Page 8 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

His fists flex, clenching and unclenching on the top of the table, before his hand moves to the back of his neck, tugging at the tension as if he’s wrestling with what to do next.

Then, without a word, he leans over and pulls a sheet of paper from his briefcase before slamming it down on the table with a sharp thud.

The noise makes me jump as I glance down to see the words at the top in big, bold letters:

Non-Disclosure Agreement. ?

“Okay...” I mutter, my mind racing. Now I’m really curious—what political position is this guy running for? The Smiths never made me sign anything like this when they employed me, but considering Mr. Marshall’s disposition about this interview, I’m guessing it’s something important.

“You understand that everything discussed in this interview is confidential, right? You’re not to mention this meeting, the position you’re interviewing for, me, or anything related to it, regardless of whether or not you get the job.

” His tone is sharp, a bit rude and completely demanding of my compliance.

“Okay...” I respond again, unsure what else to say. Do I even want this job anymore?

He narrows his eyes. “Is ’ okay ’ the only word you know?”

Geez, this guys a real ray of sunshine. “I think I’m in shock,” I admit, blurting it out.

He sighs heavily, clearly irritated. “Why are you in shock?”

“I thought I was meeting with a grandpa... to nanny for his grandson,” I say, trailing off.

Not the man with the gargantuan cock who made my heart race in the steam room a few months ago.

“You are,” he snaps, cutting off my train of thought.

“How old is your grandson?” I press, still trying to wrap my head around the situation and wondering if there’s been some sort of mix up.

“Two.”

“Okay... And his parents?”

“His mom’s not in the picture. His dad is twenty-two.”

My jaw drops open. “And how old are you?”

He rubs his temples, visibly frustrated by my stream of questions. “Forty-two. Any more numbers you’d like to know? Want me to do the math for you? I had my son when I was twenty and my son had his son when he was also twenty years old.”

I shake my head, feeling my face flush because I’m totally tanking this interview. “No, I think I have it now.”

“Good,” he says, his tone growing more clipped, his hazel eyes full of fire.

“This position requires the highest level of discretion. You’ll be responsible for ensuring my family’s privacy always remains intact.

It isn’t public knowledge that I have a two-year-old grandson that lives with me, though it’s not something I’m afraid of getting out, I would prefer for the media not to know until I’m ready to release that information. Is that clear?”

I cross my arms, not liking the accusation behind his words. It’s as if he thinks I’m going to break his trust before I’ve even started.

“I nannied for the Smiths for over five years without any issues. They never questioned my discretion, and might I remind you—we’ve met before, yet I never mentioned the full details of our little encounter to anyone.”

His jaw tightens, a vein pulses at his temple. The beat of it fuels my own temper until I remember the thick vein I noticed on his cock in the steam room. I wonder if it pulses in the same manner. I wonder if it’s pulsing right now.

Hefty! Hefty! Hefty!

“I imagine that’s because you had no idea who I was, considering you didn’t recognize my name when the Smiths gave it to you. And I’d appreciate if you understood that the steam room incident was a rare and completely out of character occurrence—never to be mentioned again.”

I meet his gaze, the tension between us almost as thick as the steam from the sauna downstairs.

“Got it,” I say, my tone sharp, laced with annoyance.

I don’t care that I’m acting like a brat now, or that I desperately need this job to stay in the city and not return to absolutely nothing that’s waiting for me in Texas.

This guy deserves a misdemeanor for his poor attitude and if he’s hell bent on not hiring me, I intend on dishing the rudeness right back at him.

" Nothing happened in the men’s steam room at the clubhouse,” I quip sarcastically, then immediately regret it. This isn’t like me. I’m not overtly rude. I always try to find the best in my circumstances.

I sigh, softening my tone. “Sorry. I’ll drop it.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge my snark or the apology, as if it didn’t register, he just moves forward.

“There will be a thorough background check if I decide to hire you. But before that, I need to know if there’s anything I should be aware of that might not show up on a background check.

There’s always a chance that the media will dig up everything once they catch wind that I’ve hired a nanny, and it’ll be better for me to know upfront if there’s anything they could discover and use against me.

I’m not saying that this will happen, we’ll do our best to keep you away from the media’s attention, but it’s always a possibility when you work closely with someone in politics. ”

My mind races at his words—Something that wouldn’t show up on a background check? This was certainly a discussion that had never come up between me and the Smiths.

I pause, mentally scanning the last twenty-eight years of my life.

I had my rebellious phase as a teenager, sure, and went through a rough patch when I was sixteen. But those are things that I don’t want to rehash. And definitely not with this guy. Plus, I was a minor when all of that went down.

But is any of that relevant? What would the media even be interested in? What skeletons would they look to uncover from a nanny to a political consultant?

After a moment of hesitation, I decide to go with the only thing that I can think of, and I blame him and his sexual energy for it entirely.

“Um… I had a brief… phase in high school.”

Troy shifts in his seat, places his laptop on the table, and levels me with a look. “A phase of what?”

“Um…”

He sighs like my very existence exhausts him. I want to remind him that he wasn’t annoyed four months ago when I accidentally sat on top of him in a steam room. If anything, he was very interested stroking that flared cock from soft to rigid, while watching me through the murky steam.

Now? He’s acting like I’m a hassle.

I can’t stop staring at his lips. I wonder how they’d feel on me, and I realize—though I didn’t even know who he was—this man has been plaguing my fantasies for months. And now I’m trying to work for him.

This is such a bad idea.

“Spit it out, Georgia. A phase of what? Drugs? Alcohol? Stealing? Vandalism?”

Not quite…

“It was a Vampire phase.”

Troy’s eyes snap up. “What?”

I nod. “I was obsessed with Twilight . Wrote fanfiction. Had a huge following on this old-school writing blog.” I clear my throat. “Also… I might’ve printed a chapter where I stole Edward Cullen from Bella and published it in my school’s newspaper.”

A long silence.

He blinks. “Did you use a pen name?”

“…No.”

His fingers press against his temples like I’ve given him an actual migraine. “So, you prefer bloodsucking men?”

“No, I mean—”

“Monster cock?”

I freeze. “What?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You heard me.”

I open my mouth—completely flustered. “I—um—yes. Yes, I do. Like taking monster cock.”

Oh my God. What am I even saying?

His lips curl into a smirk, and it dawns on me—he’s been fucking with me this whole time.

“None of that was relevant to this interview,” he says casually, leaning back.

“It’s not something that would ever come up in a background check, or even if reporters dig into your past. Sounds like you were a normal teenager, obsessed with a cult classic.

” He shrugs, jotting something down while I sit here, reeling .

I recover quickly, lowering my voice. “It wasn’t just an obsession. I was good at writing. My fans loved me.”

He lifts a brow. “Are you saying you peaked in high school?”

My jaw drops. “I did not peak in high school.”

He smiles. A real one. The kind that makes my stomach flip. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering a beat too long. “You’re right, you definitely didn’t peak in high school.” Suddenly, I feel self-conscious in my floral dress. I’d expected a formal meeting with an older man—a grandpa—not this .

Why did I even bring up my vampire obsession?

Oh, right—because being near him is like standing in the middle of a confusing storm of sexual tension.

And now, all I can think about is whether he’d be Team Edward or Team Jacob.

He shrugs as if this was a normal conversation, while I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself .

Okay, think of five good things about him , I mentally coach myself.

One … he’s raising his two-year-old grandson.

That’s admirable. Must be hard doing that while also being a lawyer, political consultant and running for some sort of office position.

Two … um…

“What are you doing?” His voice drags me out of my thoughts, and I blink, realizing I’ve closed my eyes. He’s watching me, looking both confused and amused.

“I’m trying to think of five good things about you.”

His brows lift. “Why?”

“It’s what I do when someone’s being super rude, and I need to remind myself they’re still human and good at heart,” I reply, matter-of-factly.

He throws his head back in laughter, that same, deep throaty sound that I remember from the steam room. “I don’t think you could come up with five good things about me.”

“You’re right, I’m stuck at one,” I sigh and sink into the chair across from him, pushing the bag of cookies toward him. “You want one?”

His eyes drop down to the plate and then back to me. “No.”

I roll my eyes because of course he doesn’t. Probably only eats the tears of his employees and the opponents he crushes to maintain his perfect physique.

“Want to help me out then? What are four more good things about you?”