Page 26 of Fairground

“Look, we can talk about the food vendors while I work,” I add, trying not to sound too eager. “We need a plan anyway, and it’ll put us ahead before the food committee meeting in two days. Kill two birds with one stone.”

I can tell she’s weighing all the reasons she should say no. But eventually, she gives a small nod, still reluctant. “Okay. But I can’t stay out too late. My nephews are up by six for school, and I need sleep, or I’ll be useless tomorrow.”

I chuckle, tossing my head back. “Six? That’s sleeping in around here, but noted. I’ll try to have you home before curfew.”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s the playful kind. I know she likes to act like I annoy her, but I think I’m slowly starting to break down her carefully constructed walls.

“Let’s go,” I hold back the flap of the tent and we step outside into the evening air. The stars are already high in the sky and a breeze kicks up, gentle but sharp, carrying her scent right to me. Cherries.

My favorite.

I glance at her as we walk toward our vehicles. She’s hugging her arms to her chest, my jacket still wrapped tightly around her, eyes soft but focused, like she’s still trying to talk herself into this. Into me.

And I get it. I’m not exactly low-risk and without complications. Still, something about the way she walks beside me makes me feel like we might find our rhythm. Not the fake kind we’ve been pretending to have in front of everyone else, but something real in the quiet moments where we’re together.

I’m not sure where the night will take us. But for the first time all day, I’m not bracing for impact. I’m looking forward to it.

And damn if that isn’t a dangerous feeling.

Chapter 11: Rae

Ten minutes later I’m turning off the main road that snakes through Whitewood Creek, my tires crunching over a dirt path hidden beneath a blanket of fallen leaves. Reds, oranges, and yellows scatter across the ground making it hard to tell where the road ends and the woods that surround the property begin. The tall pines lining the path tower overhead, their branches swaying gently in the breeze adding to the spooky, autumn vibe of the night. As the trees part, Whitewood Creek Distillery comes into view, and it’s nothing like I imagined—it’s more. So much more.

The building stands massive and impressive, a seamless blend of rustic charm and industrial grit. Honey-colored wood panels line the exterior, their warmth softened by dark steel beams that separate each groove. Above the entrance, a wide, carved sign declares the name of the businessin bold, elegant script, the letters polished to perfection.

Surrounding the distillery are sprawling fields that bump up to the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance. The mountains rise like painted giants against the moonlight, their peaks softened by mist curling lazily around their crowns and dancing withmystery. With the moon high in the sky, and the chill in the air, it’s one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen even at nighttime.

It’s the kind of scenery that makes you want to grab a paintbrush and bring it to life. And while I’ve never been much of an artist, there’s something about this place—this moment—that makes me wish I had the skill to capture it.Bob Ross would lose his mind over this view.

The wraparound porch hugs the building like a warm embrace, dotted with wooden rocking chairs and barrels branded with the family’s distillery logo, repurposed as tables. Even though it’s probably all in my head, I swear I can smell the distinct aroma of oak, fermenting grains, and the smoky sweetness of aging whiskey lingering in the crisp air.

Cash’s truck pulls up beside me and he quickly hops out, making a beeline for my door, but I’m already halfway out by the time he gets there. He stops short, frowning a little, like he’s disappointed he didn’t get to play gentleman.

I flash him a small smile that I hope conveys I’m a big girl; I can take care of myself.

“Right this way,” he says with a dramatic flourish, gesturing toward the entrance. “Prepare to be wowed.”

We walk side by side up the porch steps and onto the deck, his boots thudding against the worn planks while my sandals make softer, lighter taps. As we step inside, the warmth wraps around me like a blanket—thick with the scent of oak, spice, and faint sweetness, the kind that clings to the back of your throat so strong that you can taste it. The distillery is sleek and industrial, with polished stainless steel tanks rising like monuments under the amber glow of overhead pendant lights. Copper pipingsnakes along the walls and ceiling, warm and luminous, casting a soft sheen across the concrete floors.

The low hum of machinery vibrates faintly through the soles of my feet, a steady rhythm that blends with the occasional hiss of steam or clink of metal—signs of work still in motion. Through a set of tall glass windows, the main distilling floor comes into full view, a meticulous spread of equipment laid out like a well-rehearsed orchestra. Beyond that, a tasting bar lines one wall, rustic but clean, with reclaimed wood shelves stocked with neatly labeled bottles, their amber liquid catching the light.

To the right, a small office sits tucked behind frosted glass, its door slightly ajar, papers and sample jars scattered across the desk inside and the faint sound of radio playing.

Everything feels clean yet lived in, like a space built not just for business, but for pride, history, and long hours that stretch into night.

“Hey,” a deep voice calls, drawing my attention.

A man emerges from the office door, striding toward us with easy confidence. This guy's about as tall as Cash but built like a freight train, his broad shoulders and thick arms stretching the fabric of his white tank top, testing its strength. Tattoos curl up his muscular biceps, dark ink twisting and turning in intricate designs with words that I can’t make out. His head is shaved close to the scalp, giving him a no-nonsense and low maintenance vibe. Despite the differences in the two men standing in front of me, I catch enough similarities in their features to assume that this must be one of Cash's many brothers.

“Colt Marshall,” he says, extending a hand toward me. His grip is cautious, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

“Rae Black. It’s nice to meet you,” I reply, sliding my hand into his and feeling the calluses on his palm—hard-earned marks of a man who knows work.

He nods, barely acknowledging me with even a sliver of a smile—which, honestly, I appreciate. Colt must be the grump to Cash’s perpetual sunshine because this guy looks like he’d prefer to be anywhere but with us right now. He narrows his eyes at his brother and jerks his chin in my direction.

“Rae Black,” he rubs his strong jawline pensively. “Isn’t this the opposition?”

Cash snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Opposites attract, trope. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

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