Page 32 of Where the Blacktop Ends

For shoes, I go with strappy gold heels, high enough to give me an extra few inches but still comfortable enough to dance in—just in case the night calls for it.

A final spritz of perfume, warm and floral with hints of jasmine and vanilla, settles over my skin lightly. It clings to the air as I make my way downstairs, pouring myself a glass of red wine and sipping carefully, mindful not to smudge my lipstick or spill on my dress.

I look ready. Or at least, I hope I do.

My nerves are already shot from the idea of going to this fancy event with James—where he blends in, and I stick out—and I can tell there will be no relaxing tonight. I imagine walking in with a cowboy hat and straw in my teeth, shouting,‘Howdy y’all! I’m Georgia Cameron from Texas!’

When the doorbell rings at seven sharp, I dash to answer it. James is standing there, looking ridiculously handsome in acrisp, short-sleeved white button-up, white pants, and loafers. His dark blonde hair is slicked back, and a cocky grin stretches across his handsome face.

“You look amazing,” he says, stepping inside and pulling me into his arms, spinning me around for full effect. I squeal, completely unconcerned about whether any of Troy’s neighbors catch us acting like a couple of overgrown kids on his doorstep. Let them watch.

I’ve met a few of them this week—polite, pleasant,curious. Eager to know who the mystery woman was slipping in and out of their broody neighbor’s house. When I reassured them I was just the nanny, most of them blinked in surprise, murmuring that they didn’t even know he had a son.

I kept to myself that it’s not hissonI’m watching—but his grandson.

From what little I can tell, Troy doesn’t make a habit of socializing around here. And I have no interest in breaking that unspoken rule—or his trust.

“I missed you this week,” James says, his voice booming with warmth, “all I did was sit in boring meetings, talk about new skyscraper designs, and think about how much I hate the concrete jungle that I live in.”

I smile at him. “Well, you’re the one who decided to go back to work in the city.”

He chuckles. “You left the cottage so there was nowhere else for me to stay, and I don’t think Troy would be cool with me moving in.”

I snicker. “Um… your parents multiple million-dollar beach front house is always an option.”

He rolls his eyes because we both know that’s the last place James would willingly stay while in the Hamptons.

“Will they be at the club tonight?”

He puffs out a mouthful of air and sighs. “Yeah.”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

“May. At the start of the summer.”

I nod, chewing on my bottom lip nervously. I guarantee his parents will not be pleased to see he’s brought me to this event tonight.Embarrassing their son and strong family name.

“In all seriousness, you look incredible. This outfit might be your best yet and did you get a tan without me this week?” his hands reach for my waist with a playful tickle and just as I start to giggle, swatting him away a deep, booming voice comes from over his shoulder in the door that we’ve left wide open.

“Will you please move so that I can get in my house?”

Oh, shit...

James turns to the side revealing a very grumpy Troy standing on the steps to his home with a beautiful woman hanging on his arm. Her bright blonde hair and deep, brown, almond shaped eyes are rimmed in heavy eyeliner and what looks like are very tastefully done false eyelashes.

That is, unless her eyelashes are naturally that ridiculously long. If so, I’msuperjealous.

Her dress is more cream than white, hugging her body so tightly it drapes down past her ankles, giving the illusion that she’s gliding rather than walking. It’s stunning, and I can’t help but wonder if I should have worn something longer tonight. But I could never pull off a dress that tight—especially not now, with ovulation hormones causing bloat. Loose, forgiving fabricis more my style anyways, perfectly suited for the indulgent food and alcohol I plan to eat at tonight’s party.

Then my eyes land on Troy—and he’sfurious.

At me?

For what? I have no idea, but the weight of his glare settles on my skin like a physical touch.

He’s wearing an all-white tuxedo, perfectly tailored to his tall, broad frame, the crisp fabric a sharp contrast against his dark, tousled hair. Somehow, even after stepping straight off a plane, he looks put together. Handsome. His scent drifts toward me from the doorway—clean, masculine, threaded with that familiar musk I remember from our interview and the day I moved in.

Anddammit. He’s grown out his beard.

---