm lately, especially with the gubernatorial election looming.

Sleepless nights are familiar, sleeping pills even more so.

But last night? Georgia and that damn kiss sent my already tangled thoughts into a tailspin.

Whitewood Creek Farm, consulting obligations, Liam, Max, the expectations I carry—all of it already weighed on me. But her? She cracked something open.

It wasn’t like I told her much about me last night. To her, it was probably nothing. But to me? It was more than I’ve ever shared with anyone outside my family and Diane.

Letting someone in—letting them get close enough to understand why I got into politics or the demons that still claw at my back—has never been an option.

And certainly not with someone like Georgia.

Someone who won’t be here for long. Someone who isn’t family.

But her honesty, her vulnerability, the way she just lays herself bare—it pulled something out of me.

And maybe it was the jealousy burning through me when she got drunk with James, or the way she looked at me before she kissed me, but I let my guard slip.

Yes, I froze when she kissed me. Not because I didn’t want it.

But because she was drunk. Because it caught me off guard.

Because if I had let myself react—if I had threaded my fingers through that wild hair, gripped her hips, pinned her against me the way that I wanted to—I wouldn’t have stopped.

I would have taken her upstairs and settled this tension between us in the most reckless way possible.

But it doesn’t matter now. Today changes everything.

By noon, the world will know I’m officially running for governor of North Carolina. And with that, every part of my life that I’ve fought to keep private—my family’s farm, my brother’s prison sentence, Liam’s role in my life—will be dragged into the light.

And Georgia? She’ll never look at me the same way again.

I considered warning her last night when she shared about why she’d become a nanny, but I decided against it.

She’d have too many questions, and sometimes, it’s better for people to be blindsided with jarring news.

They can decide how to handle the news after the Band-Aid has been ripped off instead of trying to overthink things or talk me out of my plans.

Because there’s no way I’m being talked out of this.

My phone vibrates on the end table beside me with a notification. I pick it up and scan the article from the New York Politics Today —the one where I leaked the announcement of my candidacy but made it seem as though someone else had.

Everything looks factual. Exactly as I drafted it. No surprises. Precisely how I like things in my life. Predictable.

And so, it begins...

Within sixty seconds, the flood of text messages and phone calls start coming in—not from family, they’ve known about this plan for close to a decade now—the one to right the wrongs that have been dealt to my family, turn the entire state of North Carolina government on its head and free my brother from prison, but from colleagues and associates around the country.

They’re all congratulatory, offering support, pledging allegiance and good press.

It’s what I expected. I’ve broken my back for them over the years, been nothing but loyal, got them out of some of some of the most damning cases.

Now, they’ll support me. Even with the NDAs I keep firmly in place, I hadn’t told most of my New York clients about my run, figuring it best they found out today.

Because soon I’ll have to step away from consulting altogether.

I mute my notifications, ignoring the barrage of messages and emails. Diane will begin sending out the canned ′ thank you for your support message,′ that I approved she use to clean out my inbox and then make a spreadsheet detailing everyone who reached out so that I can personally follow-up.

You never know when you’ll need to call in a favor.

I slip off my reading glasses and set them on the nightstand before crossing the room, tugging on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt.

As I step into the hall, I catch a glimpse of Georgia’s closed door.

No surprise there—after all the champagne she put away last night, she’ll probably sleep through half the morning.

The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs, the wooden steps cool under my bare feet.

Outside, the early morning air bites against my skin, crisp with the first hints of fall.

The sky is just beginning to lighten, streaks of pale gold stretching across the horizon as I head down the familiar path to the water.

Running here has become a habit, a way to clear my head since making the Hamptons our home base.

It would’ve been easier to stay in the city, closer to work, but that’s not the life I want for Liam.

I watched what that world did to Max, the way it consumed him, and I refuse to make the same mistakes with his son.

I inhale deeply, the scent of salt and damp earth filling my lungs, then push forward. My feet pound against the sand, steady, rhythmic. With every stride, my mind sharpens, preparing for what’s coming.

By the end of the day, everything will be different, and I need to stay focused except my mind is churning like the waves crashing against the shoreline, replaying last night and Georgia’s kiss on a loop.

She’d had too much to drink—emotional, vulnerable, caught up in whatever connection she thought we had in that moment. Maybe she won’t even remember it happened. Because that would be what’s best. She’s young. Too young for me. Too tangled up in Liam’s life. Too… messy .

That’s the word that keeps coming back to me.

My world is already filled with enough complications—I don’t need to add Georgia to the list. Reciprocating that kiss would’ve been a mistake—a temptation I can’t afford.

She’s chaos. Unpredictable. And I don’t have room for that.

I can only hope she’s already written it off as a drunken mistake.

That we’ll move past it, no awkwardness, no tension, no need to talk about it. Just pretend last night never happened.

A five-mile run does little to quiet my thoughts, but by the time I make it back to the house, I’m more prepared to face her. The place is still dark, the early morning light barely creeping through the October sky.

As I climb the stairs, my mind drifts—memories of the city, of weekends spent wandering New York with Max.

Art galleries, tiny cafés, the pulse of life humming around us.

It was the perfect place for him, for his restless energy, his creativity.

But it wasn’t right for Liam. He’s quieter, more introspective.

The city would’ve swallowed him whole. The Hamptons are better for him.

Here, he has space to breathe. And Georgia—I’m coming to realize—has already helped him in ways I couldn’t.

I reach the top of the stairs, careful not to make a sound as I pass her bedroom. The door is still shut, no light coming from beneath it. Good . Hopefully she spends the whole day sleeping and then forgets everything.

After a quick shower, I throw on a T-shirt and shorts and head downstairs. But just as I step into the kitchen, I catch sight of her through the window.

She’s curled up on the back deck, knees tucked beneath an oversized sweatshirt that’s wrapped around her body, staring out at the ocean. Not scrolling through her phone, not reading. Just… sitting there.

And for the first time, I wonder if I misjudged her ability to move past what happened last night. For a moment, I consider leaving her alone. She looks lost in thought, and the last thing I want to do is make things more uncomfortable between us by trying to make small talk.

But the part of me that values straightforwardness, keeping things professional, strictly business, tells me I should go out there, clear the air.

Make sure she knows there’s no need for weirdness.

I’m used to awkwardness—most people get that way around me, especially politicians who have something to hide or women who want to sleep with me—but Georgia?

She’s not awkward. She’s just a young woman who made a mistake after a heavy conversation and lots of alcohol that resulted in a kiss.

And I’m just a guy who didn’t enjoy it at all and respected her vulnerability by not reciprocating.

Yeah. That’s exactly what it was. I didn’t enjoy it at all.

I know I’m full of shit, but I push forward, hand on the sliding glass door, debating whether I should interrupt her.

But instead of overthinking it further, I grab two mugs, pour some coffee, and head outside.

The door slides open causing a soft squeak and her head snaps toward me.

There’s a forced smile on her lips, like she wasn’t expecting me and isn’t happy about it either.

“Coffee?” I hold out one of the mugs awkwardly.

“Sure.”

She takes it then place the mug on the table beside her, not touching it, eyes fixed on the shoreline where I’d just been running.

I hesitate and rub at my jawline because it’s been a long time since I’ve lived with a woman and I’m feeling very out of my depth here. “Mind if I join you?”

She shrugs, still not looking my way.

Okay, maybe things are going to be awkward between us.

I sink into the chair beside her. Silence settles—thick, uncomfortable. She watches the waves while I watch her.