Page 39 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

“This place is totally different in the winter,” Dani says, her brown eyes catching the warm glow of the overhead Edison bulbs as she scans the bar. Her voice carries a mix of curiosity and nostalgia, and her lips curve around the rim of her glass, beer bottle just before she takes a sip.

We’ve been here before, last time we were in Minnesota for work.

A forgettable bar tucked inside a converted, old warehouse, all exposed brick and wood-paneled charm.

The kind of place I used to come to alone during those long business trips back when it was just me managing the sales and marketing for the egg farm.

I’d sit at the bar, nursing a double pour of whiskey, pretending I was brainstorming some new marketing push when really, I was just trying to outrun the ache of loneliness that I felt constantly in my chest.

I told myself I didn’t mind the solitude. That I was building something and contributing to the family name. That this kind of life came with the job and it was better than being home in Whitewood Creek and lonely. But it’s not the same anymore.

Because now, when I think about this place, I don’t think about the quiet or the bourbon or the empty hotel bed waiting for me after.

I think about her. Dani, sitting across from me six months ago in a dress that wrecked my ability to form coherent thoughts, her hair twisted up to reveal the soft, delicate slope of her neck.

I think about how, for the first time in years, I’d felt unsteady around a woman. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that made me realize I might be in real, actual trouble if I let myself look at her differently for too long.

That night, we were in town for a local interview.

Some puff piece about the hen operation that we could’ve passed on because hardly anyone would see it, but I never turn those down.

Small town loyalty goes a long way when your target audience lives and breathes what you represent.

She’d stood behind the cameras while I'd answered questions about the Marshall family legacy, the craft behind our liquors, the quality of our eggs, and I hadn’t heard half of what the interviewer had been asking.

I was too focused on the way she looked and the way that it was making me feel.

Afterward, I brought her here. Needed a distraction. Thought I’d take the edge off by catching up with Natalie, an old college friend who just happened to be in town working sales in a different industry. It worked temporarily. But it felt hollow. Like every other attempt before her.

All I’d ended up thinking about that night was Dani and her haunting, brown eyes.

“Yeah,” I say now, dragging my gaze from the warped wood of the bar to her face. “Not much to do in Minnesota this time of year. Just cold, snow, and shitty local beer.”

She snorts and reaches into the basket of nachos I ordered, mostly for her since I know she likes them, and scoops up a messy bite overloaded with sour cream.

She’s looser now. I noticed it on the flight here how tense and quiet she was.

Dani doesn’t like admitting when she’s nervous and I never point it out, but I can tell.

Maybe it's because of how things shifted between us. Because she’s trying to keep boundaries in place that I think she no longer wants.

Because she doesn’t want me to see her as weak after her panic attack. But I wish she’d open up to me anyways.

I wish we could go back to the ease of how things were before I touched her.

Before I wanted her so badly that I forgot how to act like her boss.

And now I’m just trying to do the right thing.

To give her space. To protect her peace.

To protect myself and my heart because fuck, last night wrecked me.

She’s on her second beer now, it’s a cheap stout she insisted on ordering because, in her words, “supporting the town's local brew, even if it sucks, is a way to give back to the community that's going to be writing our checks now that we've signed this new deal.”

Even here, she’s thinking like a strategist. Like someone with her head in the game.

Never mind that the Marshall businesses are already thriving.

That we’re on track to clear a billion in revenue this fiscal year.

Dani’s the kind of woman who doesn’t waste a penny if she doesn’t have to.

It’s one of the things I love most about her.

Her burger’s demolished. She’s eaten half the nachos too, and some of the color’s finally returned to her face.

Her shoulders don’t sit quite so high. Her laugh is a little easier now.

A glob of sour cream drips onto her chin and she lets out a soft, breathy sigh, her long pink tongue darting out to catch it.

“I’m a mess.”

God, I want to tell her she’s not. That she’s perfect. That the shitty bar lighting makes the caramel streaks in her eyes burn like gold and that I can’t stop looking at her. That I want her tongue on me instead of cleaning her chin. I want it in my mouth. Down my neck. On my cock. Everywhere.

But I don’t. Because I promised myself that I’d stop wanting things I can’t have. Because I’m trying to be the good guy. The boss. The friend. All the things I used to be without trying…before I knew what her skin felt like beneath my palms.

I’m still carrying Cash’s advice with me. “You let her lead, man. Don’t chase what might break you. Show her you can talk about something other than work.”

And I’m trying. I really am. But watching her across from me now, laughing, cheeks flushed, lips slick with beer and cheese is killing me even if I'm not showing it.

“This bar,” she says suddenly, twirling a chip in a string of cheese before popping it into her mouth, “is it the one where you picked up that blonde chick the last time we were here?”

I blink, surprised. “What?” Because I know what she's talking about, but I hoped she wouldn't be thinking about that right now.

She covers her mouth with her hand as she chews, grinning like she already knows she got me.

“Oh, come on,” she says with a shrug. “You didn't think I'd remember that?”

Shit. Guess she was paying more attention than I thought.

“I heard you guys that night, you know. Our hotel rooms were right next to each other.”

I freeze, throat tightening as I sit up straighter because this is the opposite of what Cash told me to do. This is actually the worst possible scenario. “Dani—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts in, casual but not unkind. “I mean… I get it. It gets lonely being on the road a lot.”

Natalie was a familiar face. We hadn’t seen each other in years, but we caught up, flirted, fell into something easy. I took her back to my hotel room, and we did what two lonely, grown adults do when they don’t know what else they need.

And then I sent her home in a ride share I paid for and never talked to her again.

It meant nothing and the whole time I was thinking about the way Dani looked with her hair pulled up in that bun during dinner. But now, with Dani looking at me like that, like she remembers everything, I can’t help but wish I’d never taken Natalie back to that room in the first place.

I'm a fucking idiot.

“Yes, it used to get lonely, being on the road,” I say calmly. “And yeah, every now and then, I’d entertain some company.”

“Occasionally?” Dani arches a brow, one of those subtle movements that says she’s not buying all of it.

I meet her gaze evenly. “I didn’t sleep with every woman I talked to on a trip, Dani.”

She leans back, arms crossed loosely over her chest, lips twitching like she’s trying to hide her grin. “Could’ve fooled me.”

I lift a brow. “You're thinking something that isn't true. I'm a nice guy, a lot of the women who chatted with me at bars and back at the hotel were for networking and sales opportunities. I didn't sleep with them all.”

A faint blush creeps up her neck, brushing over her cheeks, betraying the calm exterior she’s trying so hard to keep.

I chuckle and shake my head slowly because no matter how careful we both try to be, her body doesn’t lie.

Just like mine doesn’t. There’s something electric between us, there always has been, I just wish she could see there's more to me than what she thinks.

“You don’t have to believe me,” I say, my voice softer now. “But it’s true. Natalie was just an old college friend. It meant absolutely nothing.” Just like every woman before.

Dani hums, lips pursed around the rim of her bottle as she takes another sip. “I always thought the women looked a little extra beautiful in the mornings,” she says casually. “I used to text Isla and say it must’ve been the famous Lawson facial.”

And there she is. The old Dani. Sharp, funny, bold enough to make a joke like that and still not quite meet my eyes afterward.

I let out a bark of laughter, head tilting back, hand slapping the sticky bar table. God, it feels good to laugh like that. To laugh with her again.

She smiles harder.

“I think you have the wrong impression, sweetheart, but I can say it got a hell of a lot harder to even look at another woman once you started working for me.”

Her smile falters just slightly as she reaches for another chip, breaking the string of cheese before popping it in her mouth, very pointedly avoiding eye contact now.

“Because you felt like you had to hide it from me?” she asks quietly.

I swipe a chip from the basket and pause before answering, giving her time to look up at me and see how serious I am.

“Nah, sweetheart,” I say, voice low and even. “Because I couldn’t look at any of them without thinking about you . It didn't feel fair to them, so I stopped.”

She swallows hard, and I see the way her throat moves, the way that her mouth parts just slightly like she’s going to say something and then doesn’t.

Instead, she grabs her beer and drains what’s left, wiping her hand across the corner of her mouth like she needs a moment to recover.

I'm not crossing any lines, just telling her the truth.

“Well,” she finally says, voice a little breezier than it was a second ago, “tonight was good. Another couple million for the Marshall empire.”

I shake my head, smiling because she’s deflecting, and we both know it. She's flustered. “It was good.”

“You ready to go?” she asks, sliding out of the booth and smoothing her hands down the front of her suit pants.

“Yeah. Let me settle the check, and I’ll meet you by the front door.”

She nods and walks away slowly, heels thudding lightly on the hardwood floor.

And I sit there for a second longer, staring at the spot where she was sitting, wondering when exactly I started falling in love with her and how I'm going to keep working with her and not be able to tell her that.