Page 18 of Where the Blacktop Ends

“He was flaccid!”He definitely wasn’t once he started gripping it.But I leave that part out.

James shakes his head. “He better have been. That guy has a tight reputation in New York. I still can’t believe that he’s the random stranger you sat on. I bet he was as uncomfortable as hell with you in there.”

When I first told James the story months ago, I left out the part about him fisting his cock and the sexual tension that I’d felt. But now, after spending more time around Troy, I’m starting to wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Because there’s no way the gruff, silver-templed politician—the condescending lawyer I interviewed with yesterday—is the same man who stroked himself in front of me, then wrapped me in a towel like I was something delicate, something worth protecting, in that country club steam room.

“So, you’re all packed up?” James asks, shifting the conversation away from Troy and back towards the real reason he’s here. My move out of here.

“I think so.” I take one last look around the small house that I’ve called home for the last four months—and for five, blissful summers before that. I sigh nostalgically. “It really is a cute cottage. I hope whoever lives here next has as much fun as we have.”

“You don’t have to take this job, you know.” James crosses the room and wraps his arms around me, his embrace protective and reassuring.

He knows I’m anxious about the change. We’ve always been in tune that way—like an unspoken bond that picks up right where we left off, no matter how much time has passed. He’s like the big brother I never had, an honorary cousin to Wilder and Cody Cameron, who’ve always felt more like brothers than actual cousins.

“I know,” I say, turning to smile at him, “but this is good for me. I’m not ready to go back to Texas or my old life, and he really does need help. The guy has a two-year-old grandson who’s been with the same nanny since he was a baby, but she can’t keep up with him anymore. I don’t want him to be shuffled between sitters while Troy is off traveling, campaigning, and advising politicians. The kid’s parents aren’t even in the picture. How sad is that?”

James studies me for a moment, then nods. “It’s pretty messed up. I get it. I had a revolving door of nannies growing up. My parents never gave me any consistency.”

“Exactly. At least I can be that for Liam because I’m not going anywhere,” I say, feeling more confident in my decision now. This is the right move. “And Troy’s barely around. He’s leavingfor a business trip next week, so it’ll just be me and Liam most days. I doubt I’ll even see him. Plus, I’ll still be here in the Hamptons, so you can come visit whenever you need a break from the city, and we can take Liam out on the town.”

He grins. “You know I’ll be here as often as I can.”

I rise on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek affectionately. “Good. Now be the amazing best friend you are and drop me off at Mr. Marshall’s address on your way back to New York City, please?”

James stoops down, effortlessly grabbing my bag from the floor and slinging it over his shoulder as we lock up the cottage. The key clicks into the lock pad, a quiet finality, and then we’re off—just a short drive to Mr. Marshall’s estate.

The ride is silent, but my mind isn’t. I watch the familiar beach houses blur past, their weathered charm so ingrained in my memory from countless summer days that I barely notice them anymore. But then the landscape shifts. The road curves into a gated stretch of coastline, where exclusivity is measured in sprawling lawns and security cameras. The Smiths’ beach home—the one I once thought of as impressive—now feels laughably modest in comparison.

And then, there it is. The Marshall estate. A towering three-story masterpiece perched on the shore, its wraparound porch hugging the house like an embrace, offering what must be panoramic views of the water. The pristine white siding gleams, and the floor-to-ceiling windows catch the light just right, making the entire house glow like something out of a luxury magazine.

Polished. Imposing. Perfect.

Just like Troy.

“Damn,” James mutters, eyeing the place as we pull up. “I knew Troy was a big shot—seen him around town working with the mayor—but I didn’t know he was living like this. What position did you say he was running for?”

“I don’t know...” I respond because Troy still hasn’t filled me in on that and I’ve yet to search his name. Maybe I’m naïve in not doing better research before interviewing, or accepting this position but I think it adds a little surprise to my life.

He pulls into the driveway and hops out, slinging my bag over his shoulder again while grabbing my roller suitcase with his other hand. As we reach the front door, I press the doorbell, feeling a bit awkward. I consider telling James he can go now, but I know he wouldn’t leave without making sure I’m safe. He’s always been protective, but after what Troy said about visitors, specifically other men, I’m not sure if his presence is going to cause more harm than good.

Before I can decide on what to do, the door opens, and Troy’s standing there, more casually dressed than I’ve ever seen him, though I guess I’ve only ever met him twice now. Once in a suit and the other time stark naked.

Dark jeans, a light green collared shirt unbuttoned at the top that makes the green flecks in his hazel eyes pop, and his deep brown hair styled without care. The faintest hint of salt water and coconut wafts towards me through the open door mixed with coffee.

He gives James a once-over, and his expression shifts—brows furrowing, lips thinning.

“Georgia,” he nods curtly, barely glancing in my direction.

James steps forward and extends his hand. “Hello. I’m James Whitmore, Georgia’s friend.”

Troy shakes it, and I can instantly feel the tension that’s oozing between the two men. Neither of them looks willing to break the handshake first, and I want to disappear. It’s like a silent pissing contest that I desperately want no part of—especially not between my boss and my honorary big brother.

“Thanks for dropping me off, James,” I say, trying to break the awkwardness and hint that it’s time for him to go. I should’ve warned him that Troy doesn’t like strangers around his grandson, but here we are, and James clearly isn’t ready to budge now that Troy’s being his typical broody and demanding self.

“Liam isn’t here,” Troy says flatly, his eyes now locked on mine as he drops James’s hand. Or maybe James does. I can’t tell who let go first. “If you’d like yourfriendto bring your bags inside before he leaves, he’s welcome to.”

Troy opens the door wider, a gesture that feels like a taunt, but since Liam’s not around, I shrug, not interested in playing into whatever is going on between the two of them.

“Sure.”Hey, he offered, and I’d rather not carry my bags up three stories.

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