Page 38 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

“It’s so much colder here,” I let out a shiver. It’s one of those full-body ones that start at the bridge of my nose, zip through my chest, clench behind my knees, and don’t let go until it reaches the tips of my toes.

We’ve been to Minnesota before for work, but never this late in the year. Not when there’s snow crunching underfoot and breath fogging the air like we’ve stepped into a snow globe.

Lawson glances over and gives me one of those lazy, devastating smiles that makes it impossible not to think about dinner last night at his house. The bathroom. The mirror. His mouth. The way he told me not to ask him for that again unless I meant it.

True to his word, he hasn’t crossed any lines since. No flirtatious comments this morning when we met in the airport, no wandering hands. Just polite conversation and quiet distance, like he’s switched off some internal setting and is back to the way we were before. Playful and professional.

Not that we’ve had much time together. Most of which I spent half-pretending to read a romance novel while sneaking glances at him reading the newspaper like he always does. He didn’t look at me once. It's like absolutely nothing changed between us.

How is he so calm? So composed? He seemed frustrated—angry, even—when he spun me to face the mirror and growled those final words. But then he let me go. He helped me pull myself together like it hadn’t just happened. Like I hadn’t come undone in his hands.

And honestly? I don’t blame him. I pushed him away and shouldn't have asked him to do that. And right when I was going to tell him fuck what I said, let’s give this a shot, he stopped me.

I spent most of the night lying awake, replaying it all on a loop.

The way I leaned into him. The way I asked for it knowing I wasn't sure I could give him what he wanted in return. It was selfish. Immature. A little manipulative if I’m being brutally honest with myself and I regret it.

Not what we did, but the way I used it as an escape hatch for my own horniness.

I can’t bring it up now, though. Not when we’ve just landed in a one-stoplight town in the middle of Minnesota and I’m gearing up for the biggest pitch of my life.

Later I'll apologize when my nerves aren't so high, and I can look into his eyes without distraction. Later, I’ll tell him how much he means to me.

I tug my parka tighter around me and adjust the hunter green suit jacket that I'm wearing underneath. My cream camisole and tailored pants are clinging in all the right places, but they’re no match for this frozen tundra that we’ve stepped into.

Thank God I had the foresight to grab this coat from Isla’s before we left. I had no idea it would be this cold.

“Yeah,” Lawson chuckles, eyes skating down the length of my bundled-up form. “Minnesota’s a lot colder than North Carolina in November. Do you need an extra coat?”

He says it so easily, like he’s not even feeling the cold in his worn-in light-wash jeans and long-sleeved Henley.

The man looks like a walking North Face ad.

No jacket, no problem. A gray knit beanie is tugged low over his forehead, soft brown strands curling out around his ears.

Just like that, he looks less like my boss and more like the guy you’d spot at a coffee shop and fantasize about for weeks.

Cowboy hat on Lawson? Ridiculously hot.

Baseball cap? Yes, please.

Backward cap? I’ve fantasized about it on several occasions.

But this winter hat? Game over. Just bend me over the rental car and ruin me in the snow. God, it’s pathetic what a cotton hat can do to me.

“I’m good,” I manage to choke out, hands wrapping tightly around the plane coffee I’m clutching like a security blanket. It's disgusting, burnt, but I need it. Only my second one today and I’m pacing myself because there’s no way I’m having a repeat of the Texas incident.

He nods and holds the door to the hotel open for me. “Let’s get checked in, settled, and regroup in an hour?”

“Sounds good. I’m probably going to squeeze in a power nap.”

“Of course,” he says with a soft smile. “See you soon.”

We go our separate ways, and I let out a quiet breath of relief the second I step into my room. It’s too much being this close to him after everything, knowing what his hands feel like on me. What I feel like in his mouth.

Maybe Isla's right, maybe we can try to go back to the way things were after this pitch today. Or maybe Lawson already has and I'm just lagging behind him.

I crank up the thermostat until the room’s a sauna, kick off my heels and coat, and collapse face-down on the bed still in my suit pants and thin shirt. I close my eyes, hoping I can hit the reset button before the pitch in an hour but all I dream about is him.

***

An hour later, my alarm blares and I jolt upright.

“Ah, shit.”

I scramble through the room like a woman possessed—fixing my smudged eyeliner, finger-combing my hair, smoothing out the worst of the wrinkles in my suit with a damp towel. I grab my tablet, double-check the slides that Luca sent over, and race to the lobby.

Lawson’s already there, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace like he walked off the cover of Modern Outdoors man. He’s got another cup of tea cradled in his hands, legs stretched out, calm as ever, watching the snow fall gently outside the large, floor to ceiling windows.

And when he turns to face me, glasses. His brows lift as he watches me, eyes lingering on every step I take.

But it’s not the same as before. There’s heat there, sure, but not the kind that promises a firestorm.

It’s softer. Quieter. Like he’s letting himself admire me but doesn't have the urge to touch. And somehow, that’s worse.

Because I miss all that . I miss the way he used to look at me like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss me or ruin me. And I know it’s my fault. I told him not to look at me like that anymore. I asked him to draw the line. But God, I didn’t realize how cold it would feel once he actually did.

How did I go from working for this man to wanting him every second of the day?

I know in my heart that I need to get the courage to tell him how I feel. But more than that, I need to get the courage to leap headfirst into whatever this is with him and not automatically assume that it'll end in disaster.

“You ready?” he asks, rising to his feet with a warm smile that feels a lot like he's put me in the friends and employee box again.

“Yep,” I say, gripping my tablet tightly to my chest and telling myself not to think about that right now.

He nods and leads me outside to the waiting taxi. The drive to the office building is short, but my nerves are already gathering like a storm cloud. Thankfully, Lawson must be able to tell and allows me silence on the drive until we arrive to the location for our meeting.

The headquarters looks nothing like I expected.

No sleek glass building or modern high-rise.

Instead, we’re staring at a massive, warehouse-style structure, all industrial beams and exposed brick.

It’s like stepping into a startup that hit it big and never bothered to change its roots.

It's not at all what I imagined for one of the largest liquor distributors in the U.S.

I exhale slowly, shifting my weight as we step out of the car.

“Alright,” I murmur to myself. “Let’s do this.”

“You got this,” Lawson murmurs as we step into the conference room, both of us wearing our most charming, business-friendly smiles.

He's so damn good at his job. Scratch that, he's natural at this job.

All the Marshall family is charismatic but Lawson's on a different level.

He puts everyone at ease and never forgets the personal details.

I used to joke him about his "uniform" of denim jeans, a casual shirt and sometimes a cowboy hat, but now I get it.

He just makes people feel warm and comfortable. He makes me feel safe and at ease.

I fall into step beside him, but the moment I catch sight of the group seated at the long, modern conference table, my stomach does a little flip.

This crew is a change from the two execs I pitched to in Texas. There’s a broader mix of people—diverse in age, background, and style. A solid twelve of them, all with sharp eyes and patient smiles, quietly waiting to see if I’m worth their time.

I clear my throat and square my shoulders, reminding myself that I’ve done this before. Worse than this, actually. I’ve stood in front of billion-dollar tech CEOs and pitched products I barely understood, selling shit with confidence and charm.

This? This I know. This is familiar, like muscle memory.

The Marshall family brands, their whiskey and bourbon lines, their summer seltzers and holiday liquor, I know them like the back of my hand.

I know what sets them apart. Not just the craftsmanship, not just the legacy, but the why behind it all: family, love, community, connection.

That’s what I carry with me as I click into the first slide on my presentation.

This isn’t about landing a deal for my resume.

It’s not about praise or a bigger bonus.

I want to get this right because I believe in what we’re doing.

In the Marshalls. In this weird, patchwork family I’ve somehow found myself woven into.

Because even though I have people-pleasing tendencies that I’ve spent years trying to unlearn, it’s not just about approval from Lawson anymore.

It’s deeper. I want to make him proud of me so that he sees me as more than just a good employee.

That he sees me as family.

As I speak, my focus stays mostly on the three decision-makers Lawson flagged for me earlier, but I can feel him watching me the entire time.

Like his gaze is a low hum across my skin, tracking my every gesture.

I wonder what he’s thinking, if I’m holding my own, if I’m winning them over.

If he regrets hiring me now that we’ve seen each other mostly naked.

If he regrets yesterday. The way I came apart for him, asking for more and then hurting him selfishly.

I push the thought down and keep moving through the deck. By the time I wrap, my heart is racing, but I don’t let it show. I glance toward him just for a second and catch something I wasn’t prepared for in his smile.

Pride .

He’s leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, winter beanie off, and wearing a wide smile.

He’d swapped the cotton hat for his signature cowboy, brown hat—his go-to when we’re dealing with these types of accounts, the old-school liquor guys who respect a man that looks like he owns a horse.

And of course, it’s working for him. Too well.

All I want is to walk over, straddle his lap, and kiss him until we both forget all the reasons that we’re pretending to be nothing more than coworkers.

But I don’t. I can’t. Not now.

“Impressive,” says Beatrice, the CEO of the company as she rises from her seat with a bright, polished smile. “We’re thrilled to have the holiday line in stores by December. Can’t wait to see you sell the hell out of it.”

“Thank you for your time,” I reply, voice steady, smile sure. “It’s been a pleasure meeting with you all today.”

The rest of the meeting winds down quickly, easy conversation, laughter, handshakes. Lawson and I do what we always do best: make connections that'll pay off later down the road and answer follow-up questions.

He’s charming, professional, and just casual enough that they don’t feel like they’re being sold to, even though we both know the truth.

And when the last executive leaves the room, it’s just us.

He looks at me with his relaxed smile, hands shoved in his jeans pockets like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Fucking killed it, sweetheart.”

That nickname. Sweetheart. He hasn’t called me that since before… everything. Back when I used to be able to hear that and not feel my heart race. But it makes something tight in my chest loosen even in this freezing conference room.

“It felt good,” I admit. "I think I'm hitting my stride."

He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t know if I’ll need to come with you to these anymore. You’re a professional at the Marshall brand now. I think you can handle these pitches solo.”

I smile, lifting a shoulder. “I don’t mind the company.”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting a grin because he likes that response, and I swear, that little flicker of amusement in his eyes makes the whole damn day worth it.

“Come on,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like old times. “Let’s get some food in your stomach and celebrate before we head in for the night.”