Page 3 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

James winks. “If you’re not interested, I’ll gladly step in and rescue you. You’ve always said you’ve never been with an older man. What happened to all those age gap romances you love reading?”

I burst out laughing—he’s not wrong. But in books, a twenty-year age gap feels a lot more romantic than the reality staring me down in the heads of salt and peppered hair in front of me.

Still, I’m never one to back down from whatever trouble James has in mind, so I decide to jump right in, but first – “Oh my gosh, is that Beverly Dupres?” I hiss, trying not to point at the heiress to the DupresOne Champagne Dynasty that’s based out of New York City.

James eyes dart in the direction of where I’m looking, a grin crossing his face.

“It sure is. Quick, let’s go grab champagne and act like we know everything about it to impress her.

” He tugs me in the direction of a server, and we take two flutes before bursting into laughter.

Between James and I, we make up our careers and a believable story around our sibling relationship, though we look nothing alike, keeping straight faces the entire time as we chat with Ms. Dupres.

I can smell the wealth rolling off the people we mingle with, caught up in the fumes of their perfume and cologne, and though I’m sure some of them are judging me in my skimpy bikini and see through cover-up, I’m having a blast. It’s all fun until James catches the eye of a beautiful older woman with soft skin and kind eyes who seems extremely interested in him, and I decide to leave him to it.

I head toward the water’s edge, peeling off the sheer cover up I tugged on and then slip into the pool.

The water is still warm, calming my nerves and the strong scent of chlorine grounds me.

Summer is just starting, but with nightfall settling in, there’s the faintest hint of a crisp in the air, a subtle bite that promises a storm coming ahead.

I can’t wait.

Summer storms were always my favorite. I used to put on my swimsuit and run out into the rain, dancing and singing in the storm with my parents on Cameron ranch.

These types of moments make me ache for my family—but only for a second until I remember I’m no longer a kid and eventually, Peter needs to return from Neverland.

With the Smiths leaving for Florida in less than four months, my day may be arriving earlier than I hoped.

I lean against the pool’s edge, watching James work the room with effortless charm.

He’s so tall and handsome, it’s no surprise everyone wants to talk to him.

With his dark blonde hair and warm brown eyes, he looks like someone who could’ve been on Harvard’s rowing team —broad-shouldered, probably wearing a Harvard sweatshirt, casually sipping a beer with his frat brothers.

In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what he did during his time in college.

James and I have known each other for five years now.

We met by chance during my first year nannying for the Smiths while I was playing with the kids by the coastline.

Evie was just a baby, napping peacefully under the shade of an umbrella, while Ember and I were busy building a sandcastle.

And that’s when James jogged by, shirtless, and casually asked if we needed any help.

At the time, I had no idea he was a well-known architect for the city and who his family was - extremely wealthy, and politically connected New York socialites.

A few hours spent digging and chatting, and we’d constructed what the Hamptons may have seen as their first true work of art in the form of sand – a gigantic sculpture of the statue of liberty.

I’d ended up in a fit of giggles because the whole thing looked a lot like Ms. Liberty was throwing up the middle finger rather than holding up a torch.

Thankfully, the kids didn’t know any difference.

Later that night, James showed up at the cottage the Smiths rented for me every summer.

After a few rounds of tequila and trading horror stories about the wild, reckless things we used to get up to, one thing led to another, and we ended up hooking up—a moment fueled by a shared bond and way too much liquor.

It was the first and last time it would ever happen as we realized our newly forged friendship was too precious and we were too much alike for anything more.

And so began our wonderfully reckless friendship, spanning the next five years.

Whenever I’d come back into town, we’d meet up for spontaneous adventures on my days off. On the days I had the kids, James would tag along as I dragged them to museums, the beach, the country club pool, and wherever else I decided to take them.

He’d always claim he wasn’t a fan of kids, teasing that Evie and Ember drove him crazy, but somehow, he found himself right in the middle of it—whether it was being tackled by them or swinging them around like a fun uncle, tossing them into the ocean.

Having James around always feels a little like having an older brother—one who’s charming, endlessly mischievous, and occasionally a terrible influence. The Smiths like him, too. Probably because of his last name and the kind of political alliances his family can bring to Mr. Smith’s career.

It wasn’t until last summer that I fully grasped justhowpowerful his family really is.

Old money. Manhattan elite. Their massive waterfront estate could rival even the Smiths’, a sprawling testament to generations of influence.

And yet, despite all that luxury, James always prefers my tiny, rented cottage when he’s in town, acting like my worn-out secondhand couch is somehow more appealing than the marble halls he spent the summer in as a child.

And while we never crossed the line again, our bond has only deepened. What we have isn’t built on fleeting attraction—it’s something stronger. A friendship grounded in loyalty, trust, and an unspoken promise to always have each other’s backs.

My parents, of course, have other ideas.

They’d love nothing more than for things to turn romantic, convinced James is the perfect candidate to “finally settle me down” and give them a grandchild to take overCameron Ranch .

But James and I have never seen each other that way.

Our lives are too different, our futures mapped out in opposite directions.

And yet, none of that ever matters when we’re together.

We understand each other in ways that don’t require explanation.

We protect each other’s hearts. And though we’ve never said it out loud, we both know—whoever we end up with will have to accept that.

Because neither of us are going anywhere.

He catches my eye from where I’m leaning against the edge, sending me a playful wink in the middle of his conversation with the cute woman from earlier, her dark black hair and flashy diamond jewelry almost blinds me against the reflection from the moon.

James says something to her with a quick smile, then strides over to the pool’s edge confidently. He crouches down beside me, his grin as infectious as ever, radiating that effortless and boyish charm.

“So… I’m going to get out of here with her,” his tone is playful but there’s an underlying vulnerability behind it.

I nod in response. “You think it could turn into something more?” Because I want more for James. I want him to fall in love and find peace just as much as I want that for myself.

He shrugs, giving me a non-answer, “You know me.”

His usual response to downplay his fears and overall aversion towards commitment to protect himself.

He continues, “I’m worried about you being here without me.

These people are circling like vultures for the girl with strawberry blonde hair and a perfectly white smile,” he tugs on a lock of my damp, hair playfully.

“Will you please leave now too? I’ve had several people come up to me asking if you’re single and whether they can get your phone number. ”

I glance around, feeling the complete opposite of what James is saying.

Everyone seems so polite, regal even—prim and proper, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to gather here for the sole purpose of meeting up, and likely hooking up, with strangers.

I’m no prude, and I’m open to experimentation, but I definitely haven’t been to a singles mixer before.

I guess I didn’t expect it to feel this. .. ordinary.

“Okay, okay, dad, I can leave, but I think I’ll stop by the club’s steam room first. Need to sweat out today’s chlorine and alcohol consumption before I see Evie and Ember tomorrow morning.”

He nods with a smile, then extends his hand helping me out of the warm water before wrapping me up in a towel tenderly.

The air is much cooler outside now, though warm, the temperature has dropped, and I can feel the chill of the night covering my barely concealed skin. The steam room will feel extra good.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I promised Evie and Ember lots of beach days these last few months that they’re in town,” I say.

He waves over his shoulder. “Those hellions are a pain in my ass.”

I laugh. But I know he’ll show up anyways. He always does.

I watch as James leaves with the woman he’s been chatting with for most of the night then head inside the clubhouse to seek out the steam room.

For five, consecutive summers, I’ve been coming here, bringing the kids at least once a week for playdates, pool swims, or to let them burn off energy on the clubhouse playground during the day.

Rarely have I had the luxury of using the steam room myself.

But after months of chasing after the kids and wearing myself out without a break, my body aches for a long, hot sit in the steam.

It’s exactly what I need.

Like everything else in the Hamptons—and everything the Smiths interact with—it’s as boujee as you’d expect. A gold-plated door gleams before me, inscribed with the words bain de vapeur - hommes , framed by sleek dark wood and polished brass accents.

I stripped down to just a towel in the women’s locker room, loosely wrapped around my chest and waist. Thankfully, almost everyone who’s still here is at the party out on the terrace still, the kitchen is now closed, leaving the hallway and the clubhouse blissfully quiet.

Tiptoeing across the hall, I push open the door and am immediately engulfed by the dim glow of the room’s floor lighting.

Inside there are marble and stone benches stacked on two levels, and a cloud of steam plumes from deep within so thick that I can barely make out the space around me.

The walls glisten slightly from the thick coated moisture, and the floor lights cause the air to dance around me, making the whole room feel like an otherworldly sanctuary.

It smells like eucalyptus in here which reminds me of the essential oils that they infuse throughout the room.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply as the heat and scent seeps into every pore, relaxing my muscles and calming my mind. The tension in my body unravels as I roll my neck, stepping deeper into the darkness.

The lights at the back of the steam room are dimmer or maybe burnt out, I can’t tell, leaving the front softly illuminated pointing back towards mostly black where steamy tendrils curl towards me like fingers beckoning me to come deeper. Thankfully, I’m completely alone tonight.

I step further into the room, making my way all the way to where I know the room ends before spinning around to take a seat.

With a sigh, I let my towel drop to the floor and lower myself onto the cool bench—only to be met not by the welcoming, smooth marble surface that I’m expecting, but the unmistakable sensation of slick, warm flesh slapping against my bare thighs and butt.

“What the hell?” a startled, muffled voice comes from somewhere beneath me as I lose purchase and fall to the side, slipping off whatever I sat on.

My hands fumble, my hip slams painfully against the edge of the seat, and then—before I can even process what’s happening—I’m crashing to the ground.

“Help!” I yelp because I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.

You ever stumble into the bathroom half-asleep in the middle of the night, go to sit down, and realize—too late—that someone left the toilet seat up?

That sudden, stomach-dropping free fall?

Yeah, this is like that. Except worse. It feels like I just fell out of a tree, and I have no idea what the hell I landed on.

I roll awkwardly to my side in some kind of half-somersault, then drop to my knees before scrambling to stand.

Yeah, those are definitely going to be bruised.

By the time I manage to get my feet under me, a figure looms in front of me. The steam is still thick, blurring my vision, messing with my contacts, but there’s no mistaking it—it’s a man.

A freakishly tall one at that.

And then I realize, with growing horror, that there’s something dangling between his legs.

A towel? An extra leg? Nope, it’s his completely bare cock.

The same one that I just sat on.