Page 10 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

Three levels into our impromptu game and halfway through a family-sized bag of Twizzlers that Beckham and I destroyed like it was our job, I finally glance at the time and wince.

“It’s almost midnight. We should probably both head to bed.” And your dad's probably pissed that I haven't come found him yet.

Beckham slouches deeper into the couch cushions, game controller balanced on his chest. “What are you, my mom now?”

I smirk, stretching my legs out on the ottoman and toss an empty Twizzler wrapper at his head. “No, because if I were your mom, I'd probably be letting you stay up. Your mom is the coolest.”

He grins but doesn’t move. Classic teen tactic. I used to pull the same one on babysitters—stretch the bedtime conversation long enough and maybe, just maybe, they’d let it slide.

It worked sometimes. Especially when our parents were knee-deep in surgeries or double shifts and no one remembered to check if we brushed our teeth or slept at all.

Beckham's also a teenager and doesn't need me telling him what to do but I can tell he’s exhausted, and I know he has football practice.

Still, I’m not his mom, a woman I've met on multiple occasions now.

Frankly, I'm convinced she's a saint and it explains why Beckham is so amazing. Two great parents who love their son and coparent well. It’s the best case scenario for Beckham and probably the reason he’s so grounded.

Why Lawson and her never tried to make it work is beyond me.

“Fine,” Beckham groans, dramatically pushing to his feet even though there’s no real fight behind his words.

He shuts off the TV with a theatrical sigh.

“But only because I’ve got history first period and that class is actual hell.

You're getting better at this game, keep practicing and maybe we'll win against those losers next time we play.”

I smile. “Good night, Beckham.”

He throws me a lazy salute before disappearing upstairs, and I give it a beat before standing and stretching the kink out of my neck.

The house is quiet now, warm and still. I pad barefoot down the hallway behind the living room, where soft lighting spills out from the crack beneath Lawson’s office door.

I knock once but there’s no reply. So, naturally, I ignore all boundaries and let myself in.

He’s at his desk, hunched over his laptop, dark black glasses perched on his face.

They’re the thick frames he only wears when he’s tired or completely fried and still has to work.

His light brown hair is a mess, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it for hours, and his button-up is half-untucked, sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing strong, corded biceps.

And listen. Listen. I made a deal with myself over a year ago not to find my boss attractive.

That was part of the unspoken clause in the mental contract I wrote: no crushes, no inappropriate thoughts, no speculating on what those forearms would feel like under my palms if I tried to squeeze them or how much I'd like them to crush my waist .

I'm here to do a job. Focus on the annoying parts of his personality like his chronic avoidance of calendars, his refusal to own a single tie and persistently dress as a cowboy anytime we go anywhere, the fact that his version of “delegation” is vaguely motioning in your direction and trusting you to read his mind which frankly, I've gotten frighteningly good at doing.

But even with all that in mind, I’m still human. And unfortunately, the glasses ruin me. They trigger something deep in my millennial brain; something tied to Clark Kent taking them off before turning into Superman. A man with glasses and dimples, it's my kryptonite.

So, you can imagine how I'm feeling right now when he glances up and immediately yanks off said frames like they pissed him off. I practically have to pinch my thighs together and suppress the loud gasp that I want to release.

“You rang, boss?” I lean against the doorframe, trying for nonchalance and my usual, annoyed by him and teasing personality that keeps him firmly in the boss box.

He rubs his temples with both hands. “Yeah. Come in, Dani. Have a seat.”

I cross the room and flop into the chair across from him, throwing my legs up on the desk because professionalism is for people who haven’t spent the last three hours playing video games with his son and flying across the country.

Lawson raises one brow at how close my toes are to his face but says nothing. That’s the benefit of being the best thing to ever happen to this business—his words, not mine. Well. Loosely paraphrased. Okay, maybe I imagined him saying that.

I'm not usually this annoying but ever since my near death experience and the promise I made to my sisters and self to try my hardest not to take work so seriously, I've adopted a more laid back vibe.

It fits with my life in Whitewood Creek where everyone moves without urgency and time quietly creeps by, and though I secretly still do everything in my power to overachieve, it's simply in my nature, my new attitude has been working out for my likability around town.

“What’s up?” I ask, picking at a stray piece of Twizzler stuck to my shirt. “Need me to reschedule your dentist appointment again?”

He leans back, arms folding across his chest, muscles stretching the fabric of his worn Henley in a way that should absolutely not be affecting me this much at this hour.

Maybe it's because I'm tired and lonely, but I know I'll need to take care of the ache between my legs ASAP so that horny Dani doesn't make an appearance.

“I have good news.”

“Let me guess. You finally bought a tie.”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Nope. And just so you're aware, I'll be wearing casual gear for the rest of my life.”

I smirk. “Switched to real coffee instead of that weak-ass herbal tea and water?”

He tilts his head. “Be serious, Dani.”

“I’m off the clock. This is me at half capacity.

” I grin. “Also, how many people can say they’re having a sleepover with their boss?

" The words are out before I can catch them.

My brain stalls. My mouth keeps going. And then freezes because that was highly inappropriate and not true. We're not having a sleep over.

Oh god. You're an idiot.

I wave a hand like I can physically erase the sentence from the air. “Okay, that came out wrong. Obviously, that’s not what I meant. I just meant, like, it’s late, and I’m in your house, and—oh my God, please stop smiling at me like that.”

He chuckles, bless him, sparing me the embarrassment of a full-blown meltdown.

“The good news,” he says, straightening a little and avoiding the inappropriate comment that I just made to my freaking boss , “is that I’m promoting you.”

I blink. “Wait. What?”

“Vice President of Sales and Marketing,” he says casually, like he’s telling me the weather. “Across all the Marshall family businesses. It’s yours if you want it.”

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. I’m sure I look like a confused fish in sleep shorts. “You’re serious?”

He nods, looking unreasonably pleased with himself. "But as your boss, I'd highly suggest you take it. I don't think it'd be a smart career move to turn down this promotion." He smirks and I roll my eyes.

“You could’ve warned me! I would’ve worn a suit. Or, like, something other than this to receive this news.”

He shrugs. “Would’ve been a weird choice for midnight in my house, but okay.”

I rake a hand through my hair, suddenly aware that it probably looks like I stuck my head out the window of a moving truck.

“Okay but like... maybe a heads-up? A compliment first? Tell me why I deserve this promotion. You can’t just drop a pay increase on me like it’s a work assignment. I need some sort of validation. Words of affirmation is my love language.”

He groans, tipping his head back with a dramatic sigh. “Really?”

“What can I say? I’m a needy bitch.”

He laughs, low and raspy, and I swear I feel it in my chest. “That you are,” he says, shaking his head. “But you earned this, Dani.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Something soft and proud and a little unguarded for our usual banter and business conversations.

And for half a second, I forget that we’re coworkers. That there are lines I’m supposed to keep drawn and boundaries I’m not supposed to blur. Because this version of Lawson—the relaxed, half-smiling, late-night one—is dangerous.

Either way, I need to pull it together. Because he’s still my boss and I'm living under his roof as a major courtesy to me for the next fourteen days. Decisions were made, boundaries were set (in my head), and I need to start acting like it no matter the fact that he has dimples and glasses.

"I'm still waiting on those words of affirmation," I tease with a smile as he smirks and shakes his head.

He blows out a breath like he’s preparing himself. “Dani,” his warm eyes are serious as he sits forward, leveling me with one of those intense looks that he gives interviewers right before he tells them all the amazing things that the Marshall family is doing and why he’s proud of our work.

“You’ve been an incredible Sales and Marketing Assistant this past year,” Lawson says, his voice steady and sincere.

“We wouldn’t have hit the growth numbers we did across the businesses without your leadership.

You took the weight off my shoulders. Gave me time back with my son.

That means more to me than you know. Hiring you was one of the best decisions I’ve made. Perhaps the best ever.”?

My mouth drops open for the second time tonight. I blink at him, trying to process the actual, honest-to-God words that he just said. Because in a full year of working for him, that might be the nicest thing he's ever said.

“Damn,” I say softly, and a little breathless. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”