Page 66 of Fairground

“It’s beautiful,” I say softly, my voice catching in my throat. Because… is he showing me just the outside or is he going to take me in there? Inside where the chickens are resting.

His grin widens, boyish and almost shy under the moonlight. It strikes me how youthful he looks out here—like he’s stepped out of a memory, ageless and timeless, the kind of man you crush onbefore you even know what love is and then end up heartbroken, drafting a novel about him years later.

“Come on,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Let me show you the inside and introduce you to my girls.”

Before I can process what that means, he opens my door, helps me get out and then presses his hand gently against my lower back, guiding me toward the barn steps. That touch—the quiet, steady kind that’s become so uniquely him anytime we’re together—sends a spark through me. I wonder if he knows the way he controls my body’s senses with just a simple movement.

We step inside the facility, and I’m immediately taken aback. Rows of feed labeled “GMO-Free” line one wall, neatly organized next to what looks like an aquarium filled with wriggling bugs of every kind. The ceiling is high with sky lights that bring in natural lighting. The space is immaculate, nothing like the chaotic, dirty images I’d pictured in my head of chickens running wild covered in dirt and dust.

“Um… what’s that?” I point towards the massive, glass container.

He smiles. “We bring in bugs from other states during the colder months so that the hens have something to snack on when the grass is mostly dead. We don’t want them surviving on just grain all winter, so this gives them an extra boost of protein during the cold months.”

“That’s… incredibly thoughtful,” I say, genuinely impressed.

He nods, leaning against the feed container. “This building’s where we store most of the hens’ food, along with supplies and equipment—basically, all the essentials to running an egg farm. We also use it as a storefront for media tours, too.”

“You’ve been interviewed?”

“Yeah. A few times now. Social media’s really given us a boost. Regan’s been trying to manage our pages, but the local news has interviewed us a couple of times too. We usually show them this barn first. It’s more photogenic than the warehouse where the hens live,” he says with a wry grin. “This was the original structure my grandfather built for the chickens when he first started the place. Then my dad added the warehouse behind it so they’d have a better setup—an open-air space where they can come and go between the fields and shelter as they like.”

“It’s… a lot. I never realized so much went into the production of eggs.”

He grins. “Come on. I've got more to show you.”

We step out through the back doors of the barn, onto a short walkway that separates the building from the warehouse where the hens stay. The field stretches out before us, its grass soft and dewy under the moonlight. There aren’t any hens outside this late, but the view is still breathtaking. For a moment, I forget we’re even in North Carolina. It looks like something out of a movie.

“It feels like I’m in Hawaii or something,” I say, marveling at the mountain silhouettes in the distance. “Like the set ofJurassic Park.”

He chuckles. “Did you know chickens are the closest living relatives to dinosaurs?”

I laugh. “Uh, no way. Are you serious?”

“Completely. Genetic similarity. Bone structure. Diets. Egg-laying. Even their movements. And their feet—those talons will really get you if you’re not careful.”

I shake my head with a smile. “I swear, I learn something new from you every day.”

He grins, leading me toward the warehouse. “Got plenty more to teach you,” he says his voice deepening like a promise and there’s something in his tone that makes me wonder if he’s hinting at something beyond the egg farm.

The next door that we walk through reveals a wide, airy space where rows of hens rest quietly in tiny little beds.

“Why’s it so… quiet?” I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“It’s molting season,” he explains.

“What’s that?”

“A slow period where the hens don’t lay as much. It’s like their reset button. Lots of rest and recovery.”

“I see,” I murmur, glancing at the calm, feathered bodies and the way they rise and fall with their breaths.

He walks beside me, hands in his pockets, murmuring softly to a few of the chickens as we pass. Then he looks over at me, his voice low and steady. “Sometimes, everyone needs a reset. You can’t always be working, grinding, pushing forward nonstop. It’s good for the hens and good for the employees who get to spend more time with their families during the holidays. Good for me, too.”

“Is that why there’s sometimes an egg shortage during the winter?”

He nods. “Yeah, one of the reasons. We all need to slow down during the winter.”

I nod because he’s right—sometimes you need a hard reset on… life. Maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing here in Whitewood Creek. Looking for my own reset.

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