Page 43 of Where the Blacktop Ends

My ankle throbs—definitely sprained—but there’s something else. A slow, creeping warmth that doesn’t make sense. It takes me a moment to realize it’s him. His fingers. The thick pads of his thumbs pressing into my skin, working firm, methodical circles that send heat curling up my spine.

The room tilts slightly, and I don’t trust myself to look up. But his touch is still there—steady, warm, grounding. He adjusts the cold pack, shifting it to cover more of the swelling, the cold biting into my skin. But that warmth? That stays. That lingers.

I exhale slowly, thinking it’s quiet, subtle. But when my lashes lift, Troy is already watching me, his gaze heavy, waiting. His voice is a low, quiet rumble when he asks, “Is that better?”

“Yes… thank you,” I whisper.

We’re sitting in complete darkness, the only light coming from the moon through the bay windows, casting a faint glow over theliving room. The ocean stretches out beyond the glass, a vast, quiet expanse, but neither of us seems to notice how beautiful it is outside because our attention is locked on each other. It should feel awkward, holding this much eye contact without speaking, but it doesn’t. Neither of us wants to look away, as if we’re studying each other’s faces in the shadows, the quiet amplifying every thought that hangs heavy between us.

“You’re good at this.”

A deep chuckle rattles through his chest. “Icing an ankle isn’t that difficult.”

“You do this a lot?”

He’s quiet, his gaze shifting from mine to the bay windows in front of us. “I have a lot of practice taking care of people when they’ve been hurt.”

My heart stutters, an uneven beat that I feel deep in my chest. I don’t know exactly what he means by that. Max? Liam? Or does it go beyond them—to anyone he considers his responsibility? His family?

And if it does… does that include me?

I blink heavily, trying to focus through the champagne haze as my eyes trace the strong, familiar lines of his face. My attraction to Troy has always been there, no matter how much I tried to ignore it. No matter how much I told myself he wasn’t my type. His dark hair, the thick, black beard he clearly didn’t have time to shave before rushing back from wherever his last flight took him and the consistent wearing of wingtips, suits and ties—it’s not the look I typically go for.

But the way his broad shoulders fit perfectly under those tailored suits, shoulders that I know must carry a lot, how they taper down to his lean waist, flat stomach, and those large,powerful thighs that I saw in the dark... my mind flashes back to the steam room.

I shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, not when we’re trapped alone in this home together all weekend, but I can’t help it. The steam, the dim lighting, and the way his naked body looked—especially the fact that I couldn’t miss the massive cock he had dangling between his legs. It’s an image branded into my mind. I clear my throat, trying to shake the thoughts away. My head is buzzing with a million questions I’ve been dying to ask him since I started working for him, but I know I’m still drunk, and they’ll come out all wrong.

“How was your trip?” I ask, settling for something safe.

Troy shifts the ice on my ankle, making sure it’s situated just right. Somehow, both of my feet are now resting on his lap, shoes removed, just inches away from where I know his cock is beneath his tuxedo pants. I’m glad I decided at the last minute to paint my toenails and shave my legs. Who knew I’d be this close to his body tonight.

He sinks back into the couch, hands behind his head now, eyes closed as he rests. “Eventful,” he says, his voice low and cryptic.

That doesn’t give me much to work with.

I know so little about what he does beyond being a political consultant, and he’s clearly not in the mood to share more tonight.

“Where did you go?” I pry.

One eye opens, giving me a look that feels like a warning to not ask any more questions.

“Never mind,” I mumble quickly, “I don’t need to know.”

Silence follows, and I watch as his strong jaw flexes like he’s working through something in his head, searching for theright words that he ultimately decides not to share. The quiet stretches on painfully so I do what I always do when things feel tense: I fill the silence with my wild rambling.

“Liam had a good week.”

Troy’s gaze flicks back to me, his eyes assessing. “That’s good.”

“He’s starting to put sentences together now. Today, he pointed at a dinosaur balloon outside of the ice cream shop we visited and said, ‘That’s a dinosaur!’”

Troy exhales, but I can’t tell if it’s a sign of annoyance or if he’s just listening to me talk so I barrel on, needing to fill the space between us with words so that things don’t get more awkward.

“We went to the park. He climbed this little rock wall all by himself and when he reached the top he shouted, ‘I’m big!’And we’ve had a few trips to the beach too. I’m going to teach him how to swim at the indoor pool in the country club when it gets colder. I helped him build a sandcastle and taught him to say, ’I’m two years old,’ when people ask his age. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet but he’s close. Such a smart kid. Inquisitive, you know? He takes his time warming up to new things, but I can see the wheels turning in his mind, soaking everything in. And that’s what matters—he’s curious about the world, and as long as he’s curious, I can teach him. One day, it’ll all just click for him. Did you know his favorite color is orange? I decided to buy a few orange pillows for his bedroom, hope that’s okay. They go with the new beach toys I bought him. I also hope you didn’t mind these new pillows that I purchased for the couch. It felt like you needed some color in your home.”

I exhale, taking a pause to steal a look at Troy. He’s watching me closely, his expression hard to read, but there’s something there—something that look a lot like amusement in the way his lips tip up at the corner.

“Take a deep breath, Georgia,” he says chuckling.?

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