Page 17 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

The flight to Texas takes exactly three hours.

That’s three long hours of forced proximity with Lawson that I wasn’t sure I could handle after what happened last night.

After he walked in.

After I came with his name like a ghost slipping from my lips, the vibrator clattering against the wall. I looked up to find him standing there. Like sin incarnate. Broad shoulders, unreadable eyes, and that maddening calm that made me feel anything but.

If Lawson’s been holding onto what he saw, what I was doing, how flushed and wrecked I was with the taste of his name still lingering, he hasn’t shown it.

Not even a flicker. Just business as usual this morning, like he didn’t walk in on me unraveling to the idea of his hands, his mouth, his everything.

Hopefully he missed the part where I moaned his name and chalked it up to shock.

You know, the natural response to being caught mid-orgasm by your boss.

And that’s maybe the best and worst part about working with Lawson Marshall. He’s a fortress. Solid and unshakeable. So emotionally locked down I could set myself on fire and he’d offer me a bucket of water without blinking.

It used to annoy me, hell, sometimes it still does because it's quite the opposite of me, but this morning I’m thankful for it.

I’m clinging to that detachment he's so good at displaying like a lifeline. Because if I look too long, if I think too hard, I’ll fall right back into the memory of the way he looked at me in the dim lighting of the doorway.

Like he wanted to devour me and couldn’t decide if he hated himself for it.

Or maybe I imagined that. Either way, we're working like nothing happened and I'm hoping we can put it all behind us.

We spend the whole flight going over my pitch for later today, his voice low and calm as he rattles off tweaks and suggestions, while I type furiously beside him, grateful for something to anchor me.

Grateful for the distraction. I don’t let myself wonder if he’s watching my hands.

If he remembers the way they trembled last night underneath the vibration of my toy.

He booked us first-class seats “to have more space to work,” he’d said, which surprised me.

Lawson’s a coach guy through and through, always claiming the business doesn’t need unnecessary expenses.

But here we are, with extra leg room, better coffee, and a breakfast that takes the edge off the hangover still ringing faintly behind my eyes.

Maybe he knew I needed this.

I sip my third cup of black coffee even though I know I shouldn’t. My hands are already a little jittery and my nerves are playing double-dutch in my chest. I've cut back considerably since my stroke last summer but today warrants a little extra I tell myself.

He pushes those black glasses he only wears occasionally up onto his nose as he glances down at my computer screen.

“You’ve got this I've been prepping them for years and they came to us this time. It's an open and close deal. They're eager for our product.”

He says it so confidently like it’s nothing. Like I haven’t been unraveling inside every time I think about it.

It’s the end of October in Houston, which is merciful compared to the last time we came out here in July.

Then, the heat felt like a personal vendetta and the humidity a scarf tied tightly around my neck.

This time, it’s breezy and still warm but manageable.

I’m trying to take it as a good sign that today will be the same way.

We check into the hotel and drop our bags.

The pitch is later this afternoon, so we’re just here for the night before heading back to Whitewood Creek.

I tell myself it’s no big deal. Just a shared ride.

A shared hotel floor. A shared city until I’m back on safer ground.

Just a shared everything. That’s what we do.

One time, we were both starving and our flights got cancelled, so we split the last poke bowl in the entire airport.

We share stuff. It’s kind of our thing. Like last night.

Shared a laugh. Shared a moment. At my expense.

He heads to his room to shower and change, and I drop my bags off in mine before heading down to the hotel restaurant early to review my notes.

I order a tall glass of ice water and settle into a barstool, flipping through my tablet and quietly running through the first few lines of the pitch under my breath.

“You want any food, sweetheart?” the bartender asks. She’s got warm, green eyes and a silver nose ring, probably just a few years older than me and totally chic cute.

I smile. “Nah, just this water. Thank you.” Despite wanting another cup of coffee, I know I need to slow down and chill out.

She nods, already turning away, when her gaze snags on something, or someone, over my right shoulder. Her whole posture shifts instantly as her eyes widen.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. “Look at that guy.”

I don’t need to look. I already know who it is. It's the reaction most people have when they see my boss in all his six-foot-four, handsome glory.

My stomach drops, flips, and flutters all at once and slowly I turn.

Lawson's striding into the bar like it belongs to him, all slow confidence and clean lines.

Faded, light-wash jeans that hug his hips in a way that should be illegal.

A black V-neck shirt pulled taut over his chest, dipping just low enough to show the edge of the tattoo inked over his heart.

I know it's Beckham's name and birth date because I saw it months ago when we trialed a hotels swimming pool in western Montana during one of our trips. It’d been an innocent midnight dip, but I hadn’t been able to stop admiring the strong muscles that he keeps trapped under his clothes.

The cowboy hat shadows his jaw, but I can still see the way his mouth curves when his eyes find me. That smile. That devastating, low voltage smile that zaps something deep in my core. He walks like temptation. Like trouble wrapped in denim and leather and silence.

“Oh god,” the bartender murmurs when she realizes he's looking right at me and walking towards us too. “He’s with you?”

I don’t look at her. I can’t take my eyes off him because something shifted last night when we were laughing on my bed side by side, and I'm not sure what it is. There’s a difference in the way he’s looking at me and I can feel it.

“He’s my boss,” I whisper, voice hoarse.

His hand lands casually on the back of my chair and it feels like he’s branded me. I try not to lean into it. Try not to imagine what it’d feel like if he gripped my hips like this instead.

I wonder if he knows what he does to people. To women. To me.

God, I hope not.

I shift in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of my body. I repeat the mantra I’ve been clinging to for over a year: He’s your boss. Nothing more. You love this job. You need this job. Focus on a flaw he has.

The one missing tooth near the back of his jaw he told me got knocked out wrestling with Cash when they were kids.

Right. That. A missing tooth. That should help.

Except somehow, even that’s stupidly endearing today. You can only see it if he opens his mouth really wide, but I love that it roughens up his otherwise perfect exterior.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice low and gravel rough as he tips his hat politely at the bartender in respectful greeting.

I’m not even remotely ready. But I square my shoulders, nod, and meet his gaze. “Yeah,” I say, forcing my voice not to waver. “Let’s do this.”

I slide off the barstool, trying to remember how to walk like a functioning adult and not someone whose limbs have turned to jelly.

My hands smooth down the front of my jeans.

They’re flared at the bottom, a little nod to bell-bottom country fashion, and the denim’s stiff in that fresh, barely-broken-in kind of way that hugs my hips tightly and shows off my curves.

The top is pale yellow, soft cotton with short sleeves and a high neck that sits snug against my collarbone and I'm wearing daffodil colored earrings, and a cream cowgirl hat that Isla made me purchase last week when we took Catalina shopping in town.

It’s modest. Simple. Sweet. Not exactly my usual pitch outfit but today is different.

Back in Silicon Valley, I used to wear sleek black suits and heels sharp enough to kill a man. My hair was always blown out to perfection, makeup polished within an inch of my life and most of my pitches and interviews I've gone on with Lawson, I've dressed the same way.

But this? This outfit feels like wearing a costume. Like playing dress-up in someone else’s idea of likable. But Lawson was firm about it this morning before we left his house. “These guys want small-town, Southern charm.”

Even if they’re oil executives in five-thousand-dollar boots who probably spend their weekends at private lodges and vote for politicians that think women belong in the kitchen instead of running companies and telling men what to do.

So, no pressure or anything. Just land a client he’s been chasing for years while dressed like a cowgirl.

I glance at him, suddenly hyper-aware of everything about me. He’s watching me with that same unreadable expression, eyes trailing slowly over my outfit. His face gives absolutely nothing away. I can’t tell if he thinks I nailed the look or if I’m about to humiliate us both.

Or if maybe, he’s thinking about last night again. About what he saw when he barged into my room.

I swallow hard and try to focus. “Do I look fine?” I ask, trying for casual but hearing the nerves laced through every word. "Do I look like I'm trying too hard?" I spread my arms out wide and do what I imagine is a quick line dance and then tip my cowgirl hat at him playfully.

He clears his throat and looks away, jaw tight. “Yeah. It’s fine.” Then he turns and walks off like that’s the end of it. Like I’m not spiraling behind him.

“Hey—wait up!” I call after him, already fumbling for my things and then freezing when I realize I left my freaking tablet back at the bar.

Perfect.

I spin around, heart in my throat, and rush back toward the bartender, who’s already holding it out for me with a wide grin across her pretty face.

“Here you go,” she says, green eyes sparkling. “Good luck with your pitch.”

I reach for it, relief crashing over me, but then she adds with a wink, “And good luck with the handsome cowboy. I wish I was on the receiving end of the look he just gave you. Wow.”

My face goes up in flames and I blink at her in confusion. “What look?”

But she just laughs and waves me off, already turning toward another customer. And I’m left standing there, heartbeat way too loud in my ears, wondering if she saw something I missed. Because Lawson hadn’t looked at me in anyway. Not like that.

Right?

Right! ?

“Thank you,” I mumble, clutching the tablet to my chest and forcing myself to move.

He’s already waiting outside by the curb, standing like a carved statue beside a cab he must’ve called while I was inside panicking.

The back door is open, and he’s holding it there like the world’s most annoyed cowboy.

His shoulders are tense. His jaw’s working like he’s grinding something down behind his teeth.

I have no idea what I did wrong, but I’m pretty sure I did it anyway. Maybe he thinks I'm unprepared. Maybe he hates the outfit and thinks I'm trying to look like a brunette version of Lainey Wilson.

Oh god, is it the earrings?

“Thanks,” I murmur as I slide into the cab, scooting quickly across the seat, except it’s not quickly enough, because Lawson gets in right after me and we basically collide.

His thighs slam against mine, his hip presses into my side for a split second before we both shift, pretending we didn’t just touch like that.

He barks out our destination to the driver his voice full of annoyance, and I just sit there, spine straight, tablet clutched to my chest, trying not to freak the hell out.

Because if he’s this annoyed when we never get frustrated with each other, how much worse is it going to be if I bomb this pitch?