Page 64 of Where the Blacktop Ends

A need to hold her. A need to protect her.

A need I already know I’ll never shake.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine,” she mumbles tensely, still stiff in my arms.

“No, you’re not.” I pull back, taking in her body and noticing the scrapes on her bare knees and the redness on the palm of her hands. She smells like the sweet scent of the salty ocean air, but her body is sore and behind her eyes is fear. “Those bastards… I don’t even know how they found out about you.”

She winces and then rolls her eyes. “Oh, like I’m your dirty secret that you’ve been keeping?”

My brows drop. “What?”

“I mean, they were bound to find out I existed eventually. People in this community, though private, know you live here and see me occasionally around town with Liam.”

“I’m not upset that they know about you, Georgia. I’m upset that it put your safety and Liam’s at risk.”

Her gaze drops to the ground as she shakes her head. “It was horrible.”

“I know. And it won’t happen again.”Because I’ll be here.

“I thought the car was going to crush us. He tripped and was right there on the sidewalk—so helpless.” She blows out a slow breath of air. “It’s the most scared I’ve ever been in my life.”

“I know, and you protected him. I can never thank you enough for that.”

She nods again, and all I want is to ease her fears and show her how grateful I am for what she did. I want to assure her that no one—will ever have the chance to hurt her ever again.

“Come with me. Let me help you get cleaned up,” I urge. Her eyes meet mine, filled with questions and hesitation. “Georgia, please let me do what I do best. Let me take care of you.”

Chapter 24 – Georgia

Warm water pours into Troy's massive, claw-foot tub, swirling with steam that rises, thick and heady, filling the room with its warmth. I watch absently, my fingers trailing the cool porcelain edge, taking in a room I’ve wondered about for months, but never dared to enter.

Troy’s master bathroom.

I’ve tidied up around the house plenty—wiping down counters, straightening the edges of things while he’s been out of town or still stuck in the city late—but I never let myself cross the line into his space. Never peeked behind his bedroom or bathroom door. Now, seeing it for myself, I realize he’s been holding out on me.

The room isstunning.Gold finishes gleam under the soft lighting, catching against sleek marble countertops. The whole space is a perfect blend of New York luxury and Hamptons beach ease—refined, expensive but not in a way that feels cold. Just...Troy.

And it’s spotless.

Painfully spotless.

Not a single stray drop of water on the sink, no clutter, no signs of life. It’s the complete opposite of the slightly chaotic bathroom attached to my bedroom, where half-folded towels and empty product bottles sit abandoned because I haven’t had the time—or, let’s be honest, the energy—to clean them up when Liam finally crashes for the night.

Troy moves with a quiet confidence, pulling open a cabinet, retrieving a bath sponge like he’s planned this all along. A second later, he sets a sleek bottle of coconut-scented body wash on the edge of the tub—fancy, expensive-looking, the kind of thing that feels out of place in a man’s bathroom.

He turns back to me, that warm, steady smile still tugging at his lips. It’s been there since he walked in earlier today, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think it belonged on his face. But it doesn’t—the Troy I know is sharp edges, quiet intensity, and the occasional smirk when he thinks he’s getting away with something. But damn, it looks good on him

Of course, my brain immediately short-circuits, jumping straight towhyhe even owns such a girly-scented body wash. But the way he’s looking at me right now, all calm certainty and quiet attention, tells me he’s not thinking about anything else. Just me.

“Undress,” he says, his voice calm but firm.

“Okay…” I respond, my nerves tingling with excitement.

I know he’s seen me naked before, but standing in the brightly lit bathroom, undressing for him now, feels more vulnerable than what we did last night on the shore. There’s no concealing theextra pounds I’ve put on me this summer, or the stretch marks that paint my thighs like stories in this lighting.

He leans a hip against the counter casually, folding his arms across his chest as he watches me. He ditched his suit jacket when we first came in, his cuffs rolled up to his elbows. The combo of black tattoos on his forearms, his dark hair, and those perfectly tailored suit pants with the polished wingtips—it’s a strange contrast, but insanely attractive. And, honestly, everything about it makes sense now that I know him a little bit better.

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