Page 2 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

Three weeks later…

“Come on. Give her a shot,” my little sister Regan hisses as I storm out of the family distillery, my boots striking the gravel with sharp, deliberate force.

This— this —is exactly why I do things on my own.

It’s also why I’ve been the one and only person handling sales, growth and marketing for our family's slew of businesses since we started expanding into new avenues outside of the egg farm.

Because the second someone else sticks their hands in it? Shit like this happens.

I turn, leveling her with a glare, but she stands firm, arms crossed, expression patient.

“She has absolutely no experience in egg or liquor sales,” I snap, scrubbing a rough hand over my jaw.

I never take a harsh tone with my little sister, but I also don't like being blindsided by decisions that directly affect me. “Do you know how long it takes to build the relationships that I’ve cultivated across the country? To earn trust with buyers? I don’t have time to hold some newbie’s hand while she plays catch-up on the Marshall family. ”

Regan exhales, the kind of deep, measured breath that tells me she’s bracing herself. I know I’m being harsh. Probably unfair. It’s not normal for me. I know I should be taking it easier on her, but I can’t help how frustrated I feel that she made this decision without consulting me first.

I'm the patient, calm, level-headed brother mostly because everyone just trusts me to handle shit without any help and I always get it done. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m pissed about this.

She takes a step toward me, cautious but steady, like she’s approaching a spooked animal. “Lawson,” she says gently, placing a hand on my forearm. “This is for your good. This isn't to punish you. It's to help you.”

I shake her off, but she doesn’t waver.

“No one’s saying you can’t keep handling things on your own,” she continues. “You’re doing an amazing job with the sales and marketing for our family businesses.”

“I know,” I bite out.

She smiles like she expected that. “But even so, we all feel like this is the right move.” She tilts her head, eyes scanning my face.

“You can’t keep running yourself into the ground.

The brewery and restaurant in Whitewood Creek have been open for a bit now, Charlotte’s location is thriving, Colt’s expanding the spirits line, and Cash has tripled production at the egg farm.

Now that wedding season is picking up for me, it’s too much for you to manage sales on all this alone .

You’re stretched thin, and whether you want to admit it or not, you’re hardly ever home. I miss you. We miss having you around.”

I clench my jaw, exhaling hard through my nose. Because she’s not entirely wrong .

I make it back for the important things like my son Beckham’s football games, his school events, to be by Regan's side after her car accident, but the rest of the time I’m on the road.

I spend more time in hotel rooms and rental cars than I do in my own damn house that I built.

One city after the next, pitching our products to grocery stores and distributors, setting up deals, doing press interviews about our sustainable egg farm and being the face of the Marshall family conglomerate to the world outside of Whitewood Creek, North Carolina.

And our farm? It’s the heart of everything.

We built our brand on ethically produced, pasture-raised eggs.

Organic-fed, non-GMO, grain-free, no-kill.

We don’t cull our hens when they stop laying like most farms do.

We retire them, let them live out their days in their own section of the property, sunbathing and scratching in the dirt like they’re supposed to.

That core value, the integrity behind it all, is what pushed us to expand.

Next came the distillery. Then the craft beer line. The flagship brewery and restaurant in Charlotte. And now, our newest venture, bringing that same concept back home to Whitewood Creek and offering weddings at the Mayberry manor and Marshall farm managed by Regan.

All of it needs sales and marketing. And all that falls on me, the Vice President of Sales and Marketing.

And I love my job. The grind, the hustle, the long nights, the adrenaline of landing a deal after months of leg work. Putting together pitches, taping commercials, doing interviews, watching our business grow. Knowing that I had a direct hand in making it successful is what keeps me going.

But while I was in the Pacific Northwest last week, doing an interview with Good Evening PNW! about our newest craft brew that we’re rolling out for the summer, my family apparently made the executive decision to hire me a sales and marketing partner.

Without telling me.

And now that I’m back? I find out their new hire has already moved to our small town and starts tomorrow .

I rake a hand through my too long hair, my pulse hammering with frustration. “I don’t even know what the hell she’s supposed to do. I don’t have time to train someone.”

Regan just smiles like she was expecting that response.

“You won’t have to,” she says easily. “She’s completely capable. Strong sales background. Years of proven success selling difficult products in Silicon Valley.”

I scoff. “So, she's some tech nerd. That has nothing to do with what we sell here.”

Regan shrugs. “Sales are sales. The relationship building takes time, sure, but the skills are transferable. She just needs a chance. I believe she'll catch on quickly if you'll let her.”

I shake my head, already annoyed at the idea of someone tagging along, screwing up my carefully built routine.

“Look,” Regan continues, ever the peacemaker.

“All you need to do is look at your plate and pass off the things that drain your time. Start small. The little things. You can give her menial administrative tasks if it makes your life easier, but I think once you see her skillset, you'll feel comfortable giving her more. And make sure she’s booked on all your trips so she can shadow you. She’s sharp, Lawson.

She’ll pick it up fast. She's an assistant, so let her assist you.”

I huff out a breath, arms crossed tight. Regan’s grin widens, like she sees right through me.

“Who knows?” she says lightly, eyes gleaming with something too smug for my liking.

“Before long, she might have it all down.” She lifts a brow.

“And then maybe…” her smile deepens. “You won’t have to travel so much.

.. maybe you'll find some time to date a nice girl in town.

Maybe you'll find some time to fall in love... settle down... have more kids... be around more often to watch those kids grow up since your assistant can handle all the work...”

Regan’s like the unofficial manager of our chaotic family empire, the glue that holds everything together when things start slipping through the cracks. She jumps from one crisis to the next, wherever she’s needed.

When my youngest brother and her twin Colt was locked up, she stepped in to run the egg farm full-time while Cash took over the distillery.

And when Colt got out, she pivoted, helping get the restaurant and brewery up and running.

At one point, she even managed a small garden and had my son selling fruits and veggies on the side of the road, learning about the value of hard work and money.

Now, she’s managing our newest opportunity, a wedding business born out of her new home with her husband. She’s also occasionally assisting me with marketing, sometimes stepping in during the egg farm’s busy season, other times helping out at the distillery when production ramps up.

She’s good at it. Too good at it. Because now she’s convinced herself that I need help, too.

And look, I’m not an asshole. Really, I’m not.

I just like working alone. I prefer it. I travel alone, plan alone, handle all the marketing and sales for our businesses alone.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been a single dad for thirteen years, building a life where it’s just my son Beckham and me or maybe it's because I prefer quality time with myself over everyone else.

At thirty-seven years old, I don't feel the need to make new friendships.

When I found out Beckham's mom was pregnant, I knew I wanted to give him something solid—a home of our own, a place that was ours .

So, I built it. A house on the family farm property all the way in the back forty, the most remote portion of the land.

It's close to my siblings and dad who could step in when I needed to travel, but far enough away to feel like I had my own life. And ever since then, I’ve lived my life on my terms.

I’m a single guy and unlike my brother Cash who recently married his girlfriend and the mayor of our small town, Rae Black, or Colt who was just looking for the right one and found it in his best friend's little sister, Molly Patrick, I simply don't have the time or energy to invest in a relationship.

Beckham’s mom, Melissa, is a wonderful woman. My college sweetheart. We loved each other, but when she got pregnant, we both knew we weren’t end game. So, we made a decision. An amicable one. We separated, co-parented, and we’ve done a damn good job at it.

She got married when Beckham was three. Her husband and my son’s stepfather, Heath, is a great guy and someone that I've occasionally kicked back and had a few beers with at family gatherings. Steady. Reliable. Someone I trust to be in my son’s life when I'm not there. It all worked out. Everyone’s happy.

We’re happy. We’ve built this solid, steady rhythm over the years as two separate families working together seamlessly for Beckham's good. I never wanted to throw a wrench in that by introducing someone new who wouldn’t get it or respect it.

And now? Beckham’s a teenager. We’ve made it this far and I wouldn’t change a thing.

So yeah, I like doing things on my own. It works for me.

Which is why this whole new hire situation is rubbing me the wrong way.

But Regan’s got that look in her eyes. The one that says she’s already won.

The one that reminds me she’s always been a little too good at getting her way and I can’t ever tell her no.

I sigh, running a hand down my face. “Fine. I’ll give her a chance.”

Regan beams at me. “This is going to be good, trust me.”

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “Sure. So, when does she start again?”

Her grin widens. “Tomorrow.”

I close my eyes for a second, rubbing my temples because of course it’s tomorrow.

And of course this is happening during the exact same week I’m supposed to be flying out to the West Coast for two critical meetings—one with a major social media influencer who interviews sustainable companies (which could give our egg brand a huge boost) and another with the largest grocery chain in the region, who I’m hoping to convince to carry our new line of spiked seltzers.

The seltzers aren’t technically done yet, but Colt and the guys at the distillery are working on them.

They’ll be small-batch, all-natural ingredients, organic flavoring, clean branding.

If all goes well, we’ll have them ready for launch just in time for a limited summer release.

But now, thanks to my so-thoughtful siblings, I apparently have a shadow for all of it.

I exhale slowly. “I guess I need to book her on my flight.”

Regan pats my chest, much too pleased with herself. “I guess you do.”