Page 37 of Where the Blacktop Ends

And that’s going to be a problem.

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There are plenty of beautiful women at the club tonight, especially Minnie who is currently excitedly talking with her father while attempting to get my attention from across the ballroom to bring her another glass of champagne.

I smile, tip my glass to her as I discreetly grab another, downing it in one swift motion with my back turned.

Expensive champagne has never been my thing—too light, too bubbly. I prefer the strong, smoky flavor of the local whiskey my family distills back in the mountains of North Carolina. The one that Colt dreamed up and Cash brought to reality. But this isn’t the night for indulging in my preferences. Because we all know my true preference would involve a certain naked nanny underneath me back at my home. No, this event is about focus—securing votes, shaking hands, making promises.

I have a business to run and a campaign to build—especially with my big announcement about my gubernatorial bid going public this weekend. I need the backing of the largest, most politically powerful state in the country, and I won’t let anything, or anyone, distract me from that.

Yet here I am. Distracted.

Byher.

Behind that easy, sunlit exterior, I know there’s something deeper. Something that’s driving me insane. I haven’t spent much time with her—just a handful of encounters—but in those brief moments, I caught glimpses of it. A softness. A genuineness. And it doesn’t help that she’s a down-home, Southern girl, the kind I grew up around, which makes her a rarity in a place like New York.

I want to understand her.Why?Hell, if I know. I could say it’s because she’s living under my roof, helping raise my grandson, which makes her part of my responsibility. But that would be a lie. It’s not obligation that has me wanting to know her story. It’s something else.

I want to know her problems.So, I can fix them.

That’s my problem, though. I’m a fixer. Always have been. As a kid, I learned to fix my parents’ broken marriage by being the perfect son. When my younger siblings came along, I became their third parent. And when Max’s mother got pregnant and didn’t want the responsibility? I fixed that, too. I let her go, took full custody, and became a single father at twenty-one, sacrificing my youth to raise him didn’t feel like a sacrifice at all.

But with Georgia, I don’t know what needs fixing. I just knowsomethingdoes. I see it in the way she clings to this job instead of following the Smiths to Florida. The way she refuses to return home to Texas. She’s running—from what, I don’t know—but I’d bet money she’s desperate to never go back.

One thing’s clear: she isn’t drawn to me for my power or influence. She didn’t take the nanny job for connections. But somehow, she’s landed in the orbit of powerful men anyway.

Still, my eyes keep finding her, like some gravitational pull I can’t fight. She stands in the corner of the room, looking justas out of place as I feel. She’s talking to an older couple whose faces I vaguely recognize but can’t place. James’ arm is slung low around her waist, casual but claiming. But Georgia’s body tells a different story. She’s stiff and not having a good time.

Then she knocks back another glass of champagne—her fourth if my count is right. At this pace, she’s going to be drunk soon.

Should I interrupt?

She isn’t at work, and there’s no reason for me to swoop in and save her from an awkward conversation. Besides, who’s to say she even wants saving? But something about the tension in her posture and the nervousness in her eyes feels off. This isn’t the Georgia I hired—radiant, carefree, eats naked in a stranger’s kitchen then flicks off no one.

Not willing to back down.

Not your date,not your problem,I remind myself.

But then my gaze falls to her again, taking in the simple white dress that’s hugging her full hips, her soft curves, and the way she wears it so perfectly.

A low groan rumbles from deep within my chest before I can stop it.

Things would be a hell of a lot easier if Georgia weren’t so...distracting. If she had a flaw, just one small thing—a weird laugh, a wart—anything to make her less... perfect. But she doesn’t. She’s not only aggravatingly cheerful, way too damn young, but she’s also beautiful and it’s impossible to forget that. Especially when I’ve already seen her naked.

What was I thinking? Hiring a woman that I’ve seen naked. I’dneverhire a woman I slept with but maybe I felt like Georgia was an exception. We’d never done anything. It’d been purely an accident. Fuck, I should be concentrating on my date right now,on securing votes, on making sure my campaign is rock solid for the upcoming announcement.

Fuck me.

My cock twitches in my suit pants.

I move behind the table of champagne glasses, adjusting myself at the same time that I notice Georgia and James drift away from the older couple and head out toward the deck.

This is my chance—an opportunity to figure out who these people are and why they’ve made my nanny so uncomfortable. If they recognize me, they’ll speak up. People like them always do, eager to score points with New York City’s most sought-after political consultant and North Carolina’s soon-to-be gubernatorial candidate.

Sure enough, the moment I walk by them, I hear my name.

“Troy Marshall! So good to see you out,” the woman greets, her blindingly white veneers catching the light as she smiles widely. Her bright blonde hair is piled high in an overly tight updo, pulling her eyebrows and ears unnaturally upward. “Bray and Craig Whitmore,” she offers, extending her hand, with her husband following suit.

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