Page 20 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

“I’m going to take your underwear off now, alright?”? Lawson asks me cautiously.

I nod, eyes squeezed shut with my face pressed against his chest. Shame clogs my throat. Not because of the intimacy, but because I hate that he’s seeing me like this.

I'm weak. Ruined. Coming apart in his arms. This isn’t who I am, at least not anymore. And I swore I’d never be like this again after leaving California behind.

How the hell is he ever going to respect me after this?

My thoughts spiral fast, sharp and merciless.

What if this leads to another stroke or worse?

What if I die here in this fucking hotel bathroom because I drank too much caffeine and let my brain spin itself into oblivion?

What if Elijah is right, that eventually they’ll fire me, and I’ll never be able to get back into tech sales in California because I’ve been working selling eggs and whiskey?

I barely register the moment that he finishes undressing me his fingers were so gentle. I only know I’m being guided gently backward until the backs of my thighs hit the tub’s edge, his hands still steady around my hips.

“Okay. I’m going to ease you in the water now,” he murmurs.

His hands are gentle as they lift between my knees and he places me into the deep, soaker tub. The water’s hot. It laps at my skin, rising until it cradles me, just below my collarbone. I shiver even as it soothes, the shock from the change of sensation helping me come back to my body.

“That alright, sweetheart?”

I nod just barely. My right hand is still gripping his bicep outside the tub like I’m scared to not be touching his warm flesh, or I might slip under.

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t flinch despite my tight hold.

Just lowers himself to a crouch beside the edge, one hand turning the water down to a soft trickle, the other still within my reach, giving me something to hold onto.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I whisper when I finally find my voice again. My hands won’t stop shaking. I tuck one of them beneath the surface of the water, but they tremble anyway, the other that’s squeezing his forearm is shaking his body slightly.

He doesn’t respond to that directly. He doesn’t give me any pity or try to soothe the shame. Instead, he covers my hand that’s on his arm with his rough fingers toughened by hard, manual labor and a single brass ring baring the Marshall crest, and then offers me something better: A distraction.

“Want to hear a funny story?” he asks.

I nod, still clutching his forearm as he shifts to sit on the edge of the tub now facing away from me so that I don’t feel any more exposed than I already do. Of course, he's being the respectful gentleman that he’s always been to me. Even during my weakest moment he’s considering my feelings.

“I was twenty-three years old when I found out that Melissa was unexpectedly pregnant with Beckham,” he says, a soft chuckle underlining the words.

“She came to my house where I was still living with Dad and all my siblings, and chucked the positive test at my head. Literally threw it at my head. I thought she cut me with the sharp edge of it but nah, it just left a temporary dent on my forehead.”

A choked laugh bubbles out of me. My teeth chatter with it, the fear loosening its grip just a little in the form of humor. “No way that she did that. Mel’s so nice.”

“Oh, she definitely did it,” he says with mock solemnity. “And I deserved it. I hadn’t called her in like two weeks because I’d moved on from the relationship. We were never all that serious.”

“Lawson,” I laugh, breath finally coming easier now. “She’s a saint. Honestly the best mother you could have given Beckham.”

He tilts his head back toward the ceiling, lips twitching into a crooked smile. “I know it. We were just supposed to be casual, though. But I always had a lot of love for her. We didn’t want to be parents at first and especially not together.”

I nod, finally able to meet his gaze. I know that part of their story.

How they've always co-parented with mutual respect, no mess, no drama, focused on their son alone. It’s rare.

It’s real. And it’s just so completely who Lawson is.

He’s that type of guy. Gets a casual girl he's dating pregnant, doesn’t cause a fuss and steps up to be a dad without hesitation.

“Anyway,” Lawson says, his voice low and scratchy like gravel and smoke.

“After I found out, I got it in my head that I needed to build the kid a damn house. No way we were gonna stay at my dad’s place splitting custody in that chaos.

Plus, Mel needed a place to stay while she figured out her own path.

Colt and Regan were teenagers, and Troy was living in New York with Max at that point, but I wanted something of my own.

His own bedroom and a place I could put all his toys. ”

He shifts slightly, settling against the side of the tub, right forearm still slack so I can keep clinging to it like it’s a rope tethering me to this moment.

“I picked the furthest corner of the property. The edge of the tree line. Figured I could hide the house out there.”

That word hide catches in my chest.

“Hiding from what I’d done. The way I’d embarrassed myself.

My family. The Marshall name.” His jaw ticks, throat bobbing as he scrubs a hand through his hair, then lets it drop again like he’s too tired to keep carrying the weight of that memory anymore.

“I didn’t know a thing about construction, but I threw up this log cabin type of house.

Looked decent enough ’til the first, autumn storm hit, and half the roof flew into the next county. ”

Despite everything, I laugh, teeth chattering slightly. “Oh God, was Beckham born at that point?”

He huffs a laugh, just a breath of warmth in the cool, bathroom air.

“Thankfully, no. I wasn’t sleeping in it that night either.

Anyhow, Cash was twenty-one and already Bob the Builder junior.

He and Colt took pity on me, came out to my property, helped draw up real plans and we all built it together that next spring.

By the time Beckham was born, the place was solid.

Melissa moved in for a while, got her feet under her, and we co-parented from there until Beckham was four years old and she met her now husband and fell in love.

It just… worked. We weren't romantic but we were committed to Beckham, and it’s the only reason I think I’ve got the relationship I have with them both. ”

My heart rate picks up again and the water sloshes gently against my skin.

I feel stripped bare, physically and emotionally.

My throat’s tight, but it’s not panic anymore.

It’s something deeper, softer, something that hurts in a different way because dammit, why is he the best man that I’ve ever met?

And why do I feel like he’s set some invisible bar that every guy in my future will never be able to meet?

My body shakes, mostly from the panic attack and partially at the thought that I’m going to compare every person I ever date to my unattainable boss.

Lawson glances at me. “Are you cold?”

I shake my head slowly. “No. It’s just… this is what happens sometimes. The shakes.”

He nods like he gets it, doesn’t ask questions, just retrieves his phone from his pocket with one hand and types something into it before he starts scrolling.

“The internet says the scent of something familiar can help regulate your nervous system. You got a favorite lotion or perfume in your suitcase that I can grab for you?”

And that right there—that stupidly thoughtful gesture—the fact that he’s researching ways to help my nervous system calm down, makes my heart squeeze tight and say the first thing I think of without considering the repercussions.

“Your cologne,” I blurt out.

His eyes lift slowly, brows barely ticking up. “Yeah?”

I nod, my teeth knocking together again. “I mean, I’m around you a lot. Like practically every day of the year. It’s familiar.” Familiar. Comforting. Calming. Infuriatingly masculine. So, freaking attractive. God, the man always smells so good.

He doesn’t pause or call me out, just slides forward on the edge until he’s leaning over the tub, staying carefully above water level but close enough that his chest is practically brushing against my face.

His gaze never drops, it never once flickers to where the water laps just below my breasts, where my body’s betraying me with hard, sensitive nipples exposed to the cool air.

Instead, he leans in closer until I’m wrapped in him—cedar, smoke, something subtly clean and warm, a trace of sweat and his smooth skin.

I close my eyes and breathe him in deep, fitting my jaw tightly together to try to stop the chattering, and it’s like the static in my chest finally starts to dissolve.

This is the scent that I’ve fallen asleep beside on long flights. Sat next to during boardroom pitches. The scent that clung to my clothes after he let me borrow his hoodie once, after a red-eye home from Phoenix in the middle of January.

It smells like stability. Kindness when I needed it desperately. Like something solid and unwavering. Like my somehow best friend. Him.

I stay like that, eyes closed, breathing his scent, and the pulse in my ears finally quiets. The words in my head start to calm. My grip loosens from his forearm, and I sink deeper into the water, my body beginning to remember what calm feels like as I come back into myself.

“There she is,” Lawson whispers softly, his breath tickling my lips as his fingers brush against my cheek softly.

I open my eyes and he’s right there, so close that I can smell the mint on his breath, see each line around his eyes and the tiny, green flecks in his hazel irises.

His gaze is molten and soft, and feels like a warm hug.

He doesn't look disappointed in me for unraveling, he looks like. .. he adores me.

The air between us is charged, electric and fragile. And for one reckless second, I want to reach up. To touch the rough line of his jaw, run my fingers through his thick hair, lean into him and let whatever this thing that’s between us burn bright and real.

But then his eyes flick down—just for a heartbeat—to my chest. And I swear the tension in his jaw tightens before he flicks his gaze back to mine and pulls his hand away like nothing ever happened.

“Let’s get you dried off,” he says, already standing, already moving. “I’ll order room service for dinner.”

The spell shatters. He helps me stand in the tub, still not looking where I wish he would, and wraps me in a thick towel before leading me to the bed. The air is cool on my damp skin, and I shiver thinking about the moment that we just shared and what it meant.

“You think you can dress yourself?” he asks, turning away from me and giving me his back.

I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

He nods, then moves quietly to the bathroom and grabs my shirt from the floor. The same one that he peeled off me only a few minutes ago. He pulls it gently over my head again, careful not to jostle me too much but leaves my underwear behind like it’s a line he won’t cross.

Then he lifts me easily and pulls back the covers before sliding me beneath them. I watch as he orders food from across the room—two salads, some pasta and waters—then flips on the TV like it’s just another Thursday night and not the single most vulnerable moment of my life.

We sit in silence for a while, something light and stupid playing in the background while I wonder what he’s thinking. Then the food comes, and without asking, he feeds me. A bite at a time. Holds a bottle of water to my lips. Waits while I sip.

And though I could probably do it myself now, I’m grateful that he hasn’t asked me to. Panic attacks tend to expend a lot of energy and once they are finished, I feel weak, sleepy and emotionally numb.

When I’m halfway through the meal, I try to move to clean-up, but he shakes his head firmly and takes the empty boxes and napkins from my hands.

“Let me take care of you, Dani.”

And then he disappears to the bathroom, returning with my toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste.

“What are you doing?” I ask softly.

He sits at the side of the bed and gently guides my head until it’s resting in his lap. This is way too intimate, the view from where I’m laying staring up at his jaw, the rough beard that he's neatly trimmed and his soft eyes gazing down at me.

“Hold still. I’m gonna brush your teeth.”

“What?”

Then he leans closer, hand resting lightly against my throat, thumb pressing against the hinge of my jaw. If he put just a little more pressure there, I think I might combust. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”

God, those words.

I do. Because I can’t think. Because I’m caught in his orbit and I can't break his gaze. His hand is warm and steady. His gaze locked on my mouth as he brushes with slow, careful strokes.

When he finishes the top row of my teeth, he presses a paper cup to my cheek. “Turn and spit now, honey.”

I obey completely dazed by everything that’s happening. He’s so gentle it guts me.

“When Beckham was five, he broke his arm playing football. Refused to use the other one for anything. I brushed his teeth every night,” he offers like that explains why he’s doing this for me now. He brushes the bottom row next, taking his time while his opposite hand lingers on my throat.

The cup touches my cheek again and I turn my head and spit without being asked.

This time he looks down at me for a beat too long before he whispers, “Good girl, ” and then adjusts me back under the covers and tucks me in like he didn't just wreck me with his hands and words. “You alright now for bed?”

“Yeah,” I respond softly.

But I’m not. I’m anything but alright because this whole night has been a lot on me physically, mentally and emotionally and though I know this is just who he is, a dad at his core who takes care of the people around him, it somehow feels way more intimate in my fucked up head.

“I can take the couch if that makes you more comfortable,” he offers.

I shake my head. “Next to me in the bed is fine.”

He nods, then lies on top of the covers, leaving too much space between us. We watch TV like that, quiet and still. And even though I’m exhausted, completely wrung out from panic, from the fear of feeling like I almost just died, I don’t want to fall asleep.

Because if I do, this might end.

But my body has other plans. And as I drift off, the last thing I feel is the steady rise and fall of Lawson’s body beside me and the terrifying, impossible ache in mine.