Page 31 of Where the Blacktop Ends

A large glob of mustard drips from my meal onto the glass kitchen table.

“Ah, shit,”I set down the sandwich, jump up to grab some napkins and then return to the table but this time, I knock over my entire glass of sweet tea. “No!”

I’m frantically cleaning up the mess when my phone vibrates again alerting me to yet another message. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I shout out into the silent home.

Mr. Marshall: I can see that you’ve read my messages. I get a read notification. I don’t like to be kept waiting. I’m an impatient man and about to board my flight, Ms. Cameron.

Oh, fuck you, Troy.

I drop the wet, wad of napkins onto the table then shoot the angriest glare I can muster all around the walls of the kitchen, even though I have no idea if he’s actually watching me or from what angle.

It’s in your head, Georgia.

But just for good measure, I flip a big middle finger and do a 360 spin, pointing it angrily at every crevice in the space – just to cover my bases.

Then I wipe my hands carefully on the lone napkin that isn’t soaked in sweet tea and get to typing.

Georgia: Why, yes, Mr. Marshall. So sorry to keep you waiting with your packed schedule and important life. Your grandson Liam had a fantastic week with me. Thank you for asking. Drop off this morning went pleasantly, and he is safely with Ms. Eleanor until my pickup on Monday morning.

Georgia: Not all of us operate on ‘Troy Marshall Standard Time,’ sitting around waiting for their boss to send them a text message that they must reply to instantly. I didn’t even know you had my phone number.

Mr. Marshall:Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Georgia.

Georgia: Nothing about my response was sarcastic, Mr. Marshall. Just merely keeping things professional and to the point. Something that you’re very good at.

I press send, glaring at my screen as the message turns to ‘Read.’

No response. Typical.

Whatever.

Hopefully, he’s boarding his plane now and will leave me in peace to get ready for tonight’s party.

After cleaning up the rest of the mess and tossing the napkins in the trash, I throw away the remains of my lunch, no longer having an appetite. A quick scan of the room confirms everything looks just as spotless as when Troy left six days ago, maybe even better considering every night after Liam goes to bed, I do a thorough sweep—mopping, vacuuming, wiping things down—just in case he shows up early. I know howfrustrating it is to come home to a messy home and it’s the same thing I used to do when watching Evie and Ember but I’m also not trying to get on his bad side.

Unless I’m already on it.

Satisfied, I turn on my heel, ready to start getting dressed, but my phone buzzes again in my palm.

Troy:You missed a spot.

Chapter 11 – Georgia

The rest of my afternoon—and well into the evening—is spent obsessing over an outfit for the exclusive Hamptons party at the country club and trying not to dwell on the fact that, for the second time since meeting Troy, he’s seen me naked.

Completely by accident.

Okay, maybe notcompletelyby accident.

Because how much of an accident is it, really, to wander around his house, make myself a sandwich, and eat itin the nude?

I push the thought aside, cranking up some country music to drown out the heat simmering beneath my skin. The familiar twang of a guitar fills the room as I curl my strawberry-blonde hair into soft, effortless waves, the kind that look like I didn’t spend an hour perfecting them. My makeup stays simple—barely-there foundation, a sweep of mascara—but I swipe on a bold red lip, because if I’m playing the part tonight, I’m going toownit.

Then comes the dress.

White satin, vintage Gucci. A secondhand treasure I found in the city and couldn’t believe was my size. It’s loose enough to drape elegantly over my curves but cinches at the waist in just the right way, the hem skimming my thighs with every movement. The neckline dips into a soft V, enough to hint without revealing too much and the back is completely open. The fabric catches the light when I turn, making my sun-kissed skin glow from the afternoons spent at the beach with Liam.

I finish the look with delicate gold jewelry—a thin chain necklace with a teardrop pendant that rests just above the neckline, small hoop earrings, a slim bracelet that jingles softly when I move. None of it is real gold, but I hope it doesn’tlookthat way. These parties are a spectacle of wealth, a world I don’t belong to but have no problem slipping into for the night.

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