Page 15 of Fairground

“Seriously? What do they do with them?”

“Let them chill. They get to live out their retirement staring at the Blue Ridge Mountains, drinking from the creek and snuggling with Cash until their time comes naturally.”

I pause because that’s one of the most shocking things I’ve heard in a long time. Not to mention now I’m imagining big, handsome, muscular Cash cuddling some sweet, old hens while they cross over to the other side.

“That’s… kind of beautiful.”

She nods, clearly pleased. “It’s his whole thing.”

“Cash’s? What do you mean?”

“All the siblings have their own part of the business they manage. Cash’s is the egg farm. He oversees everything—the hens, both layers and retirees, and the crew who works out there.”

“Wow… I didn’t know that.” Mostly because I never would’ve pegged him as the egg farmer type. Then again, I’m not sure what that even means. Some guy in overalls, a pitchfork in one hand and a piece of straw dangling from his mouth? Whatever mental image I try to conjure, it somehow ends up being way too attractive. Which feels deeply unfair.

“Yeah. You should see if you can get a tour of the farmstead some time.”

Yeah... I don’t see that happening.

Suddenly, Lydia’s eyes light up with an idea. She chews quickly, swallows, and sits up straighter.

“Oh my gosh, I’ve got it.”

“Please tell me it’s not joining the egg business as a farm hand,” I deadpan.

She laughs, her blonde hair bouncing as she shakes her head. “Nope, though that would be funny to see. This is sort ofrelated to what you’ve done before, though.”

“Oh?” I sit forward in my seat.

She stands abruptly, marches over to the bar, and whispers something to the bartender on duty. My eyes flick to him immediately—it’s not Cash, something I’d already noticed from the moment that I walked in, but I still wanted to check again, you know, just in case he somehow snuck in and started slinging drinks when I wasn’t paying attention.

To prepare myself. Not because I was hoping he was here.

Duh.

The bartender nods, reaches behind him, and pulls a flyer that was tacked there off the wall. Lydia takes a photo of it with her phone and then hands it back to him before practically skipping back to the table in her high heels. She slides her phone across to me, her excitement palpable as she points at the screen.

“This.”

I pick up the phone, my brows furrowing as I read the flyer.

General Election for Mayor of Whitewood Creek, October 5th

I glance up. “What’s this? Does the mayor the town elects need a campaign manager?”

She shakes her head, smiling wider. “Oh, no. Whitewood Creek’s too small for all that. The mayor’s role is more symbolic—organizing local events, representing the town amongst othersmall towns in the state. But there’s one thing that they’re entirely responsible for: planning the State Fair.”

“The State Fair? You meantheNorth Carolina State Fair?” I gasp.

“Yep. It’s held here in Whitewood Creek every year. A century-old tradition. It’s our biggest event and brings in most of the town’s revenue. Without the fair and the local farms, our economy would collapse. A lot of vendors and small businesses in town make 90% of their annual income solely from sales received during the state fair.”

“Wow,” I murmur, genuinely impressed.

Lydia leans in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“The previous mayor was just ousted for corruption. Finally. Turns out he was involved in the messed up case against Colt Marshall.”

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