Page 14 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

I slide onto the barstool and grip the edges of the wood tightly to steady myself.

“Hey, Dani,” Regan says, giving me a warm smile. She’s radiant, glowing, still early in her pregnancy that she wanted more than anything in the world.

She’s got that peaceful, settled energy I keep pretending I’m not desperate for because that would mean that marriage and kids are on my life goals plan and that’s simply never been the case.

But she looks good, perfect even. Her and her husband Hayes Walker, a former bull rider turned our small town's emergency room doctor, had an unconventional start but I’m happy for their finish together.

She pours me another whiskey sour and slides it over. “You’re not driving, right?”

Fuck. I hadn’t thought about that. I walked here with Catalina as soon as we finished with the parade prep and have no way to get back to Lawson’s house.

I guess I could crash on the couch in Isla's for just one night... But before I can answer her, Lawson’s suddenly there, his hand landing firm and warm on my shoulder, his cologne that clings to my skin on every flight we take together wrapping around me like a hug.

I practically jump out of my skin.

His touch is grounding and electrifying all at once, a jolt of heat that shoots through my alcohol-soaked system and makes my breathing stutter all over the place.

“Nah,” he says easily, voice low and sure. “I’ll take her home.”

He turns his attention to me with a smile, and it’s too much . Too close. Too kind. His hazel eyes are molten caramel up close, and for a second, I have to blink away because the look in them might unravel me entirely.

This is fine. Totally fine. This is just him being polite.

We’re polite with each other all the time.

We’re in close quarters, all the fucking time, we joke each other non-stop.

We’ve seen each other at our lowest and our highest. I’m overthinking this entire situation simply because I'm drunk and I never get drunk around him.

Maybe if I push him toward Catalina in my head hard enough, I can stop wanting him. Maybe if I imagine them together—naked, tangled up, not giving a single damn about me—it’ll make it easier to forget how good his hand feels on my skin right now.

“Hey,” I say, pretending like I hadn’t just conjured up soft moans and tangled sheets between them to refocus my attention. “I didn’t know you were here tonight.”

He frowns a little, eyes scanning my face like he’s trying to read more than just the words.

“What number is that?” he asks, glancing at my drink and ignoring my comment.

I roll my eyes, deflecting. “I’m off the clock, boss.”

His gaze sharpens, narrowing. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t play along.

“Three,” I whisper, because when he looks at me like that—all firm and steady and a little disappointed—I can’t lie. From the moment that I’ve met him, I’ve wanted to please him, and I guess twelve months later, I still do. Desperately. Like I said, I'm a sucker for praise. Especially his.

His jaw ticks.

“Are we celebrating something?” he asks quietly, like he’s trying not to make a scene. His voice dips low and gentle and it makes everything way worse because this isn’t the tone we use with each other.

No, Lawson. We’re not celebrating anything. We’re mourning. Silently, stupidly, pathetically mourning the fact that somehow you slipped out of the box I put you in firmly, and I know I can’t have you .

I wish you’d stop being so nice.

I wish you’d go home with my sister tonight.

I wish you didn’t make me feel like this unintentionally when you’ve done nothing wrong.

I wish I could sober up so that I can tuck you back into that damn boss box and this time lock the fucking door and throw away the key.

But I just press the straw to my lips and take another sip, praying he can’t see how much I’m unraveling beneath the surface.

“My boss promoted me,” I say, forcing a smile as I surprisingly slurp the last of the drink. Wow, that one went down way too fast.

The whiskey sour burns less this time, probably because I’ve numbed half my tongue. The ice clinks against the glass, loud and final, and even I’m shocked.

I don’t usually drink like this. Never with him. Because drinking to a buzz means letting go of some control and the only way I can seem to manage my simmering anxiety is through keeping control tightly wound up in my fist.

Lawson’s eyes flick to the empty glass, then to the table behind me.

I follow the line of his gaze just in time to see him lift a hand in a polite wave with a thin smile.

Catalina must’ve waved at him—of course she did.

She’s charming and driven and beautiful in that crisp, kind of scary way that screams “I never have breakdowns or panic attacks, I just handle my shit like a grown up.”

She's the kind of woman men like Lawson gravitate toward: clean lines, no mess, major confidence.

“She’s into you,” I say before I can stop myself, the words slurring slightly as they leave my mouth.

He startles, eyes snapping back to mine. “What?”

“My sister. Catalina.” I shrug one shoulder, trying to act casual as I rest my elbow on the bar and place my chin in my palm to look up at him with what I hope aren’t puppy dog eyes. “If you want, I can set up a date with her, or whatever.”

It was supposed to come across as a joke but instead it comes out as serious. Deathly serious and something sharp and pathetic curls beneath the words. I hate how obvious it must sound.

I’ve done this before, I think. Helped schedule late night dinners for him that I've been certain turned into early mornings.

But this? Catalina? That would be a whole different kind of stomach punch.

Yet I know he should do it. For my head and my pussy.

To tell her she needs to stop being so stupid and needy.

Lawson’s brow furrows as he studies me, like he’s trying to peel something back. I straighten in my seat, shifting my weight and rolling my shoulders back as if I can shake the jealousy off with good posture alone.

God , get a grip, Dani.

Thirteen months. Thirteen months I’ve worked with him.

Traveled with him. Shared meals and brainstormed pitches and watched him run his hands through his soft, light brown hair that curls a little at the bottom when he’s frustrated.

Watched him slip on those dark rimmed glasses when his eyes are tired of reading pages of pitches at night.

And I’ve never let myself think about him like this for this long.

“May I have another one?” I ask Regan, my voice too high, too breezy as I slide the glass toward her.

She freezes behind the bar, her hand hovering near the bottle like she’s not sure if this is a trap.

Bless her. I probably look like I’ve just been dumped and promoted all in the same breath and then I realize she’s been watching our interaction.

I wonder if she sees just how pathetic I’m looking at her brother right now too.

“She’s done,” Lawson says calmly without even looking in his sister's direction.

I whip my head toward him. “Hey, why? It’s a Friday night.”

“Because we have to fly to Texas tomorrow morning,” he says, as if that explains anything. His eyes don’t leave mine.

“What?”

“Last-minute pitch,” he adds. “I just got the call. There’s a major oil company that wants to sell our airplane-sized bottles in their gas stations across the country.”

The room stills around me. The alcohol in my bloodstream practically evaporates as I sober up at the mention of work. Because that's why I moved here, not to fall into some sort of movie style romance with the hot, small town, cowboy executive.

“Are you serious? That’s, that’s huge, Lawson.”

He nods once. “It is.”

My mind’s already spinning with numbers and brand strategy and distribution channels. “Wait, are you doing the pitch or—?”

He cuts me off with a slow, almost smug smile. “I was thinking my new Vice President could handle it.”

I blink at him. “Me?”

“You’re ready,” he says simply, like it’s a fact and not a compliment that lands so squarely in the center of my chest I feel like I might cry.

“You could pitch with zero prep if you needed to.

You know the product inside and out. This is your lane, Dani.

And this will be the largest account you've landed if you pull it off. And I know you will.”

And that’s it—that’s the part that ruins me.

The belief in his voice. Like I’m not just another over-achiever with something to prove. Like I’m more than the girl who used to hold her breath waiting for a “good job” from anyone who cared enough to say it.

He sees me. And worse, he believes in me.

It’s my stupid, middle child love language that is desperate for words of affirmation even when I know I’m doing a good job and completely capable.

What can I say, I’m a slut for someone telling me I’m a good girl.

And though I know that’s not exactly what he just said, it's close enough for now.

I swallow hard, cheeks flushed for reasons that have nothing to do with the whiskey. “Yeah,” I whisper, then louder, “Yeah. I can do it. I just need to sober up. I’ll wake up early and work on it on the plane.”

His eyes stay on mine for a beat longer than necessary before he nods, holding out a hand to help me down from the stool.

I slide my fingers into his palm, and the contact is so simple, so steady, that it rattles something loose in me.

Heat coils low in my belly, and I hate it.

Hate how safe it feels. How right it feels to be touching him when I have zero right or claim to.

“Let’s get home then,” he says quietly.

Home . As if we share one together. My brain short-circuits.

“Okay.”

I force my legs to move, the click of my boots loud in my head as I cross the room. I give my sisters a rushed goodbye—Isla waves, Catalina narrows her eyes like she knows something’s off—and then I’m out the door, walking beside Lawson into the cooler, autumn night air.

His arm brushes mine. I don’t move away.

And even though I know I’ll spend the next hour chugging water and pretending to be a responsible adult who needs to sober up, all I can think about is my vibrator and the ache between my thighs and how badly I need to forget the way he looked at me when he said I was ready to handle this pitch.

Because if I don’t distract myself soon, I’ll do something stupid.

Like believe I have any right to want him at all.