Page 18 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

Dani’s chugging this oil company's conference room coffee like it’s a premium brew that they're about to discontinue.

I know her routine, she usually caps herself at two cups a day, max three if she’s pulling together a last-minute presentation or arguing with her sister over a video call. But we’re way past that now. By my count, she’s on her fifth. Maybe sixth.

I steal a glance at the clock on the wall that's hanging behind her head.

Four-oh-five.

Sun’s already shifting lower in the Texas sky, turning the glass-walled conference room into a goldfish bowl. Everything’s bathed in soft amber and flame with light bleeding across the table, the floor, the walls. It's a beautiful autumn day and it's reflected in everything and Dani.

Especially Dani.

She’s pacing now, shoulders tight, long fingers wrapped around her mug like it’s the only thing that's keeping her from floating away back to North Carolina.

The sunlight catches the undertones in her olive skin, lights up the scattered caramel strands threaded through her dark brown hair, and sets a soft burn in the rich brown of her eyes.

Her yellow shirt glows like warm honey against her skin, and that soft, suede, cowboy hat—borrowed, I think, unless she went out and bought one—sits perched on her head like it belongs there.

She looks like a poster for the kind of small-town charm ad execs dream about.

Except I know she’s not that. She’s a California girl. Raised on tech sales, overpriced matcha and performance metrics. Where the weather's always perfect and the people are all looking to get famous.

But lately…

Lately, I think my hometown is getting under her skin.

I think I’m getting under her skin. And I don’t know what the hell to do with that because she's changed a lot from the woman she was when she first joined the Marshall family business. Because she’s standing in front of me, anxious and beautiful and fidgeting with her sleeves like she might explode from the inside out, and I’m sitting here trying not to imagine her stripped bare and spread across this very table, her boots still on, my name on her lips with my face between her legs.

Fuck .

I grip the corner of the smooth table and drag in a slow, steady breath, counting to five, then ten.

I’m her boss. She’s my employee. One who is way too young for me anyways. This is a high stakes meeting with men who eat weakness up for breakfast, and I can’t think about her like that. Not now, not ever. She needs to be focused, and I need to be her support.

What I should be doing is saying something encouraging to her. Offer a calm, grounded “You’ve got this, sweetheart ” or a quick breakdown of key points to remember before these assholes walk in and start grilling her.

Instead, I sit there silently. Watching her unravel with each long sip of her mug. Useless and turned on like a damn teenager underneath the conference table because she looks fucking beautiful.

“I swear to god,” she mutters, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling window and peeking down at the parking lot again. “Are they even coming? This is extremely unprofessional.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes another gulp of coffee like it might infuse her with courage. I open my mouth, finally about to say something encouraging when a booming voice cuts through the room like a thunderclap.

“Good afternoon, Marshall family!”

Dani jumps like she’s been shot. Her mug sloshes coffee over her hand and she winces, quickly swiping it on the back of her jeans so that they don't notice. Her expression is pure deer-in-headlights as two men step through the door, all denim, big belts, boots and oil-rich swagger.

Okay. It’s go time. Time to act like the boss that she needs.

I rise from my chair and make my way over, drawing myself to full height and stretching out a hand to cut in before they start grilling her with questions.

“Lawson Marshall,” I say, voice smooth and steady. "I believe we've spoken a few times on the phone."

The taller one steps forward, grin spreading across a broad face.

He’s younger than I expected—early forties maybe—with dark brown hair just starting to gray at the temples.

His jeans and button-down look are practically identical to my usual uniform.

He looks like the kind of guy who grew up baling hay but now owns a private jet and half of the world's oil.

Probably spends his money foolishly too judging by the designer sunglasses clipped to his collar.

“Nice to finally meet the man who’s been hounding us for years,” he says with a chuckle. His eyes slide immediately past me, locking on Dani like she’s dessert.

I stiffen.

“This is Daniela Alba,” I say, shifting slightly so I’m blocking part of his view. “My Vice President of Sales and Marketing. She’ll be handling the pitch today.”

The grin on his face turns smug. Too greedy and lingers for way too long. I hate every second that he spends looking at her.

“Mark Vincent,” he says, extending a hand to her. “And the pleasure’s all mine.”

Dani, ever the pro, steps forward with a smile I know she doesn’t mean. She takes his hand, firm but polite. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vincent.”

“This here’s my VP of Sales and Retail, Bob Banks,” Mark adds, gesturing to a man behind him who looks like he’s been working in oil since the first barrel came out of the ground.

“He's the guy who decides what gets put on the shelves at our gas stations, so you'll want to impress him today. Now, let’s sit down and see what Ms. Alba has to offer us.” He claps once, loud and jarring, and starts moving toward the conference room table.

Before Dani can follow, I reach for her wrist to stop her. She freezes, eyes snapping to mine. Her skin is warm and soft like butter beneath my fingertips, and I can feel her pulse fluttering, fast and anxious.

“You good?” I ask, my voice soft enough that only she can hear me ask.

She nods quickly, but I see it. Her eyes aren’t steady, and her lips press too tightly together. She seems wound up and it’s more than usual. She's not good, but she will be.

“I’m right here if you need me,” I say, still holding on. Not letting her go just yet. "Just give me a look and I'll jump in. Only if you need it."

“Okay,” she whispers, then clears her throat. “Yeah. I’m good.”

I nod and make myself smile. “You’ve got this.” And finally, I let go.

And forty minutes later, I’m sitting back in my chair, arms crossed, and lips curled into pride as Dani lands her first multi-million dollar pitch for our distillery like an expert.

She’s magnetic. She started out shaky, a little fidgety, shifting her weight, adjusting that damn hat like it was suddenly glued to her scalp and she wanted to toss it off, but once she found her footing, she didn’t just settle in.

She soared. Calm, persuasive, sharp as hell.

I could practically see the moment she remembered who the fuck she is, a woman who used to close million-dollar deals in tech boardrooms before most of these men knew how to spell “vertical integration.”

And now she’s standing in front of them, charming them with cowgirl warmth and small town intelligence, and I’m watching her like a man possessed.

Proud, yes.

But also deeply, inappropriately, irrevocably obsessed with her. Which is a problem. Because she’s still employed by my family, and I’m still her damn boss.

But fuck, she was a vision. Poised, confident, magnetic in that cowgirl hat that she had no business pulling off as well as she did. These guys never stood a chance and neither did I.

“Any other questions, you can shoot us an email, and we’ll respond,” I say, leaning back in my chair, twisting slightly so I can finally breathe again.

Mark and Mr. Banks both nod their heads, satisfaction written all over their smug oil baron faces.

“We’re good,” Bob says. “We’ll send over contracts, pricing, and agreements by the end of week. Dani, appreciate the presentation.”

He nods like it was just another Tuesday for him. For me, it feels like we just won a war because I've been hounding these guys for at least the past five years now.

We all stand, and Mr. Banks pulls me aside to talk shop. Something about the summer seltzers that Colt just rolled out and bringing them into the gas station chains they own— If they can find the shelf space.

It’s the kind of conversation I’d usually eat up and explain how we can maximize whatever little space they have and convince him why it's a smart move for everyone involved, but I can’t focus. Because over Bob's shoulder, I catch Mark inching closer to Dani who’s clearing off the table.

He’s laying it on a little too thick. Hands in his pockets, stance cocky. His mouth moves, and she offers a tight smile back. It’s polite, but distant. She doesn’t look scared, but she doesn’t look interested in him either and that's a fucking relief.

Then I hear it. Something about meeting up with him for dinner in an hour.

“Excuse me,” I say, cutting off Mr. Banks mid-sentence. I don’t even look at him, just walk. I learned years ago that if they're really that interested, they'll pursue you and I have feeling Mr. Banks will be open to another conversation over email about these seltzers.

“Hey, Dani," I check my watch for extra theatrics, "you ready to catch our dinner reservations?” We both know damn well I haven't made any reservations because that's usually the type of stuff she handles when we travel.

Her eyes snap to mine, wide and grateful, and she nods quickly. “Yes, sorry. Another time,” she tells Mark, her voice breezy and light in that way she uses when she’s trying to be nice but firm. He gets the message, nods, and turns away.

Dani gathers her notes and laptop in silence, her body language brisk and businesslike, but the tension is still lingering around her like a fog.

We walk out side-by-side and get into the taxi back to the hotel without saying much.

The cab ride is only ten minutes, but it feels longer because of the awkward heaviness that's settled between us.

She stares out the window while I stare at her and finally, I break.

“I’ll cancel the whole fucking contract if Mark said anything inappropriate to you just now.”

Her head jerks toward me, brows lifting like I’ve lost my damn mind. A smile ticks at the corner of her lips. “Jesus, Lawson. You can be so intense sometimes.”

I exhale through my nose, jaw tight, fingers tapping against my thigh. “I’m serious.”

She doesn’t tell me what he said. Doesn’t give me a single fucking detail. And for some reason, that burns more than it should.

"It was fine. He didn't say anything inappropriate."

When we reach the hotel, she sighs and pulls her bag onto her shoulder. “Did you really want to get dinner? Because I forgot to make a reservation and am totally fine with room service.”

“Yeah,” I say without thinking. “Let's just do the hotel bar if you're okay with that. I saw they had wings. I’ll swing by your room in thirty minutes?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Okay. Sounds good.”

We split at the elevators, her to the left, me to the right, and I spend the next half hour trying to scrub the day off my skin.

A hot shower, a clean shirt, and still— still —my head is a fucking mess thinking about just how big the presentation was today. And it's not about closing another mega deal for my family, it's about Dani. The way she absolutely crushed it.

I look at my reflection in the hotel room mirror.

Black denim. Black T-shirt. Easy, simple.

The kind of outfit I don’t have to think about while my thoughts are stuck on the way her voice shook during the first five minutes of that pitch and how it steadied by the end.

The way Mark looked at her like she was his latest conquest. The way she looked at me in relief when I offered her an out.

By the time I’m outside her hotel room, I’ve worked myself into a quiet storm of sexual frustration and confusion. I knock once on her door, but she doesn’t answer. I knock again and still nothing.

Pull out my phone—no missed texts, no voicemails. No sign she went down to the bar without me. I knock again, louder this time, the worry curling into my chest like a hook.

“Dani. Open up. It’s Lawson.”

Still no answer.

I knock harder, this time pounding and not caring who might hear me. “Dani!”

“Lawson,” her voice comes from somewhere inside, low and strained, “it’s unlocked. Come in. Ugh.”

I don’t waste another second. I shove the door open and step inside before stopping cold in my racks.

She’s seated on the edge of the bed, her phone still in her hand, fingers visibly trembling.

Her knees are pulled together up to her chest, her back straight but rigid like she’s holding herself up with the last scraps of willpower.

Her pupils are blown wide and there’s panic etched across every inch of her pretty face.

She looks like she’s unraveling.

“What the hell happened?” I ask, the growl already in my throat as I stride toward her fast.

She blinks up at me, like she’s only just registering that I’m there. Her mouth opens but no words come out. Just shallow breaths and a shaky inhale like she’s trying to pull it together.

“Talk to me,” I say, voice softer now as I crouch in front of her, trying to meet her eyes. “Dani. What happened?”

She doesn’t answer right away just swallows and holds out her shaky hands. "I'm... I'm having a panic attack."

I nod and take her hands in mine, squeezing firmly.

“I’m here,” I tell her. “You don’t have to do this alone. Just tell me what you need me to do.”