Page 48 of Where the Blacktop Ends

“Georgia…” I warn her, my voice edged with frustration. But it’s not frustration at her. It’s at myself. Because I knew she’d react like this. Knew she’d push back. Knew she’d make mequestionwhether I was doing the right thing, and I didn’t want to deal with that.

“You trust me with your grandson’s life—to protect him, care for him, make sure he feels safe. But you couldn’t trust me enough to tell me you’re running for governor?” She shakes her head, her voice quieter but sharper. “You made a decision that affects both of us, and you didn’t even think to let me in on it?”

“This is why we did a background check first,” I reply, my voice measured because I don’t like when people doubt my intentions and ability to prepare for all possible attacks. “If the media finds out about Liam—and they will eventually—we’ll control the narrative. I’m not ashamed of him if that’s what you’re implying.”

Her eyes harden. “That’snotwhat I’m implying. Do you care more about your political career than Liam’s wellbeing?” The question is a dagger, striking right where it hurts the most and she knows it after our conversation last night.

I growl, unable to hold back. “Don’t ever fucking question that.”

She shrugs, as if unfazed by the heat in my voice, and looks away. “If you really considered him in all this, you would’ve told me.His nanny.Given me a heads-up so that I could think of ways to prepare him and myself for what this means. Instead, you didn’t trust me with the truth. Did you think I’d run to the press? Sell this information then disappear? Who exactly do you think I am? What kind of person do you think I am?”

I don’t answer because now I’m frustrated. She doesn’t get it, and she never could.

She shrugs, brushing strands of hair from her face, and I have to clench my jaw to keep my eyes from following the movement. But it’s too late. My gaze drops to her nails—blue, chipping at the edges. Not the manicured perfection of the women I’m used to—her toes don’t even match. They’re purple. I know this because I was staring at them last night while I iced her ankle,unable to look away. The chances of any woman at that event not having perfectly painted and matching nails are zero. But Georgia doesn’t care about that. And that’s a fucking turn on just like everything else about her that I’m trying to ignore. Because to make matters worse, now she’s questioning my consideration of Liam.

“The least you could’ve done,” she continues, her voice quieter now, “was tell me so that I can prepare for the inevitable heartbreak I’ll have leaving Liam when I have to find another job.”

“Why would you need a different job?” I ask, thrown by the shift in conversation.

She raises an eyebrow. “If you win, you’re moving to North Carolina, right?”

“Well, yes…that’s where the governor’s mansion is...”

She shakes her head, unwrapping the sweatshirt from around her knees and placing her bare feet on the ground. My eyes are drawn to her legs, bare beneath the oversized sweatshirt swallowing her frame.

A Harvard sweatshirt.

It shouldn’t bother me. Itdoes.

Who gave it to her? James? And is she naked underneath?

“What do you think happens to me, Troy? To‘Liam’s nanny,’if you move to North Carolina?”

I open my mouth, but no words come out. I don’t know. I suppose I just assumed Georgia would uproot her life in New York and come with us. It’s not like she has family here. I’m realizing now, that might have been a ridiculous and extremely wrong assumption to make.

She nods, like she expected me not to answer, and then picks up the coffee mug I brought out for her earlier. For once, I’m at a loss on what to say or do to get her not to walk away.

“Seems like the only person you’ve thought about in this plan of yours is you,” she says, voice quieter now but cutting straight through me. “Because I’m not just some part of your strategy, Troy. I have a life. And I’mnotmoving to North Carolina.”

Fuck. I thought I was doing the right thing by not telling her but now I’m starting to question everything. I sit there, staring out at the ocean, long after the sun has risen. An hour passes, maybe more and my phone buzzes with a barrage of texts and missed calls—most from my campaign advisor on my plans, and others from colleagues with their congratulations—but I ignore them all.

Georgia’s right. I should’ve told her. I just assumed she’d move with us. I never even considered the possibility that she wouldn’t.

This is what I do, make plans, think through all the possibilities and the people in my life fall in line, following suit since I feel like I know best, have the vision.

I shake my head, frustration simmering beneath my skin.

There will be other nannies in North Carolina. If she doesn’t want to come, fine. I’ve been planning this for years—this is bigger than her, bigger than any one person. I can’t let some beautiful stranger who’s been living in my house and kissing me, get in the way of everything I’ve worked for.

She might feel like she’s a part of this, but she’s not.

At least, that’s what I tell myself to drag myself off of that deck and get to work. For the rest of the weekend, I throw myself into campaign strategy, preparing for my next trip back to NorthCarolina where I’ll now be expected to join in debates and discuss my planned policies as the future governor of the state.

But no matter how focused I try to be, I find myself looking for her—listening for her soft footsteps, glancing toward the kitchen, hoping to see her out on the deck.

But Georgia’s nowhere to be found.

And all I can think about is where she is, who she’s with—and how the hell I can convince her to move to North Carolina with me.

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