Page 23 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

It’s late by the time Dani gets home from dinner with her new hire, nearly midnight, and the stillness of the night has settled thick over my home tucked away in the dense trees.

I’m on the couch, nursing a half-finished glass of whiskey, the kind that burns all the way down but still doesn’t reach the ache in my chest. Every light in the place is off.

No TV. No music. Just the steady tap of autumn rain against the windowpanes and the occasional groan of my old house creaking with the wind.

It’s too damn quiet in here. The stillness is forcing me to sit with my thoughts whether I want to or not and that's what I've been doing for the last three hours.

Sitting.

Thinking.

Wondering about how I got here falling for my employee. Waiting for a woman to come home to a place that isn't hers but feels like it should be. Something I never thought I'd do.

I’m not drunk, but if there were ever a reason to get drunk, it might be tonight. Instead, I’ve just been stuck in this loop—replaying every second of the weekend that Dani and I spent together in Texas.

The way Dani walked into that boardroom like she owned it, spine straight, eyes sharp, voice smooth as silk.

Her presence had every one of those tight-ass suits practically salivating.

Half in awe, half in confusion, because they’d clearly underestimated her pretty face, something a lot of people do when they see her round eyes and the way her full lips tilts up at the corner when she smiles.

And then later, when all that confidence cracked.

When it was just her and me in that hotel room and she unraveled in my arms like thread pulled too tight.

The sound of her panic still echoes in my ears.

The way she gasped for air like the world was closing in.

And how I held her through it, got her through it despite being scared myself.

Fed her, brushed her teeth, tucked her in like she was mine.

She told me it was a one-off. Just a blip because she drank too much coffee. And maybe it was. But it’s Dani, and that night did something to me. Changed something inside me. Altered pieces of my soul that I'll never be able to get back.

Now I can’t stop wondering if she’s still scared.

If she’s been carrying that fear alone ever since.

If she’s been holding it together for a lot longer than I’ve realized.

And maybe the worst part is knowing how little I can do to take that weight from her.

Wanting to fix it, to fix her, even though I know that’s not how this works.

The front door creaks open finally, and I don’t move. Don’t call out. Just listen for her familiar movements and the smell of her to reach me.

Her bag hits the floor with a soft thud.

She kicks off her boots, mutters something to herself that I can’t make out, then the house falls quiet again.

My eyes flick to the clock on the wall—12:03.

She’s been out with Luca for hours. Probably having dinner and drinks.

Laughing as she tells him all about how they'll be working together.

I didn’t expect it to drag this long, and I sure as hell didn’t expect it to bother me this much given the fact that I was the one who told her to hire him. But it does and I can't stop it.

That jealous feeling, it’s a slow, creeping thing.

A wildfire beneath the surface. I gave her the green light; told her I trusted her judgment, and I do.

But that doesn’t mean I like the thought of her sitting across from some other guy, laughing at his jokes, giving him her time because he doesn't know just how valuable it is.

How fucked up is that?

Was this always going to happen? Was it inevitable?

Spend enough time around a woman like Dani who’s funny, brilliant, tough with a heart that could bring a grown man to his knees, and of course I was going to fall for her.

Or maybe it’s been happening for months now, and I’ve just been too careful, too disciplined, too afraid to name that I might be in love with the woman who works for me.

Because this ain't some fleeting thing. It’s a deep ache in my chest. A need. A knowing. I want her in my life in every damn way that a man can want a woman and I want so much more than what we have.

She steps into the living room and freezes when she catches sight of me in the dark.

“Shit, Lawson,” she whispers, clutching her chest. “You scared me. What are you doing sitting in here like some kind of cowboy ghost?”

I rattle the ice in my glass and flick my eyes to her.

She’s still in that tiny black skirt she was wearing earlier for the interviews, the hem wrinkled now.

Her combat boots are unlaced and scuffed.

A black hoodie’s been thrown on over it all, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

Her hair’s twisted up in a messy bun, like she barely had time to think before running out the door and she looks fucking beautiful.

Effortless and warm and so herself. Like coming home and yet here she is.

In my home. Where my son and I live. Like she belongs here with us.

“Sorry if I scared you,” I say, voice low. “How’d it go tonight with pretty boy?”

She lets out a snort and crosses the room, dropping onto the couch beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Our thighs nudge and she doesn’t move away. And God help me I love that she's always been comfortable being close to me.

Is that because she'll never see me as anything more than her boss?

Does she feel this attraction too?

Fuck, I’ve got to know.

She smells like rain and soap and something soft and sweet I haven’t figured out yet, but I know it’s her. It’s always her. She might have claimed it was my scent that grounded her during her panic attack, but the truth is that Dani's smell has always been the thing that's brought me to my knees.

“It was fine,” she says with a shrug. “You know, he really respects you. Thinks you’re a legend. I told him he’s got a lot to learn, but I think you’ll like the ideas he brings to the table.”

I grunt, knowing she’s right. If Dani hired him, he’s solid. She wouldn’t let a pretty face sway her. She’s too sharp for that.

“Can’t wait to hear them,” I say, but my voice comes out flat.

She tilts her head, studying me. The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Damn, boss. I’ve never seen you drunk before.”

I chuckle darkly. “Good. And you never will. I'm not drunk.”

“You sure about that?” she asks, teasing. But there’s something else in her voice too, something gentler like she’s trying to figure me out. "The glass in your hand is empty and I can smell the whiskey soaked on your breath."

I glance at her, and for a second, I almost say it.

That’s because I was waiting up for you.

I was thinking about what happened.

I was worried about you.

I was realizing that when I'm not with you, I fucking miss you, and I'm trying to make sense of how that will work.

But I don’t say any of that.

Instead, I just lean back, let the silence stretch between us, and try to keep myself from reaching out for her. Because right now? That’s all I want to do. And if I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop which means we'll cross a line that we've both always had in place.

She smiles. “You’re close though, aren’t you?”

She nudges my side, playful as ever, brown eyes warm and shining, her mouth tugging into a grin like she’s trying to lighten the mood. But I don’t feel light tonight.

Because while she’s sitting here acting like it’s just another night for us, just two coworkers unwinding after a long day, I’m battling every damn forbidden thought in my head. And every one of those thoughts starts and ends with her naked, underneath me, moaning my name.

She’s smiling like nothing’s wrong, like she doesn’t feel the tension that's pulsing between us. But I know Dani. I know her better than I know myself some days. She’s holding something back.

She has been since Texas. Since that night.

There's something we need to talk about, but I don't know how to bring up without pushing her away.

Causing her to retreat into herself like she's so good at doing.

And maybe that’s because I know that I’m holding things back too.

Because that’s what you do when you’re playing the game—when you’re the boss and she’s the employee and there are lines drawn in sand we pretend are actually stone.

You keep your secrets. You hide your wants.

You pretend you’re not lying awake thinking about her hand wrapped around a vibrator while you’re a room away, fists clenched, jaw tight, imagining it’s you making her come.

“I’m nowhere near close to drunk,” I murmur, watching her carefully.

Her smile falters. Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip and she nods, like she doesn’t know what to say next.

“I... I guess I should go to sleep,” she says, barely above a whisper.

“Is that what you want to do?” I ask, my voice rough. “Sleep?”

Because I’m dying to know if she’s going to head upstairs, slide that pretty little vibrator out of her nightstand drawer, wet it with her spit, and try to chase down an orgasm that'll only leave her aching for more.

Her eyes flick to mine, ignoring my question. “Is Beckham home?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A pause stretches between us, full of unspoken things and the sound of rain tapping against the windows like a slow, steady heartbeat. Her gaze locks on mine, and neither of us looks away.

“Okay, then,” she breathes.

And then I say the thing I shouldn’t. The thing I know will change everything.

“Are you going to go use it?”

She blinks. “W-what?”

“Your vibrator,” I say, voice still quiet despite us being alone. “The one I saw you using the other night. Are you going to go upstairs, in my home, and use it?”

Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen. “W-what—?”

"Wish I hadn't seen it because now I can’t stop picturing you with it. Jacking up the speed so high it tortures your clit, trying to come quick so you don’t have to think about how empty it still leaves you to come around a piece of plastic instead of a warm cock.

About how much you’re craving something real. Someone real.”

She swallows hard, her lips parted, like she’s not sure how to respond.

“Maybe I am going to use it tonight,” she finally says. “Why does it matter?”

I rake a hand through my hair, break the stare for just a second, trying to breathe around this need that’s clawing at my chest.

“Because you deserve better than that. You deserve someone who takes their time. Who shows you that sex isn’t about racing to the finish line.

It’s about the buildup. The tension. The slow unraveling.

Every gasp. Every whisper. Every fucking second of the slow burn before you finally hit that release that has your toes curling and your mind calming. ”

She shakes her head. “I don’t believe that's necessary.”

I laugh, low and rough. “Yeah, you do. You just haven’t been shown otherwise.”

She tilts her head in that familiar little challenge.

It’s the same one she always gives me when we’re knee-deep in some ridiculous debate.

Except this time, it’s not something playful that we’re arguing.

It’s serious. We’ve debated just about everything.

The best barbecue sauce in Texas. Whether Whitewood Creek counts as a town or a city.

If Die Hard is a Christmas movie. What really happened the night the Titanic sank.

The superior berry—strawberries or blueberries.

But this? This isn’t a debate. And it sure as hell isn’t banter anymore.

We’re toeing a line and I’m about to cross it.

“This ain’t something up for discussion, Dani,” I murmur. “This is fact.”

And then she says it. The words I’ve been waiting to hear. The words I’ve imagined in her voice, over and over again.

A dare. A plea. A surrender. I’ve thought of nothing but Dani begging for me for the past week and finally it’s reality.

“Prove it then.”