Page 88 of The County Line
Colt appears behind me, his large hands wrapping around my waist. He pulls me back into his solid chest, his lips brushing against my ear. “You smell amazing.”
I grin but don’t look up. “Don’t get any ideas, big guy. There’s too much to do today.”
“Leave it to my siblings and let me make love to you,” he teases, his voice low and warm.
I twist to look at him, my eyebrow arching. “I don’t think so. I need their help with planning the wedding you insisted on having in December—at the creek, remember?”
His playful growl rumbles against my back, but I know he’s not mad. Yes, we finally picked a date. Originally, we thought fall would be perfect, but between the State Fair in November, the distillery and egg farm’s summer rush, and everything else life has thrown at us, it’s been impossible to find time to plan so December it is. Hopefully, a white, winter wedding.
“You’ll survive,” I tease, turning back to the menu. Carefully, I laminate another one, smoothing out any bubbles before adding it to the growing stack.
Regan slides onto a barstool next to me, her wild auburn bun swaying as she moves. Strands of hair escape, framing her flushed, pretty face and bright blue eyes.
“Did you hear the rumors?” she asks breathlessly.
I glance at her, pausing mid-laminate. “What rumors?”
Colt shifts behind me, draping an arm around both our shoulders, leaning in like we’re swapping secrets.
Regan’s lips twitch into a grin. “It’s not confirmed yet, but word around town is the mayor of Whitewood Creek might be in big trouble with city government.”
“What kind of trouble?” I ask, my curiosity instantly piqued.
“The kind that could get him ousted.”
“Yikes. About time,” I mutter. Colt lets out a low grunt, his jaw tightening.
The mayor. Just hearing his title is enough to make my blood boil. He’s one of the key players who buried evidence in Colt’s case, ensuring a longer sentence than he ever should’ve ever served. The thought of him losing his job is almost too satisfying.
Regan leans forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “With the election coming up in November, there’s a good chance he won’t even make it onto the ballot, let alone win.”
“I wonder what that’ll mean for the State Fair,” I say absently, adding another laminated menu to the stack.
Typically, it’s the mayor of our small town who leads planning efforts for the fair. While mostly a figurehead position, the state fair is the most important event in all of North Carolina which means it’s a crucial role to fill. It’s also the largest source of revenue for our small town’s economy.
Before Regan can respond, the front door swings open, the sound of heavy boots echoing against the polished concrete floors. Cash Marshall strides in, larger than life as always, his hair a tousled mess like he’s been wrestling the chickens that he manages all day.
“What are you guys talking about?” he asks, tossing his keys onto the counter and giving us that signature Marshall grin—the one that says he’s here to stir the pot.
Regan spins her stool to face him. “The mayor might be in hot water.”
Cash raises an eyebrow. “Definehot water.”
“The kind that could end with him behind bars, or at least, fired,” I say, unable to hide my smirk.
Cash’s grin widens, that signature playful, mischievous smile of his—the one that could light up a whole damn room and have women tripping over each other for a chance with him.
I swear, Cash Marshall hasn’t had a bad day in his entire life. To him, every day is sunshine, every challenge is an opportunity, and every setback is just a setup for something better. But this smile? This one right here is almost blinding, like he’s ready to throw a full-blown party right here in the middle of the half-finished brewery.
“Sounds like cause for celebration to me,” he says, reaching behind the bar to grab a bottle of the family’s whiskey. He pours three generous shots, sliding two our way and keeping one for himself.
Colt shakes his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “No thanks, brother.”
Cash shrugs, unfazed. “More for us, then.” He nudges the glasses toward Regan and me as she laughs easily.
“It’s not even confirmed yet, Cash,” she says, rolling her eyes.
He waves her off, raising his glass. “Details, details. Let’s go ahead and toast to it anyway. Put it out in the universe, and maybe by the time the State Fair planning committee kicks off, we’ll have some new leadership in this town.”
