Page 6 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

Sleep came eventually, but not before I replayed everything that I’d said to him in that hallway like it was the closing argument in a murder trial—me as the defendant and Lawson as the very, very attractive judge I was trying to impress but just insulted in practically every way possible.

After our little bathroom encounter— aka the moment I steamrolled his entire business strategy like a drunk hurricane —Lawson had offered to drive me home so I could plug in my phone since it was dead, and we both knew I needed the sleep.

Gentlemanly. Quiet. Tension so thick you could cut it with one of those tiny knives that come with room-service cheese boards. Except this wasn’t the charged, flirty tension I thought we’d been building earlier. No. This was something heavier and slightly awkward.

Was he mad about what I said? Probably. I wouldn’t blame him.

But if he was, he didn’t show it. I kept wondering, how long had he known who I was while we were talking?

There was no way to tell. He barely said a word on the drive, just kept his eyes on the road like steering the truck was the only thing keeping him from saying whatever was on his mind.

Or maybe that was just me projecting. Which I do. Sometimes. Okay, I do it often.

When we pulled up to Isla’s condo, I’d all but launched myself out of the truck before he could get to my door.

That seemed to set him off a bit when I realized he was standing in front of his truck like he was coming to open it for me.

To be fair, that’s not something my ex had ever done, or any other guy that I’d dated back in Cali.

I muttered a thanks, waved over my shoulder, and practically sprinted inside.

We didn’t say goodnight. We didn’t make awkward small talk.

We just stared at each other for half a second, his jaw ticking, my pride shriveling, and then I disappeared behind Isla’s front door, desperate to collect myself before my flight in the morning.

Then I did what any self-respecting, shame-ridden adult would do: I crawled into bed fully clothed, stared at the ceiling for forty minutes, before finally falling asleep.

Now, in the harsh light of morning, I’m caffeinated and upright, waiting at gate A6 in a navy-blue sheath dress, a matching blazer, and the sinking realization that I may have royally screwed my new job up before my first official day.

Coffee in hand, I tap my heel against the tile floor and bounce my knee with the rhythm of someone whose anxiety has bypassed the nervous energy stage and gone full Olympic gymnast. I reach into my bag discreetly and pull out my medication, the one that the doctor in California prescribed before telling me I needed to chill the hell out or I was going to have another stroke or something even worse.

I pop one in my mouth and wash it down with coffee, then realize I was supposed to be quitting caffeine too.

Oops.

I thought this job would be a reset. A chance to start over.

A clean slate, far from the panic attacks and pressure cookers of Silicon Valley.

But clearly, I hadn’t accounted for working for a guy like Lawson Marshall .

I hadn’t factored in the part where my new boss, the man who’s responsible for sales and marketing for the entire Marshall family conglomerate, and my entire professional fate, is a six-foot-four refined cowboy who looks like the reason country songs exist.

That voice? Straight whiskey and gravel.

That jaw? Sharper than my favorite contour stick.

And his eyes? They see too much.

I've hardly ever visited the east coast. I always thought that west is best and all, but now that I'm here, I see the breed of men on this coast are completely different.

And then, as if summoned by my thoughts alone, he appears.

Striding across the terminal like he owns the place, like he’s the main character in some modern-day western-meets-J.

Crew catalog. The confidence. The complete disregard for the way time seems to bend around him and every eye in the terminal watches him curiously.

He’s wearing dark-washed jeans, a big-ass silver belt buckle, a crisp white button-up, and a perfectly fitted navy suit jacket that somehow manages to look both rugged and refined.

Cowboy boots, naturally, ones that look like a size thirteen. And a simple bookbag slung over one shoulder like this is just another Tuesday and not my first big chance to try to impress the guy that I now report directly to.

He hasn’t spotted me yet, so I let myself stare for a few criminal seconds. His stride is wide, confident, and okay, maybe a little cocky, like he’s making room for… things between his legs that I shouldn’t be thinking about now that I know who he is.

Focus, Dani. Professionalism.

I've worked with plenty of attractive men in the past, but none have ever looked like this and felt so sure of themselves and untouchable.

Then his eyes find mine across the terminal, and his mouth curves. Not into a full smile, but something subtler. A flicker of amusement. Like he knows I was watching him and is far too pleased about it.

“Dani,” he says roughly with a nod as he approaches.

Just my name. Two syllables, low and warm and stupidly effective.

I swallow, plastering on my most composed, LinkedIn-approved expression. “Good morning, Mr. Marshall.”

Poker face. Poker voice. Poker soul.

I’ve worked in high-stakes corporate boardrooms. I’ve pitched million-dollar campaigns with a migraine and a heavy period. I can do this. Even if every hormone in my body is currently standing at attention and saluting this man like he’s my savior.

He drops into the seat next to me, long legs stretching out as he exhales like he’s been up for hours.

“You can call me Lawson. No need for formalities. You sleep alright?”

“Yes,” I say, a little too quickly.

He nods and reaches into his bag, rummaging for a second before pulling out… a newspaper? Not his phone. Not a tablet or laptop. Not a travel neck pillow or headphones.

A freaking black and white printed newspaper.

The sight of it makes something flutter in my chest that I do not want to analyze.

It’s such a small thing. Timeless. Intentional.

A man who reads the paper in the morning probably makes his own coffee, folds laundry and puts it away the same day, and reads cereal boxes for fun.

I don’t know why that’s sexy. I only know that it is, and I don't make the rules about what’s attractive.

I turn away from him, pretending to scroll on my phone while very much not scrolling on my phone because I need a second.

Because here’s the thing: I need this job.

I want this job. Not just because it’s close to Isla, not just because it’s a fresh start in a place with actual oxygen and trees and people who remember your birthday, but because, for the first time in my life, I think I might be able to breathe here.

Even under pressure. Even with my history of anxiety and the very real fear that I’ll always be the girl who panics at the idea of being less than perfect and ends up in the hospital again but this time not leaving.

Lawson doesn't know about that. No one here knows about that except for my sister, and I'm embarrassed by the way the news of my little hospital stint back in California ripped through the professional tech world like wildfire, setting my cell phone on fire with text messages from mostly well-being coworkers checking in and scooping up my clients like vultures.

So, returning to all of that? All that I threw away without thinking twice. That scares the hell out of me. Almost as much as the man sitting next to me.

“So,” I clear my throat, trying not to fidget with the hem of my skirt. “Is there anything you need me to know or prep before the interview today?”

Lawson lowers the newspaper with an almost comically slow pace, like I’ve just interrupted some deep thinking that he was doing. He turns to face me fully, eyes narrowing just slightly as they settle on mine.

“You have no experience,” he says flatly.

I resist the urge to wince, though I feel the words like a slap.

Not because they’re untrue, but because they’re blunt, and coming from him in his calm and completely unreadable voice, it stings even more.

Maybe it'll be easier to find this guy unattractive than I thought it would be.

Maybe his personality sucks and the fun, flirty glimpse that he showed me last night in the bar was just a facade.

Straightening in my seat, I smooth my palms down the front of my dress and lift my chin. “I have almost a decade of experience in sales and marketing with a proven track record of selling difficult products.”

“In tech,” he replies, as if that somehow disqualifies me from having functional brain cells and creating pitches.

I nod once, slow and measured, choosing my words carefully because although I don't like his tone, I also can't afford to piss him off. I have no other prospects, and I don’t want to leave Whitewood Creek just yet.

“Yes, in tech. And while I could argue that sales are sales, you and I both know that it’s not that simple.

But what I can promise you is that I learn fast. I dig in deep and won’t stop until I understand a product inside and out.

And once I believe in it, I sell the hell out of it.

I’m a marketing strategist, too. Vision statements, brand language, voice of the customer, positioning—I know how to rally people around a mission.

Any mission. Your family's included. And that's what matters most if you want to grow.”

His gaze flicks over my face, unreadable, and he rubs a hand over his freshly trimmed beard. He must’ve gotten up early to do that, because it was longer last night, another detail I shouldn’t have noticed but did anyway because I liked it.

He looks past me toward one of the terminal windows, jaw shifting as if weighing something.

I think of everything his sister Regan told me during our interview.

That he’s hardly ever home. That he’s raising a thirteen-year-old son.

That they want him present more. That they’re hoping I’ll eventually take the reins—interviews, press, executive pitches, the whole nine yards so that he can finally get a break from the constant grind that it takes to keep the Marshall family brand in the eyes of the people.

“Quiz me,” I say boldly. “On anything. Any of your businesses.”

That gets a twitch of his lips and the slightest ghost of a smile.

He shakes his head, pulls his baseball cap off and sets it in his lap.

His light brown hair looks a mess, and I wonder if he'll shower before the interview or if this is part of his charm because it's certainly working on me.

Gives off down-home, small town guy who just happens to run a multi-million dollar business.

“Alright.”

And then he lets it rip. A full-on, no-holds-barred, pop quiz from hell.

Revenue projections. Historical growth metrics.

Key retailers. Distribution challenges. Our top competitors and what differentiates us from them.

I answer every question without hesitation, without blinking, like I’ve been studying this material for years instead of weeks.

I came prepared and I refuse to be caught slipping.

Working in sales as a woman is ten times harder than it is for a man.

You don't know something as a man? Execs will give you a pass to get back to them on it via email.

As a woman? You get scoffs and eye rolls like you're incompetent and should be at home sewing and baking cookies.

Not that there's anything wrong with doing those things and being a homemaker, but there's a clear double standard that I've witnessed for years, and it's always frustrated me.

When he finally pauses it's because boarding for our flight has started. He stands and gives me a long once-over, slow and thorough enough to light my skin on fire. His gaze drops, then lifts again, dragging heat across every inch of my body. My nipples tighten involuntarily, and thank the stars for the padded bra I’m wearing because I might just die of humiliation otherwise.

He's my boss, not a guy I can be interested in. I know on the outside I look calm and unaffected to him, so I just need to keep up that appearance.

“You know the highlights,” he says, adjusting the strap of his bookbag as we move towards the group that’s now boarding. “But how do you handle pressure? Like, real pressure. Say, an interview on live news?”

I smirk, rising to stand beside him. “I’ve done worse. I once pitched to a room full of Fortune 500 execs a product that I didn’t believe in.”

That gets the tiniest spark of something in his eyes—respect, maybe. Or intrigue. I’ll take either.

“At least this time,” I add, voice softer, “I'll believe in what I’m selling.”

He nods once, slowly, and for a beat there’s just silence between us as we look at each other.

“And for the record,” I say, slipping past him toward the gate, “I hate being doubted. I get that you didn't want to hire me, but at least give me a chance before you start writing me off.”

A low chuckle escapes him. “Noted,” he says. “But I’m still gonna test you. Gonna pressure you. Push you into uncomfortable situations where you might fail.”

I stop just short of the gate and turn back to face him, my confidence solid and rooted somewhere deeper than ambition now. Maybe even in belief. Belief that this job, this place, this chance might be the new start that I’ve been desperate for.

I can do this. I will do this. I’ll bury the fluttering attraction that I feel towards him in the darkest corner of my mind and lock it up tight. I've done it before, buried secrets, pretended that I was fine when I wasn't. I can do it again.

I’ll pour everything I have into this role. I’ll show my parents and sisters that I’m okay and they don't have to worry about me anymore. Prove to myself that I’m more than my burnout and more than the crippling anxiety that I’m always fighting against.

I’ll build something new here in Whitewood Creek. I’ll start over. And I'll ignore every fiber in my body that is drawn to Lawson Marshall.

“Bring it on,” I say.