Page 88 of Where the Blacktop Ends

I sigh softly, realizing how perfect he is, and drift off into peaceful sleep.

Chapter 33 – Troy

Something about being back in North Carolina, at the place where I spent the first thirty-two years of my life—surrounded by the farm, the pines, and that old dirt road that stretches for miles—makes me feel alive again.?

Free.

Out here, away from the noise, I fuck harder, I love harder, and Idreamharder.

All things that I haven’t allowed myself to do in years.

You’d think I’d be dreaming about the usual things at night—winning this race for governor, crushing the bastards trying to ruin my family’s legacy, maybe even freeing Colt.

But those aren’t the things that fill my mind when I’m tucked away in the home that I built twenty years ago. And back in New York? I didn’t dream at all. Not even in the Hamptons, where I’d lie awake at night, going over my endless to-do list—people I needed to follow up with, deals I had to secure, problems I had to fix.

Maybe that’s why I avoided coming home after I moved Max to New York when he was just ten. I’d sacrificed my own dreams, laid them down at the altar of survival. I took on other people’s dreams—dreams that were necessary to keep our family afloat.

But now? Lying here, in this house I built with my own two hands, with my grandson—my angel—sleeping in the next room, and Georgia—another angel, thanks to Liam—curled up against my side, staring up at the stars through the skylight ceiling... yeah, I’m dreaming again.

Dreaming of having Max home with me under this roof. For good. So he doesn’t miss out on Liam’s life—or on living his own.

Dreaming about winning the governor’s race, sure, and about freeing Colt. But those aren’t the dreams keeping me up tonight.

No, tonight I’m dreaming about sitting around the old oak table my dad and I built when I was twelve. Lawson had tried to help, but at four years old, he mostly got in the way and had Dad cussing up a storm. Dad and I sanded that thing down until every imperfection was gone, then coated it until it shone like new. Mama said it was too damn big when we dragged it back inside, my little arms straining to hold up one end. But Dad knew. He knew one day it’d be full. And two years later the twins were born.

Now, I dream of that table again. Filled with Max, Liam, Beckham—andGeorgia.

That’s the picture I see when I close my eyes beneath the pines.

And I dream of Georgia and me. Married. With more kids. A whole mess of them.

Maybe that’s why I’m bringing North Carolina back to its roots—because I know I’ll never build the life I want in New York. Iwasn’t looking for someone there, and I didn’t like who I became while I lived there. But here? Here, at home, I’m me.

I respect city life. Charlotte’s our biggest, but we’ve got others—Durham, Greensboro, Raleigh. Each one with its own vibe, its own pulse. And I’ll make damn sure we preserve that—the culture, the music, the tech, the people.

But I won’t forget where we came from. The land. The farmers. Agriculture’s the backbone of North Carolina. Ninety billion a year comes from those fields, and the people working them. They’re the heart of this state.

Georgia stirs in her sleep, her long lashes brushing against her cheeks as her fingers curl into my undershirt. I plant a soft kiss on her temple, hoping she doesn’t wake just yet. She doesn’t get it yet, but she will soon. I haven’t been with a woman more than once since Max’s mother, and there’s a reason for that. Now that I’ve found someone worth it, I’m not letting her go.

I slip out from under the covers and head to the shower, her scent still all over my skin. The urge to crawl back into bed and take her again is strong, but I know she needs her rest. Ever since we got to North Carolina, I’ve been insatiable, like some kid going through puberty. We’ve been going at it all over the property anytime I haven’t been in Charlotte for meetings.

I wash quickly, my mind reflecting on this past week that we’ve spent together and then towel off in the bathroom, grabbing a razor and fresh blade along with some shaving cream to prepare for my meeting with Colt this morning. You see, the problem with dreaming, is that reality always ends up catching up eventually. Like a cold, early November morning when you’ve got to visit your little brother who’s locked up in prison.

“Hi,” I hear her soft voice from the doorway before I see her. She’s wearing nothing but my boxers from last night and a thin,oversized t-shirt. Lookin’ like a grown man’s dream. She smiles. “You want me to do it?”

I hand her the razor as she moves in front of me, perching on the edge of the sink, facing away from the mirror. She rubs the cream into my jaw with a gentle touch, her fingers light but focused. And then slowly she begins shaving, wiping the blade carefully and taking her time around my neck. I take the time to study her features, the slight upturn of her slim nose, the way she pushes out her lips when she’s focused and the pretty color of her hair.

“I really liked the beard you were growing,” she murmurs.

I grip her hips, steadying her on the counter and enjoying the feel of her soft skin under my rough fingertips. “Want me to grow it out when we get back to New York?”

She smiles, her pink tongue darting out in concentration as she carefully continues. My fingers slip through the flap of my boxers that she’s wearing, finding her wearing nothing underneath, and I let out a groan. She grazes my neck with the blade and pulls back instantly.

“Troy, if you keep that up, I’m going to accidentally cut you.”

“I can’t have you this close to me and not touch you. Just be careful. Can’t show up to see Colt bleeding.”

She shakes her head, laughing softly. “I’m serious! Settle down.”

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