Page 29 of Where the Blacktop Ends

Curiosity and a strong wave of desire to see her again prompt me to reopen the app, needing to confirm that my mind wasn’t just playing tricks on me.

Nope. There she is.

Still naked.

Still eating a sandwich.

The image is seared into my memory despite most of her being concealed. The angle of the camera doesn’t give me a full view of her breasts, but I can see the swell of them from the side shot and how they nearly brush against the glass tabletop in their weight. I can also tell she’s wearing nothing on her bottom though her lower half is mostly concealed by a table leg.

She licks her finger in a way that I’m sure is innocent but looks completely seductive in my fucked-up mind just as a glob of mustard splatters against the glass. I harden in my jeansinstantly imagining that being my come splattering all over her tits.

Fucking pervert.I scold myself, closing out of the app again and feeling like a creep.

Yet three minutes later, I’m adjusting myself in my chair, being sure no one can see over my shoulder and pulling out my phone, resolute not to reopen the video in case she stands up and gives me an even better view of her naked body. That’d be an image I'd never be able to wipe from my memory.

Because that would be wrong...

I’m much older than she is, more mature, I have more at stake than she does, and I’ve seen plenty of naked bodies in my life. She’s in my home and I’m simply making sure she’s okay.

And none of those truths stop me from typing out a text to her—the first I’ve sent her since hiring her seven days ago.

Clearly, I don’t have as much control over myself as I think when it comes to her because here I am, messaging her and reopening the video just to watch her eat...

Chapter 10 – Georgia

Earlier that day…??

“Dinosaur,” Liam says as he points at the sky above us. His sticky fingers tighten around mine, still smeared with melted ice cream.

“Thatisa dinosaur!” I cheer as we both stop to look up at the mylar balloon tied to a sign outside of the ice cream shop we just exited.

He grins widely, letting go of my hand before breaking into a silly dance—a mix of flapping his arms like chicken wings and wiggling like a worm. I laugh and join in, not caring about the curious stares from strangers who are passing by.

It’s Friday, and my first week as Liam’s nanny is ending. Eleanor had texted earlier, apologizing for running late to pick him up for the weekend, but I haven’t minded the extra time. Liam and I bonded in less than an hour on Monday morning, and by the end of the week we’ve become best buds.

The quiet, shy two-year-old I’d met at the start of the week has completely transformed into an outgoing toddler. He’s gone from saying a few simple words to practicing short sentences, and he’s always either holding my hand or begging me to carry him. His toddler body isn’t small, so I learned quickly that carrying him around would double as my daily workout—something I forgot Evie and Ember used to demand at this age too.

Our first week together has been a blur of sand and sun, spent playing at the beach or lounging at the country club, wringing out every last drop of summer in New York before it slips away. I half-expected Troy to check in at some point—he seems like the type who’d hover, micro-manage, maybe even demand a daily status report on Liam’s sleeping and eating. But instead, I got a call from his executive assistant, Diane, on Thursday.

Her tone was brisk, efficient. She asked if I had everything I needed, if I had any questions, and—her exact words—whether Liam was still alive.

Seriously.

I assured her that, yes, I was fine, no, I didn’t need anything, and yes, Liam was very much still breathing. She seemed satisfied with that and promptly ended the call, saying she’d pass the message along toMr. Marshall.

The whole thing left me unsettled. Diane clearly runs a tight ship, managing Troy’s business with military precision, but the fact that he didn’t reach out himself? That gnawed at me. How could anyone be so consumed by work that they wouldn’t evenwantto check in on their grandson after leaving him with a complete stranger?

I push the thought away, storing it for later, tacking it onto the growing list of things I plan to ask Troy Marshall—someday. Maybe when we become friends.

Friends.

Ha.

Now that it’s Friday, I know Troy should be heading back to the Hamptons soon—at least, according to the schedule he rattled off last Sunday. I try not to dwell on what that means. That we’ll be sharing a house. Alone. Together. The whole weekend.

Without Liam as a buffer.

Nope. Not thinking about it.

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