Page 10 of Where the Blacktop Ends

I hadn’t planned on arriving two hours early for my interview at the club, but my excitement at the prospect of staying in New York had gotten the better of me.

September has settled in, bringing the first whispers of cooler air, though the Hamptons still cling to the last remnants of summer. Soon, the place will empty out entirely—snowbirds flying south, politicians retreating to their city posts, leaving the beaches and country clubs eerily quiet until next season.

I’ve never stayed in New York through the winter. Every year, when summer ends, I pack my bags and follow the Smiths back to Texas, where warmth still lingers well into December. But this year, I want something different. I want to see for myself if winter in the city really is as magical as the movies make it seem.

For now, the sun is still shining, and I’m not about to waste it. I shrug off my swim cover-up, folding it neatly beneath the wicker pool chair, then pop in my earbuds, scrolling until I findmy latest audiobook—a dark romance narrated by a man whose voice is so deep, it feels like it belongs at the bottom of the ocean.

And just like that, my mind drifts tohim.

The stranger from the men’s steam room.

It has been four months, but the memory still makes my stomach flip. That voice—rough, commanding, dangerous—had sent a shiver down my spine then, and it still does now, no matter how much I try to push it out of my head. The thick fog of the steam room had kept me from getting a proper look at him, but I’d felt him. Heard him. And somehow, the mystery of it all makes it worse. Or better. I’m not sure.

What Iamsure of is that his voice—hispresence—has burned itself into my brain, taking up permanent residence in my late-night fantasies. And the fact that I haven’t seen or figured out who he is?

Infuriating.

With a sigh, I stretch out, pulling my oversized floppy hat down over my face, letting the warm sun lull me into a light doze.

This summer has been perfect. Lazy beach days, digging in the sand with Evie and Ember, afternoons drifting between their seaside home and quaint little ice cream shops in town. For five years, this has been my routine—an endless summer, complete with a cozy, rent-free cottage near the Smiths’ estate.

That lease is up at the end of the month.

And unless today’s interview with Mr. Marshall goes well, there’s no guarantee I’ll be renewing it.

A sharp grumble from my stomach jolts me from my nap. I blink up at the sky, pushing my sunglasses down to check the time.Thirty minutes until my interview.Just enough time to grab something small from the restaurant.

I sit up, smoothing down my swimsuit before sliding my cover-up back over my shoulders. The pool deck is quieter now, shaded by striped umbrellas, rocking chairs lined neatly along the edge where members lounge in the breeze. I’m halfway across when—

A firm hand curls around my arm, gripping it tightly I jolt.

I barely have time to register the touch before I see the other hand lift—a tanned, veined forearm holding an empty glass of ice, shaking it expectantly in my direction.

“Refill for an iced coffee, please,” a deep voice commands, cool and indifferent.

Not a request. A demand.

And he still isn’t even looking at me.

I look down at the guy, taking in the strange mix of his attire—a navy blue suit and white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top that makes his tan skin shine and reveals tuffs of chest hair, paired with a baseball cap and dark black sunglasses concealing his face.

His nose is buried in his phone, fingers angrily jabbing at the screen typing something I’m sure must be a rant. The juxtaposition isn’t all that surprising though; many members of this elite club prize the anonymity it provides. Celebrities, billionaires, and politicians frequent this place to escape the spotlight, so it isn’t unusual to find someone trying to hide behind a cap and pair of sunglasses.

He finally releases my arm, going right back to furiously typing as if he’s already forgotten I’m there. I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out what to do, then shrug and take the glass out of his grasp.

My life philosophy has always been to remain soft and open, which is part of the reason why I never finished college orpursued a ’real’ job like most people my age dub their jobs to be proudly. The corporate grind just isn’t for me, and neither is taking over the Cameron ranch as a real cowgirl and managing a team of people all day.

No, I’ve always gravitated towards the joy of children—their world is simple, full of curiosity and play. I’ve often wished there was an adult job where all was expected of you was exploration and joy, though being a nanny often feels close to that. It’s just never felt like work to me.

So, when this rude man, who can’t be bothered to even look at me and realize that I’m not wearing an employee uniform and instead dressed in a bikini, asks for a refill on his iced coffee, I decide to get him that.

Without a word, I carry the glass to the bar and set it firmly on the counter with a thud.

“The man over there requested a refill of his iced coffee,” I say smiling sweetly at the bartender who I recognize from the last time that James and I got drunk here and then stole a golfcart. “How are you doing today, Betsy?”

She smiles then her eyes drift toward the deck where the stranger sits, furiously tapping away at his phone, the brim of his baseball cap is still pulled low over his face, and I swear he hasn’t looked up yet. A flicker of recognition crosses her face as she turns to the espresso bar and starts making the drink.

“Did he say what type of milk or cream?” she tosses over her shoulder.

---