Page 19 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

A few minutes earlier…

Elijah: When are you coming back?

Me: Never.

Elijah: You know as well as I do that it’ll be practically impossible for you to get hired out here again with that massive gap on your résumé.

Elijah: And don’t say that little small-town family business that you're working for counts as employment. No one cares if you’ve spent the last thirteen years selling tech; Eggs, whiskey, and weddings don’t count. The game’s changed. It’s more cutthroat than ever and you're out of practice.

Me: Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m not interested in going back to tech sales anyways.

Elijah: That’s ridiculous. You have to.

Me: I don’t have to do shit. Just like I don’t have to keep this conversation going. I broke up with you over a year ago when I left. Remember?

Elijah: Only because you had a stroke and thought it'd fix your life to cut me and everyone else out of it.

Me: Wow. Super sensitive and understanding. Thanks, asshole. And also, it wasn’t just the stroke. It was us. We weren't compatible, and being with you meant I never got a break from work. It wasn’t sustainable.

Elijah: That’s a lie and you know it. We were electric together. The dream team. You just needed to work smarter and not stress out so much.

Me: I’m done with this conversation. Lose my number.

Elijah: Catalina said she saw you. Just because you got promoted at your little fake job doesn’t mean it’s going to last. It’s a family business, Dani. You’re not family. They’ll toss you out eventually when they have to make cuts. You were part of my family. My parents keep asking about you.

Me: Then tell them we broke up, Elijah. That way they, and you, can finally get it through your heads. I’m never coming back to California.

And that’s when it all started.

That slow, creeping dread that crawls up my spine. Like someone cracked open a door in my brain and let a swarm of bees in.

A single thought morphs into a dozen others, all stinging and buzzing and demanding my attention and yet none of them are able to break through.

It’s a slippery slope I’ve been down before. The moment where my breathing starts rushing out of my mouth erratically and every cell in my body starts vibrating with the terrible certainty that something is very, very wrong.

It begins in my head. Always does. First, a flicker of doubt, then a cascade of them. My hands tremble. My chest tightens. My thoughts spiral too fast to catch, like leaves in a wind tunnel.

Then come the shakes. My limbs go weak, cold, and uncoordinated. Like I’m disassembling in real time and then my chest feels like it's caving in and I can't breathe.

I haven’t had one in years, and it’s been a while that it’s felt this intense.

Back in California, they were a regular occurrence.

They came with the career. With the late nights, the skipped meals, the constant pressure from my ex to be better, sharper, faster.

I used to live on caffeine and performance anxiety.

Then came the prescriptions, the therapy, the gym membership I hardly ever used, the meal-prep plans I always ignored.

And then came the stroke.

Everything stopped after that. Or… I stopped. I changed everything. I moved across the country, traded rooftop networking events for farmer’s market booths. Said goodbye to the condo that I lived in with Elijah, my closet full of navy blazers, my parents, my older sister, and my friends.

I chose me for the first time in a decade and I'm damn glad that I did because the relationship I was in was just as toxic as the job that I was working.

And still. One message. One condescending, careerist, emotionally-stunted text from my ex-boyfriend and I’m right back where I started.

Or maybe it was that plus the caffeine crash from consuming way too much before today’s pitch.

Or the aftermath of the pitch. Or maybe it was the way Lawson’s gaze kept locked in place on every single cell in my body as I spoke, and how badly I didn’t want to let him down.

Because this isn’t just a job anymore. It’s not about meeting quota or chasing metrics or earning some hollow corporate praise. It’s personal now. If I fail here, it’s not just about disappointing myself. It’s about disappointing him .

And for whatever ridiculous, misplaced reason, everything I've been doing has been to please him because I want him to be proud of me, too.

But Elijah's words hit a nerve that I didn’t know was still exposed.

He’s not wrong about most of it. It is a family business that I work for.

And I’m the outsider. Just an employee of Lawson's albeit one that I think he values due to my most recent promotion. I’m now the highest-ranking non-Marshall.

Yet if something ever had to give, it would be me. Cut the dead weight. The outlier. He could technically go back to managing interviews, pitches and marketing materials on his own.

But he wouldn't, would he? I mean, he wants me to hire my replacement. That seems like a good sign, right?

And maybe Lawson saw that tonight. Maybe he saw me fumble with my notes. Maybe he saw the vibrator on the bed last night and thought I was careless, unprofessional or just… too much to be around him.

And so, I spiraled.

I unraveled. Got caught in the current of my own thoughts and forgot how to swim. One second, I was undressing for dinner and the next, I was shaking so violently I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t even move my legs .

It wasn’t until I slipped my sleep shirt over my head and dropped onto the edge of the bed that I realized what was happening.

I'd accidentally dressed for bed instead of dinner and I was having a full blown panic attack remembering the feeling of fear after my stroke.

The helplessness and the worry about what would be next for my life.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My phone was still in my hand when Lawson knocked.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My chest was caving in; my lungs were locked.

It felt like every molecule of air had been sucked from the room.

My vision blurred and the black spots started creeping in from the edges like a vignette made of fear.

And then his voice cut through the fog that my mind had become.

“Dani, open up!”

I tried. I swear I tried to move so that I could play this all off for what it was. In my head, I think. Just a weak moment of vulnerability. But my body wouldn’t cooperate.

“Lawson,” I finally managed. “It’s unlocked. Ugh.”

The door practically flew off the hinges when he opened it. Then his steps. Fast. Heavy. Before he was kneeling in front of me. His face a mixture of worry, heat and I'm certain disappointment because I'm weak. Much weaker than I thought I was. I'm so embarrassingly weak.

“What the hell happened?” he growls.

I try to speak, but the words die in my throat.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and I keep opening and closing my jaw like I need to yawn.

I know the sign well. My body isn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain.

It’s like I can’t take a full breath, so I just keep yawning, over and over, hoping that one will finally stick.

“I—” A ragged gasp escapes my lips. “I can’t… I can’t breathe,” I choke out, clawing at his forearms like he can anchor me to the earth and push some needed air into my chest.

"Focus on taking deep breaths in and out of your nose steadily," his voice soothes me a little, but my lungs still aren’t working. I can't open my mouth wide enough or maybe I'm not even trying. I'm not sure.

His arms go around me immediately and they’re strong and steady. From under my armpits, he helps me stand, and then scoops me into his arms like I weigh nothing.

“Let’s try a change of scenery,” he says, his voice softer and much more controlled than I'm feeling.

I nod against his chest. Or maybe I just twitch. I’m not sure. My vision is still tunnel-dark around the edges. This is something that has happened to me in the past with panic attacks. It's like the anxiety pushes all the blood away from my eyes and my vision starts to disappear.

He walks me slowly into the hotel bathroom and I hear the water running as if he's filling up the tub.

“I read once that changing your environment and stimulating your senses can help ground you during a panic attack,” he says. I wonder where and why he read that, but I don’t have the energy to ask. “Will you get in the bath if I help you?”

I look up at him. His face is so close and calm.

His hazel eyes are locked on mine like they can pull me back from the dangerous edge that I'm toeing.

And maybe in another time and place, this entire situation would feel like a shift in our relationship away from boss and employee. Friends with boundaries.

Maybe I would’ve been hyperaware of the intimacy—the tension of being half-dressed and vulnerable in a bathroom with my boss who might just be the most attractive and kindest man I've ever known.

But right now, none of that matters. Right now, I feel like I'm dying.

Like death could take me under at any moment.

It's a terrifying and out of body experience and one that I desperately need to stop.

And if my last moment on this earth is spent with Lawson undressing me, well I don't think I would ever regret that.

“I’m so scared,” I whisper, barely able to form the words. “I feel like I’m going to die.”

His arms tighten around my body, holding me upright against him.

“You’re not,” he murmurs. “You’re safe with me. I’ve got you but I need you trust me now.” His face doesn’t flinch. He’s as steady as stone, soft as dusk, his voice cuts through the rising chaos in my chest. “You’re not going to die.”

I want to believe him. I do. But I can’t even nod.

“It’s scary, I know,” he adds gently, his arms like anchors keeping me upright, holding me together while I unravel. “But I’m not gonna let you die, sweetheart. Because then I’d have a lawsuit on my hands and where the hell would I hide your body?”

There’s a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth like he’s trying to make me laugh, trying to slice a sliver of light into this absolute darkness that I’m drowning in.

But I’m too far gone to find it funny. My heart is a stampede.

My lungs feel like they’ve been cinched closed with wire and the pressure on my chest is unreal.

His expression sobers again, those eyes zeroing in on mine like he’s trying to nudge me back to earth. “Now I need you to undress and get in the bath, okay? You think you can do that? Or do you need me to help?”

I shake my head. Not once. Not twice. It’s more like a frantic, repetitive tremble that I can’t stop. I can’t move. I can’t think. My arms feel too heavy, and my legs are full of lead. My body’s locked in this frozen, useless state, stiff with fear.

“Okay,” he says, calm like he’s done this a hundred times before even though I'm sure this is his first time dealing with a panicked employee. Oh god, I bet this is why he's always preferred to work alone. No weak employees that he has to undress and put in a tub to revive. “I’ll help you.”

One of his hands stays firm on my hip, grounding me with its warmth and pressure, and the other tugs gently at the hem of my oversized sleep shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, as the fabric lifts—first over one arm, then the other.

I barely register the movement, too busy trying to keep myself from crumbling as I grip his forearms to stay upright.

The shirt bunches around my neck before he eases it over my head, careful and slow, like he’s handling something fragile. And he is. I feel like glass. I’m just barely holding it together. I’m stripped down now, nothing on but a pair of underwear and the kind of fear I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

But he’s not staring at my naked form. He’s not gawking or letting his eyes drift below my neck. He’s looking straight at me. At my face. My eyes. Like I’m the only thing in this moment worth seeing.

“I can’t breathe,” I whisper, tears leaking hot and helpless down my cheeks.

His hand tightens slightly on my hip. “Try really hard for me, sweetheart. Big breath in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

I try. It’s weak and ragged, hardly a breath at all, and the fact that it's not much has me panicking again. I squeeze his biceps harder. "Please don't let me fall on the ground."

He shakes his head. “I'd never. Now come on,” he encourages, nodding, like we’re in this together. “Again, Dani. You can do better than that. I know you can. Big breath in then slowly let it out.”

I try again. And again. Each inhale a little deeper, each exhale a little less frantic. But I’m dizzy, like the floor’s about to disappear beneath me.

I pitch forward, my bare chest pressing against the solid warmth of his T-shirt as I latch onto his forearms, desperate for something to hold on to. His jaw tightens as his eyes remain on mine.

"I'm going to help you, but I need you to work with me, alright?"

I nod as I tilt my chin up to see his face. "Okay," I whisper.