Page 12 of Where the Blacktop Ends

I brush off his comment, doing my best not to let it get to me but with every step I take towards the second-floor meeting rooms in the club, I can’t help but spiral.

Mr. Marshall’s assistant had texted me earlier, saying the Bluefish Room was reserved for our interview to keep things discreet. I walk down a long, carpeted hallway, finally finding the room and knock, but there’s no response.

I’m a few minutes early, so I open the door and step inside the empty room. A round table sits by the window, overlooking the country club’s golf course and the pool below. The room smells like it’s been freshly cleaned and something about the scent makes it feel sterile. I take a seat with my back to the door, enjoying the view, my mind wandering.

I wonder if Grandpa Marshall will renew my membership here. It’d be a shame to lose it at the end of September, especially since it’s such a great spot to bring kids during the winter, with the indoor pool and all. I remember when Evie was just two years old, we’d come here every day to practice before I was confident taking her to the beach.

My heart squeezes, wondering what my two little best friends are doing in Florida.

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind me snaps me out of my daydream.

I jolt upright, heart stuttering as I turn—and lock eyes with a man standing in the doorway.

Averyhandsome man.

His dark brown hair is slicked back, still damp from either a recent swim or a shower. His sharp jawline is freshly shaved, smooth and precise, like he just stepped out of a high-end cologne ad. And that suit—navy blue, perfectly tailored, the crisp white shirt underneath left undone at the top, revealing just a hint of tanned skin.

But it’s the baseball cap in his hand that makes my stomach drop, mouth go dry.

The same one the rude guy by the pool was wearing earlier.

My brows pull together as I take him in, studying his face. What the hell is he doing here? Did he track me down just to apologize for mistaking me for a club employee? Seems unlikely.

His jaw clenches, his grip tightening slightly on the cap, and something about the way he’s looking at me sends a prickle down my spine. Familiar. Intriguing.

And then—

Like a flash of lightning, it hits me.

Iknowhim.

Not from the pool.

Not from an hour ago.

From four months ago, inside the clubhouse steam room.

Oh.

No.

I wet my lips to bring moisture to them and twisting my hands together nervously before puffing out a soft breath.

“Um… I have a meeting in here.”

Does he recognize me?

“I do too,” he responds passively as he walks towards the table between the two chairs at the window and sits down, completely unfazed by my presence. If anything, he seems a bit annoyed.

I remain standing, unsure what to do. Do I leave and try to reschedule with Mr. Marshall, or do I tell this guy to get the hell out?

“I’m meeting with Mr. Marshall. He’s interviewing me to watch hisgrandson,” I emphasize for effect.

“Great. I’m Mr. Marshall. The grandpa. I’m assuming you’re Georgia Cameron. The unemployed nanny?”

Well, you don’t have to put it that way, dick.

I nod as he rises to his feet, extending his hand toward me. There’s still no hint of recognition in his eyes—yet.

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