Page 44 of Where the Blacktop Ends

Chapter 15 – Georgia

I wet my lips, suddenly aware that I’ve been rambling, filling the quiet with too many words. Troy’s hand drifts back to my ankle, grounding me. His fingers, warm and rough, move in slow, unhurried circles against my skin, each pass sending a ripple of heat up my calf, pooling low in my belly, settling somewhere deeper.

For once, this house doesn’t feel suffocating. With him here, the energy shifts—softer, quieter. He’s not just tolerating the moment; he’sinit, settled in a way that reminds me of the steam room. That same steady presence, that same quiet pull. He’s relaxed.

His hands move higher, kneading my calves with slow, deliberate pressure, and I have to press my thighs together to quiet the ache building between them. I know he notices—the flicker of his gaze, the way his fingers still for half a second before resuming their path. Heat licks up my spine, and before I can stop myself, the nervous rambling starts again, wordstumbling out in a desperate attempt to distract from the way my body reacts to his touch.

It’s not just the feel of him that has my mind spinning—it’s the uncertainty of it all. The fact that I know so little about the man I work for, yet here I am, spending an entire weekend under his roof while his grandson stays with Eleanor. And looming over it all is the ever-present risk that at any second, Minnie could burst through the door, eager to see him.

“Sorry,” I murmur, taking a break from another story about what Liam and I did this past week while he was gone.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, his voice sounding sincere. “I love hearing about Liam.” He lets out a deep sigh and I notice his jaw ticking, like it always does when he’s choosing his words carefully, as if afraid of saying something he’ll regret. I wish he didn’t feel the need to be so controlled with me, like he’s constantly weighing every word, worried I’m going to write down his thoughts and sell them to the highest tabloid bidder.

“I feel guilty,” he admits, his voice tight, “for not spending more time with Liam. For dropping him off with Eleanor on the weekends because my work week often doesn’t end on Friday and client engagements creep into Sundays.”

The confession surprises me. “Why? You’re his grandpa, not his dad. He still sees you in the evenings most days, right? If anyone should feel guilty, it’s your son.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, and Troy noticeably winces, avoiding my gaze.

I hit a nerve.

Immediately, I regret taking a dig at his son when I don’t have all the details or an understanding of the situation that led him to taking care of his grandson.

“Max was only twenty when his college school sweetheart got pregnant with Liam. It was unexpected, and she didn’t want to keep the baby. She was in school at the art institute and didn’t feel she’d have the time. She also claimed that she wasn’t in love with Max. She ended up changing her mind and once Liam was born, she immediately signed away her parental rights and moved to California.”

I want to bite my tongue, because the first thought that flashes through my mind is,but weren’t you also twenty when you had Max, and you somehow made it work as a single father?But I keep that to myself.

Troy’s gaze drifts back toward the bay window as he continues, “I understand the implications of a young pregnancy when the mother doesn’t want to stay involved. Max was around for the first year of Liam’s life, but between school, studying, and the long commute into NYU, I could tell he was overwhelmed even with Eleanor’s help. I offered to take full custody of Liam. Max and I have always had a solid relationship. We trust each other. For a long time, it was just the two of us, growing up together. He still has a lot of maturing to do, but I know he loves his son. He’ll be a good father… someday. When he’s ready. And for as long as it takes, I’ll be that for Liam.”

His words hit me harder than I expected, a wave of warmth spreading through my chest. The way he talks about his son—without bitterness, without resentment—completely shatters the assumptions I had about their relationship and makes me feel terrible for my earlier comment.

“Liam isn’t a burden to me. I love being around him. I love taking care of him even if I’m not around as much as I’d like to be but one day that’ll change. I loved raising Max, too, but between getting my law degree, and eventually moving us to New York to launch my consulting business… there are things that I regret.Moments I missed.” He bites down on his cheek, and I can sense him pulling back, closing himself off, retreating to protect whatever part of the past feels too vulnerable to share. I can tell that he’s not used to oversharing, or even sharing, and yet here he is, giving me a glimpse behind the mask that he portrays to the rest of the world.

“I think what you’re doing is incredible,” I say quietly. “Many grandparents wouldn’t go this far. Liam adores you and he adores Eleanor.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s not enough.”

“Maybe, but it’s still a lot.” I sit up, my eyes meeting his. “He calls youpapanow. Did you know that? Every time he passes that picture of you, Max, and him in the hallway, he points to you and shouts, ‘Papa!’”

Troy’s face softens, and for a brief moment I see the weight of his guilt ease, replaced by something gentler. Something I hadn’t noticed before: pride in his grandson.

The silence between us is deafening, almost unbearable without the sound of Liam’s laughter or his little footsteps echoing through the house as I chase after him. It’s strange—how in just a week, this place went from feeling cold and clinical to something warmer, somethingalmostlike home. I’d never imagine I’d be feeling that way talking to Troy either.

“What did James’ parents say to you tonight?” he asks.

His question pulls me from my thoughts. I blink and sit up. “What?”

“I saw how tense you got when you were talking to the Whitmore’s.”

He waswatchingme?

“Nothing,” I lie, refusing to expose the insecurities that were gnawing at me.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t turn to face me, his gaze locked on the crashing waves. I wonder if he knew why I was uncomfortable—if he also thinks that I didn’t fit in there tonight. I’m not good at pretending, at slipping into roles the way James does, adapting effortlessly to any situation. I don’t know how to be anything but myself.

But with Troy, I get the sense he’s good at that. That he doesn’t mind. He wears a mask for the world, shifting into whatever they need him to be, playing the part that they expect. But here, with me, maybe he doesn’t have to.

I watched one of his interviews the other night because I was curious. It’s like he switches into a different person when he knows the camera is on. But here, in this quiet space, where his mask is completely removed, I’m beginning to think there’s more to him. A side that’s warmer. A side that I’m really starting to like.

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