Page 38 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

“He’s certainly more interesting than I thought,” I say, handing James a glass of whiskey from Troy’s stash of Whitewood Creek’s Finest as I take a seat next to him on the couch with my wine.

James raises a brow. “You two banging?”

“No!” I blurt out a little too quickly, making his eyebrows shoot even higher. “No,” I repeat, this time with more control. “And stop asking questions like that. I’m not going to give you details about my sex life, even if we were.”

He smirks and takes a slow slip of his whiskey, smacking his lips. “This is good. Is this Troy’s family’s brand?”

I nod. “Yep. His brother’s formulated it.”

“Well, you’ve never been private about your conquests in the past but I’m happy for you and I won’t pry for any more details if you don’t’ want to share.

This nanny gig seems to be working out, and Liam’s a cool kid.

I’m sorry about what happened on Friday, though.

I’m still mad at myself for not walking you two home after lunch. ”

I shrug. “You couldn’t have known the paparazzi were tailing us.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

I sink deeper into the couch, the cool fabric brushing against my bare legs, but it does nothing to soothe the restless buzz under my skin. My mind won’t shut up—spinning in endless circles, replaying the last few days on an unforgiving loop.

Troy’s hands on me. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was something precious.

And then… nothing.

After he took care of me so tenderly—washing me like I was something fragile, giving me an earth-shattering orgasm on the edge of the tub, and tucking me into bed like I was precious—he disappeared. Again.

Vanished.

No call. No text. No explanation. Just… gone.

I heard him leave early this morning—his footsteps muffled but distinct, the front door closing softly, like he didn’t want to wake me. But I was already awake. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, my body still aching for him. My heart aching for something I’m too scared to name.

And now?

Now I’m sitting here, pretending like I’m not counting down the hours since I last saw him.

Like I’m not wondering where the hell we stand after everything that happened.

My stomach twists, the uncertainty gnawing at me, making it impossible to think about anything else.

I try to push it down, to silence the questions swirling in my head, but they won’t stop.

Does he regret it?

Was it too much? Too fast?

Or am I just fooling myself, thinking this could be more than what it was?

I drag my fingers through my hair, exhaling a shaky breath as I finally break the silence.

“He’s really committed to his family…” My voice is soft, almost like I’m trying to convince myself. “And the people he feels responsible for, you know?”

James nods. “I’m getting the fact that you’ve become part of that list. It’s a good thing, too. So, when does Liam come back?”

“Not until tomorrow morning.”

“Nice. So, what are we watching tonight then?”

“You’re watching the first three seasons of Gossip Girl while you tell me all about your love life. I’ve heard things through the Hamptons grapevine amongst the older women.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he sips his drink. I press play on season one and then turn to him.

“Spill it, Whitmore.”

We dive into it, catching up, ordering pizza, and watching reruns of a show that reminds me of my high school days full of nostalgia. By the time the evening rolls around, I’ve stopped drinking, and the conversation takes a more serious turn.

“So, how have you been managing things?” James asks, his tone shifting slightly.

“Pretty well. My doctor from Texas has continued to check-in and I’ve been taking my prescription like usual.”

He nods, understanding the weight of those words.

“And you?” I ask him.

Despite all our teasing and playful banter, James and I bonded over something deeper than surface-level similarities and instant attraction five years ago. We connected through the cracks—the silent struggles we’d both carried, the kind that most people don’t see.

Depression.

For both of us, it wasn’t just a temporary occurrence.

It had clawed at us during different seasons of our lives, weaving itself through memories, and somehow, we found a quiet understanding in that shared pain.

I think that’s what’s kept us so close over the years.

When you’ve sat in the darkness, it’s easier to recognize someone else who’s been there too.

Mine’s been managed for a while now, ever since I started a low-dose antidepressant back in high school.

It helped level me out, took the edge off the heaviness that used to press down on me.

But the roots of it? They went deeper—into the decisions I’d made when I was too young to understand their weight, the suffocating expectations I’d tried to live up to, and the whirlwind of changes that come when you’re barely old enough to know who you are.

James understood all of that.

When I first moved to New York to nanny for the Smiths, I told him everything.

I didn’t mean to—hell, I hadn’t planned on spilling my past over takeout and late-night walks on the beach—but James has this way of making you feel like it’s okay to be honest. Like he won’t judge you for the parts you’re still ashamed of.

I told him how I’d never finished college.

How the depression I thought I had under control came back full force in those early years, dragging me under when I least expected it.

I was so sure I was past that. I had a plan, a purpose—or at least I thought I did.

But when the passion I once felt for what I was studying faded, when it started to feel more like a prison than a path, all those doubts from high school came rushing back.

The weight of what ifs and not enoughs crushed me until I couldn’t breathe, and eventually, I just… stopped.

Stopped going to class.

Stopped answering my friends’ texts.

Stopped believing I was capable of anything more.

I dropped out before anyone even realized how bad it had gotten and found nannying which saved me.

And James?

He didn’t look at me like I was broken. He just nodded and said, “Yeah… I get that.”

Because he did . He’d been there too—different circumstances, same darkness.

“I’m doing alright,” James says, leaning back. “I’m back in therapy. Funny how you can spend two years in therapy, once a week, and still not get past processing your teenage years.”

I snort. “I get it. I think most of our trauma starts there. I’m glad you’re talking about it,” I say after a pause. “Showing up is the hardest part.”

James looks at me. “And what’s the easy part?”

I tap my finger against the wine glass, lost in thought.

“I’m not sure if there is an easy part. But maybe it’s when you can just exist in those small, quiet moments, where you’re not haunted by that voice in your head.

The one that says you’re not enough, you’re not doing enough, and no one will ever truly see you for who you actually are. Only your past mistakes.”

I look away, suddenly feeling too exposed, like I’ve handed him a piece of me that I’m not used to sharing. But with James, it doesn’t feel scary. It feels… safe. His hand rests lightly on mine, grounding me in that quiet understanding that’s always been there between us.

We sit there for a moment, the silence stretching but not uncomfortable. Just… heavy . I’m about to say something—something to lighten the mood, something that’ll cut through the weight of it—when the front door swings open.

And then there’s Troy.

The shift is instant.

James and I are sitting close, which is nothing new. We’ve always been like this—best friends, both empaths, comfortable with physical closeness, intimately aware of each other’s scars. But for the first time, I’m hyperaware of how it might look to someone who doesn’t know us.

To Troy .

His gaze locks onto us, sharp and unrelenting, like a spotlight cutting through the dim glow of the living room. It sweeps over me, slow and deliberate, and I swear I can feel it—feelthe heat of it trailing over my skin, making my breath catch in my throat.

The air thickens.

Troy doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. The weight of his stare says it al

“Hi, Mr. Marshall!” My voice comes out high-pitched and way too cheerful, enough for both James and Troy to glance at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Also, Mr. Marshall? Why they hell didn’t I just call him Troy? There’s no reason to feel guilt. James is my best friend and Troy knows that.

Right ?

I’m not sure anymore judging by the look on his face.

“Good evening,” Troy says, his voice cool and measured as he nods at James.

I jump up as if to greet him, though I have no idea what I’m doing. He meets my eyes with a look that tells me to stay put and sit back down, so I sink back onto the couch.

I wasn’t expecting him to come home right now. Liam’s not here, so it shouldn’t matter that I have company. Troy said I could have guests as long as Liam isn’t around. And it’s Jame. Why am I spiraling?

I’d rather be spending the evening with Troy, but he disappeared. Again.

“Just back from the city?” James asks, always calm and polite, not noticing the clear tension that’s crackling between both of us.

Troy nods. “Yeah. Had some business to take care of.”

Cryptic, of course.

I feel that familiar sting of being left out. Out of his plans, out of his world. I’m just the nanny still, after all. He’s never alluded to making me anything more despite our hooking up and his promises. But maybe that’s all they’ve been.

Words, w ith no action.

“Alright then, I’ll leave you two to it,” Troy says, his voice cool and measured. But I don’t miss the flicker in his eyes. Something darker.

Disappointment?

Anger?

Or worse— indifference.

He turns without another glance, heading up the stairs, his footsteps echoing loudly. The air feels heavier when he’s gone, pressing down on my chest.

“Okay… that was weird,” James mumbles beside me, hitting play on the remote, but I barely register it. Because all I can feel is the ache in my chest. A hollow space where Troy’s warmth used to be.

Troy might be weird at times, but he’s starting to feel like my weird guy.

The rest of our night together is marred by my lingering thoughts on where Troy was and whether I was doing the right thing by inviting James over for a pizza and movie night after our steamy hook-up in the bathroom.

Sometime after midnight, I drift off, curled up under a warm, fuzzy blanket. But then Ifeelit. A shift. Strong arms slide under me, lifting me effortlessly, and the scent of woodsy cologne wraps around me like a familiar ache. Him. Even without opening my eyes, I know it’s Troy.

My body reacts instinctively, my fingers curling into his shirt, pulling myself closer, seeking the comfort of his warmth. Maybe this is a dream. But if it is, I don’t want to wake up. Because even if he keeps disappearing…He always comes back.

And that’s enough for now.