Page 42 of Where the Blacktop Ends

And why should I feel embarrassed? I’m not less than anyone. My upbringing and my last name don’t define my worth. I’m proud of the roots I have and my family’s thriving ranch. More than that, I’m proud of my character. The character that doesn’t consist of looking down my nose at people like they are beneath me because of their tax bracket.

I reach the front door of the home and open it with the key that he gave me, Troy’s presence like a shadow behind me, letting me do it on my own.

At least he’s aware enough to know I’m not in the mood for chivalry.

I stomp inside, only for my heels to give one biggerfuck you! I trip, nearly crashing to the floor, but once again, Troy catches me.

“Can you slow down?” he snaps, his voice edged in frustration.

“Let me go!” I shout back, trying to steady myself without his help. The moment I put pressure on my ankle though, a sharp pain shoots through it.

Yeah, that’s not right.

I wince.

“You sprained it,” Troy sighs, sounding absolutely exhausted with this night.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I fire back. His brows raise as his grip on me tightens in warning.

I probably shouldn’t be mouthing off to my boss. But after tonight—and after he kicked me out of the damn cottage, leaving me stuck here with him instead of letting me wallow in peace—I’m fresh out of fucks to give.

“I’ll get ice,” I grumble, turning toward the kitchen, but Troy shakes his head.

“No. Sit down.”

“I can do it myself.”

He shakes his head again, and there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s holding back a laugh.As if he ever laughs.

His voice softens noticeably. “I’m sure you can take care of yourself, but I’d like to get the ice for you. Please, sit on the couch and wait, Georgia.”

I narrow my eyes at him, debating whether it’s worth the energy to keep arguing. But exhaustion wins out, and with a heavy sigh, I slump onto the leather couch. My hands cover my face, fingers pressing into my temples as my head hangs low.

What a night.

This wasn’t how I pictured my first Hamptons end of summer party—not even close. I’d imagined glamour, champagne, charm and a night I’d never forget. Instead, I’m hanging out with my angry boss back at his house. The humiliation burns hot under my skin, but I’m too tired, too overwhelmed, to do anything but sit in it.

A few moments later, Troy returns, cold bag of vegetables in hand. He sits beside me, breaking up the frozen peas on his strong, suited thigh.

“Will you let me?”

I lift my head just enough to meet his gaze. “Okay...” because his tone has changed, and his brown eyes seem softer now.

He reaches down for my foot, his touch surprisingly gentle, and shifts my body so that I’m laying back on the couch, sinking into some of the new cushions I picked up this week with Liam. I wonder what Troy thinks of the changes that I’ve made to his home. I wonder if he’s even noticed or cares.

He moves my foot until it’s perched on his lap carefully. His hands are rougher than I expected—strong, capable. Not the hands of a man who only knows boardrooms and political deals. My mind flickers, uncontrolled, to the image of him in something other than a suit. Maybe jeans, work boots, sleeves pushed up, arms flexing. A ridiculous thought. And yet... I don’t hate it.

Ridiculous.

Between his job as a high-powered political consultant, traveling all over the country, and whatever time he spends with his grandson, Liam, there’s no way he’d have time for another side job.

Troy carefully undoes the strap of my shoe from around my ankle, his fingers brushing lightly against the exposed and sore skin. For a second, it feels like he’s lingering a moment longer than necessary. But that’s just the champagne talking, right? I’m drunk, imagining things but damn if he isn’t skilled in removing a woman’s shoe.

He slips my foot out of the heel, and the relief is instant. Those stilettos have been torturing me all night, and now that they’re off, I feel like I can breathe again. But the throbbing ache of my ankle still pulses gently beneath the surface.

His palm grazes the swollen curve of my heel, warmth trailing in its wake, a stark contrast to the cool night air. He pauses, seeming to assess the damage, before reaching for the bag of peas next to him. With steady hands, he lifts my foot slightly, cradling it as he presses the cold bag against the part that must be swollen. I wince at the icy shock that shoots through me, but his grip is firm, calming, holding me in place so I can’t move and make things worse.

The alcohol has me feeling unsteady, a soft buzz in my head that makes everything feel just a little fuzzy. I let my head tip back against the arm of the couch, eyes drifting shut as I try to settle into the chill seeping through my leg.

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