Page 41 of Where the Blacktop Ends

She turns from the window, catching my eyes as I speed down the dark road. “He’s my best friend. One of the few people who really understand me.”

I nod, staring straight ahead. “He’s not your boyfriend?”

Her brows furrow as she tries to understand my question. “No. I told you already, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

I flex my jaw, knowing I should stop, but I can’t. I push boundaries in my career, but I shouldn’t with her. She’s my nanny, for God’s sake. But I need to know. I believe her, but it’s not enough. I twist the steering wheel tightly in my grip, feeling the leather crack and then let out a breath.

“Have you two ever slept together?”

She gasps, then slumps back into her seat, throwing an arm over her eyes like that might block me out. “I feel like I’m talking to my dad right now.”

“I’m your employer. I need to know if James is going to be in my house when I’m not home. Around my grandson.”

I hate how I sound—like the world’s biggest asshole who is possessive over her when I know I have no right to be—but the wondering would eat me alive. While I’m out traveling, I’d be stuck picturing him there with her on the weekends. Making her laugh. Kissing her. Touching her.

Her tone sharpens, cutting through my thoughts. “I don’t see how my sexual history is relevant to the job. I’ve already told you—there will be no strangers in your house when Liam is home.”

“That’s not an answer, Georgia,” I snap.

She rolls her eyes, turning back to the window. “Yes,” she says softly. “Once. Five years ago, the summer we first met. It was a one-time thing, and it’s been platonic ever since. Neither of us ever wanted more. He’s my best friend, and he’s slept with plenty of women since then.”

Arms crossed, lips pushing into a pout, she glares at the glass, furious at my intrusive questions.

Good.

I don’t care if she’s mad. Actually, I’m glad she is. That’ll keep her away from me. Maybe she’ll ignore me all weekend because she’s pissed at my prying. Put some distance between the sexual tension that I can’t seem to shake.

I’ll make an effort to tolerate James for Georgia’s sake, but one thing I’ll never allow under my roof again is him sharing her bed. Not while she’s living with me.

Chapter 14 – Georgia

The drive back to Troy’s house is short, but every second feels like torture seated next to him, replaying the look on his face and the annoyance laced in his words.

After he demanded that I recount every detail of my sexual past with James, one that’s limited to a single night, I sank into silence—partly because I was embarrassed and annoyed, but mostly because I know that I’m way too drunk to handle a serious conversation with him right now. One wrong word, and I’ll either regret it or end up getting myself fired.

I don’t drink like this anymore. But tonight, trapped in a room full of people who made it painfully clear I don’t belong—especially James’ parents with their veiled barbs and critical stares—I lost count. Lost control. I’d downed more champagne than I should’ve, hoping it might help me blend in or at least dull the discomfort.

A sigh drifts through the car, though I can't tell if it's his or mine. My head is heavy, fogged with champagne and regret, everythingblurring at the edges. Tonight is one colossal failure, and I hate that I care. I turn my face toward the window, hoping to hide the embarrassment that’s twisting in my chest. Then I feel it—a single tear slipping down my cheek, catching on my lip like a silent confession.

The moment we pull up to his beach house, I shove the car door open, desperate for escape. I move too fast, stumbling slightly in my heels.

“Shit,” I mutter as my ankle twists, and I stumble, but before I hit the ground, Troy is there, his strong hand gripping my elbow to steady me, his arms wrapping around my waist and brushing against the exposed skin to right me.

“Easy, Georgia.” His face is a storm of emotions: Displeasure? Anger? And even though we’ve barely spoken this week, I canfeelthe disappointment radiating off him. It’s in the way his brow furrows, the tight set of his jaw line and his unforgiving, panty-melting hazel eyes. I don’t know what James was talking about, this guy doesn’t seem like he likes me at all.

“I’m fine,” I snap, straightening myself and hobbling toward the house, cursing my ankle as I climb the steep steps on what feels like wooden stilts. He follows me, silent and brooding, and I can just imagine his internal monologue right now.

Another person who can’t take care of themselves.

Can’t wait to get back to Minnie. She isn’t a hot, embarrassing mess like Georgia.

Speaking of Minnie... Is she coming back here tonight? I shouldn't care, shouldn't feel this tightness in my chest at the thought of her slipping through the front door like she belongs here more than I do. But I do. And that pisses me off.

The question buzzes inside my head like the bubbles of champagne, but I keep them to myself. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what Troy or Minnie do. What matters is that he thinks I embarrassed him tonight. Just like James’ parents thought I embarrassed them by even showing up with their son.

And frankly, I’m fucking over it all.

I’m a confident, capable woman. The Smiths always shielded me from public events unless I was there to entertain the kids or keep them out of the spotlight. Maybe that’s why this wave of embarrassment feels so foreign, so suffocating, so unnatural.

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