Page 7 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

“You’re the best.” I grin and skip toward the front while Sean trails behind.

“Who’s the family you’re interviewing with?” he asks, curious.

“Um... all I know is the guy’s name is Troy Marshall and he’s a political consultant in New York City. It’s for his grandson. Two years old. They have a home here in the Hamptons.”

Sean wrinkles his nose. “Troy Marshall?”

I nod. “Yep. Do you know him?”

“Yeah, he’s a member at the club. Seen him around a few times, but he mostly keeps to himself. Seems like a jerk. Politics guy. Meets up with the mayor here occasionally when he visits for the summer. Didn’t know Mr. Marshall was old enough to have a grandson.”

I shrug, trying to sound casual but feeling extra nervous now. I’ve nannied for a family in politics before, but they were far from difficult. If this guy is a jerk, I might not want to take the job after all which means hello, Lonestar Junction!

“Well, my grandpa Rig Cameron loves cookies, so I’m hoping this one does too.” I tie the bag of cookies off with a plastic zip tie and wink, but before I can head off, Sean shoots back with a smirk, “I think he might be interested in a different kind of cookie when it comes to you.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What?”

His eyes sweep over my body, taking in my mostly modest, floral dress and gold wedged sandals. “You know what, good luck,” he says with a chuckle.

I brush off his comment, doing my best not to let it get to me but with every step I take towards the second-floor meeting rooms in the club, I can’t help but spiral.

Mr. Marshall’s assistant had texted me earlier, saying the Bluefish Room was reserved for our interview to keep things discreet. I walk down a long, carpeted hallway, finally finding the room and knock, but there’s no response.

I’m a few minutes early, so I open the door and step inside the empty room.

A round table sits by the window, overlooking the country club’s golf course and the pool below.

The room smells like it’s been freshly cleaned and something about the scent makes it feel sterile.

I take a seat with my back to the door, enjoying the view, my mind wandering.

I wonder if Grandpa Marshall will renew my membership here.

It’d be a shame to lose it at the end of September, especially since it’s such a great spot to bring kids during the winter, with the indoor pool and all.

I remember when Evie was just two years old, we’d come here every day to practice before I was confident taking her to the beach.

My heart squeezes, wondering what my two little best friends are doing in Florida.

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind me snaps me out of my daydream.

I jolt upright, heart stuttering as I turn—and lock eyes with a man standing in the doorway.

A very handsome man.

His dark brown hair is slicked back, still damp from either a recent swim or a shower.

His sharp jawline is freshly shaved, smooth and precise, like he just stepped out of a high-end cologne ad.

And that suit—navy blue, perfectly tailored, the crisp white shirt underneath left undone at the top, revealing just a hint of tanned skin.

But it’s the baseball cap in his hand that makes my stomach drop, mouth go dry.

The same one the rude guy by the pool was wearing earlier.

My brows pull together as I take him in, studying his face. What the hell is he doing here? Did he track me down just to apologize for mistaking me for a club employee? Seems unlikely.

His jaw clenches, his grip tightening slightly on the cap, and something about the way he’s looking at me sends a prickle down my spine. Familiar. Intriguing.

And then—

Like a flash of lightning, it hits me.

I know him.

Not from the pool.

Not from an hour ago.

From four months ago, inside the clubhouse steam room.

Oh.

No.

I wet my lips to bring moisture to them and twisting my hands together nervously before puffing out a soft breath.

“Um… I have a meeting in here.”

Does he recognize me?

“I do too,” he responds passively as he walks towards the table between the two chairs at the window and sits down, completely unfazed by my presence. If anything, he seems a bit annoyed.

I remain standing, unsure what to do. Do I leave and try to reschedule with Mr. Marshall, or do I tell this guy to get the hell out?

“I’m meeting with Mr. Marshall. He’s interviewing me to watch his grandson, ” I emphasize for effect.

“Great. I’m Mr. Marshall. The grandpa. I’m assuming you’re Georgia Cameron. The unemployed nanny?”

Well, you don’t have to put it that way, dick.

I nod as he rises to his feet, extending his hand toward me. There’s still no hint of recognition in his eyes—yet.

Quickly setting down the bag of cookies, I wipe my clammy hands on my dress before reaching out to meet his.

Okay… so he’s a grandpa.

The moment our fingers connect, he pulls me in with a surprising force, drawing me close until we’re nearly chest to chest in a firm embrace.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he whispers, his voice menacing, grip tightening unexpectedly on my fingers, almost knocking me off balance. My eyes widen in shock at the abrupt movement, but I don’t respond, frozen by his intensity and the threat implied by his words.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?” His voice is low and suspicious.

I manage to shake my head no, still too stunned to find my voice. “No, I’ve been a nanny to the Smiths’ two children for the past five years.”

His grip remains firm, his fingers crushing mine in a way that borders on painful.

His dark hazel eyes slice into me, and I catch the faintest whiff of coffee and his cologne.

An intoxicating and extremely familiar combination.

Except last time it was whiskey. And last time, he wasn’t hurting me.

He was showing me his dick. Even if it was unintentional.

He’s not shaking my hand anymore—just holding it, squeezing, pulling me closer like he’s afraid I’ll bolt and tell the world we’re meeting for this interview. Broadcast it on the news. The pressure in my hand is unbearable, and all I can think about is how to get him to let go.

I’m familiar with how people in politics operate, always looking over their shoulders, paranoid that someone will expose them or ruin their reputation. I have no idea what this guy has to hide but with that thought, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I understand the need for discretion,” I whisper. “I’d never breathe a word about this interview and protect your grandson’s privacy with the utmost sensitivity. It’ll be like I don’t even know you.”

That seems to snap him out of whatever paranoid spiral he’s in. He releases my hand abruptly, stepping back like he’s been shocked, his eyes widening in sudden recognition.

“What the fuck?!” he exclaims, his voice sharp with disbelief.