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

Well, this is extremely embarrassing.

I take in the guy who just saved me from what was starting to be a stressful encounter with a slow once-over, heart still thudding in my chest from the confrontation I just wriggled out of.

He’s got that kind of light brown hair that curls up around his ears, a little too long in a way that makes it look intentional even though I’m betting he’s just overdue on a cut.

His baseball cap is tugged down low over his face so I can't see his eyes, oh wait, he's flipping it backwards, now revealing a pair of gorgeous, hazel brown eyes that are way too intense for someone I just met in a parking lot.

His beard is filled in everywhere, no patchy scruff, just solid, masculine length that somehow makes the sharp angles of his nose and jaw look even stronger.

And then there’s that plain white T-shirt, stretched across his chest like it was tailored to his broad pecs and biceps. No logos. No flex. Just simple and incredibly effective.

He looks like he could work here or anywhere else in town doing a blue collar job.

All steady eyes, strong hands, and quiet heat.

The kind of guy who probably fixes things for a living and doesn’t talk just to hear himself.

The opposite of every too-slick, tech-bro, West Coast type that I’ve spent the last two decades swiping right on and eventually blocking.

And definitely nothing like the guy who was just trying to haggle me for a blowjob in exchange for borrowing his phone charger.

Of all things.

I’ve dealt with my share of scummy men before considering the fact that LA’s practically a breeding ground for them, but that one really took the cake.

I know how to handle myself. Took self-defense in college.

Kept up with it. Knew if he grabbed me, I had moves.

But still. He was bigger and I know in a battle of wills against a drunk man; I was probably going to lose.

I’m relieved this guy showed up. It’s irrational and kind of sexist, but right now? I’ll take the handsome hero stranger.

“I really need a phone charger,” I say, blowing out a breath. “I have an early wake-up call tomorrow and my phone’s completely dead. Also, I really, really have to pee.”

His brow lifts just slightly, like he’s not sure if I’m joking. “You could’ve asked someone inside. Can’t promise they’ve got a charger, but it might’ve saved you from dealing with him . ”

Oh God. That voice. There’s a hint of a Southern drawl, just the tiniest twang like he grew up here in the south, probably raised on horses and Saturday night bonfires. It hits low in my belly in a way I wasn’t expecting. Never thought I had a thing for cowboys before.

“Yeah…” I admit with a wince. “I forgot my phone was dead until I came out here to pee.”

His brow arches higher, curious now.

“There was a line,” I say quickly, “for the women’s bathroom. Like, a ridiculous one. Mile long. So, I figured I’d sneak out here and, you know… pop a squat between two trucks so I could get back to my game of darts.”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting a grin, and then a low, easy chuckle rumbles out of him. “I see.”

I don’t stop talking. I can’t stop talking. Because I'm overwhelmed and nervous about fitting in here. About my new job that officially starts tomorrow that I'm hoping will give me a fresh start, and all the things that I still don't know.

Plus, I like the way he’s looking at me, like he’s trying to piece me together without rushing.

Like he’s not just noticing my legs or the fact that I’m wearing a paper-thin cotton shirt with no bra underneath—because, of course, my sister Isla dragged me out the second I arrived in town.

No time to change. No time to think. Just her wide grin and the words, “You need a drink and a distraction before your flight in the morning. This will be good for you.”

“Honestly,” I say, stepping closer, “the owners of this place should’ve put more thought into building a bar with only two women’s bathroom stalls. It’s unconstitutional.”

That gets him. His brow creases as he rubs at his beard, eyes still locked on mine. “That so? What would you have done differently given the amount of space they have to work with?”

I hop down from the curb, boots crunching against gravel. My chest bounces with the movement, and his gaze flicks down for just a moment before meeting mine again with a heat that wasn’t there a minute ago.

“Well,” I say, thoughtful now, “there’s a ton of empty space to the right of the bathrooms. They could’ve easily blown out that wall and added at least two more stalls.”

“That’s where they have live music on the weekends.”

I nod slowly, weighing that. “Right, but they could carve out a sliver of that space and still have plenty of room for a stage. Peeing shouldn’t be an ordeal. Or, they could have taken some space from the men's room. Guys are way faster. One stall would have been sufficient.”

He chuckles again. “You make some solid points.”

“If women are spending their nights waiting in line, they’re not buying drinks, not flirting with guys who are buying them drinks, not staying longer. Frankly, it’s just bad business,” I shrug.

He presses his lips together tightly like he's trying to fight back a smile. "I see."

“And for the record,” I say, nudging it a step further because I like this banter, like the rhythm we’ve slipped into, “this bar is in the perfect location. Walking distance from the little houses on the square, right by that city’s trailer park I passed but it’s totally unnoticeable unless you're really looking for a place to eat and drink. The exterior could use some love.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say. “They should lean into the small-town thing harder. Reclaimed wood, maybe some vintage neon signage. It’s borderline cliché but people eat that shit up, especially the tourists.”

“You think tourists are coming through here for neon signs and reclaimed wood?”

I shrug with a grin. “You’d be surprised what people will do for a social media post.”

He rubs his jaw again, thoughtful. “Huh.”

Then his eyes flick back to mine, steadier now and I can't seem to stop.

“And the menu boards behind the bar? They’re cute in a rustic kind of way, but they’re hard to read once the lights go down.

A little spotlighting wouldn’t hurt. And maybe separate menus for the whiskey tastings versus the cocktails.

They'd upsell more. My sister said that whiskey is the focus for this bar so I can't figure out why it's buried in with the other cocktails.”

He smirks.

"Oh my god, and don't get me started on the shelves behind the bar. It’s way too cramped. You should spread the product out, give it some air, build a display that tells a story. Why is this whiskey different? What makes it special? People want to feel connected to the brand, not just buy it because it’s local.

They are telling their story all wrong."

"Sounds like you have a lot of ideas on how the bar can improve."

I nod. "Yeah, those are just my surface level observations, though. I’m sure I can come up with some more things if you give me some time."

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Well, it’s some good stuff. Do you still gotta pee?”

I groan. “So badly. And I need to do something about this phone situation. I have alarms that need set for my wakeup call tomorrow.” I lift my dead phone in demonstration like it’s personally betrayed me. "If you can give me a ride home, that'd be even better."

He studies me for a beat too long. Then his mouth tips up at the corners. “Tell you what,” he says, nodding toward the side of the bar's building, “I’ll do you one better.”

I blink. “Where are you taking me?” I stage whisper. “You’re not, like… gonna murder me, right?”

He laughs easily, the sound low and rumbling, like he’s used to cracking jokes and getting a good response. “Nah,” he says, “I got a different place for that out on my property.”

Charming. Comforting… Slightly concerning.

I glance at him sideways, and before I can decide whether I should be amused or mildly alarmed, he starts walking toward a dimly lit corner of the building, gesturing with his chin.

My boots crunch softly against gravel as I follow him—half out of desperation, half out of curiosity—until we reach a heavy, metal exit door tucked into the side of the bar like a secret.

He pulls out a key.

A literal key.

Not a code, not a fob, an actual, old-fashioned, metal key. He unlocks the door, and with a soft creak, it opens to a dark, narrow hallway that’s a total contrast to the noisy warmth of the bar.

I hesitate on the threshold, eyebrows raised. “Um...?”

He gives a small, almost-smirk and points forward. That’s when I see it: EMPLOYEES ONLY in blocky, glowing white letters above a door at the end of the hallway. Underneath? The glorious, holy grail of the evening: a bathroom sign.

“You work here?” I ask, the words slipping out in shock because I just tore his place of employment apart. Maybe he's a bouncer and that's why he came to my rescue with Davey.

He nods. “Yeah. Something like that. Go ahead. I’ll guard the door.”

I have questions. So many. But my bladder screams louder than my curiosity.

“Okay,” I mutter, already moving, “but I’m holding you to that.”

I slip into the bathroom, grateful for the solitude, and practically rip open the button of my jeans. My thighs are already trembling from holding it in for so long. I tug down the denim and underwear and let out a long, relieved sigh as I finally get to pee.

Sweet, blessed release.

I barely got a full drink in tonight. Isla had been too busy shoving the Whitewood Creek Chamber of Commerce’s entire sales pitch down my throat.

I got to hear all about how the town was “changing,” and "growing" at such a rapid pace that businesses can't keep up.

And how the Marshall family that I'm about to work for are like royalty here.

I’m still unconvinced, but I’ll admit this town has its perks. Especially if men like that guy live here.

When I’m finished, I wash up quickly and push open the door only to find him still there, leaning against the stone wall like he was carved from it.

His hat’s pulled low over his eyes again, his shoulders broad and relaxed, one booted leg casually crossed over the other.

He’s all shadows and swagger, brown eyes sharp beneath the brim of his baseball cap.

“Thank you,” I say, a little breathless.

He tips his chin. “So… what was Davey saying to you out there?”

Oh. Right. The awkward encounter.

I lean a shoulder against the opposite wall, matching his stance, arms crossed under my chest as I rake my gaze over him. He doesn’t flinch from my obvious appreciation, so I take a little extra time just to drink him in.

Handsome. No other word for it. A bit older, I'd guess late thirties, early forties.

“He told me he had a phone charger I could borrow and some toilet paper in his truck to wipe. But only if I gave him a blow job first.”

There’s a pause.

A very long one.

And though his expression hardly changes, I catch the tell: the muscle that ticks along his jaw, the way his lips press into a thin line. His eyes go even darker, cutting through me like they’re sorting through every part of what I just said.

And… yeah. I like that he’s pissed hearing that.

Maybe it’s the delicious whiskey I tried out there still humming through my bloodstream, or maybe it’s the fact that Davey had the audacity to say that to my face like I wouldn’t knock his balls into the next zip code, but this guy’s reaction feels good.

Protective with just enough edge to it to feel possessive.

Finally, he blows out a sharp breath. “He’s a bad guy. You’d do well to avoid him.”

He clears his throat like he’s trying to level himself out. God. A gentleman and a growly threat in the same sentence? More please.

I give him a mock salute. “Noted.”

He steps toward me, slowly, not threatening, just focused .

His eyes scan my face, checking for something.

“He didn’t touch you, did he?” He’s close now.

Closer than before. And holy hell, he smells good .

Clean soap, a hint of sweat, maybe cedar and something that reminds me of old leather and pine trees.

I shake my head, but my voice’s quieter now. “No. He didn’t touch me.”

His gaze flickers down to my lips as I speak, then back up to my eyes. “Good.”

We stand there, the silence stretching between us. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s charged . So naturally, I break it because I’m nervous.

“You want to go back to the bar?” I ask. “Grab a drink or something?”

His head tilts just slightly, his gaze still locked on mine. “What’s your name again?”

I hesitate. Just for a second. “Daniela, but you can call me Dani.”

He exhales, and there’s something in it that tells me he isn’t relieved. It’s more like frustration. Like that name means something he wasn’t expecting.

He shakes his head, muttering almost to himself, “Thought that might be the case.”

My brow furrows until he takes a step back, posture shifting noticeably. He straightens, stretches out a hand, and his voice goes from flirt to formal in two seconds’ flat.

“I’m Lawson Marshall.”

I blink; the realization hits me hard in the chest.

Oh no.

Oh shit.

My mouth parts as I push off the wall, trying to recover from the fact that I was just flirting with my boss. I brush my hands down my jeans and straighten my shoulders.

“Oh. My new boss. Right. Yes, um. It’s… nice to meet you.”

Dammit. I knew I should have looked this guy up online first.