Page 7 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

One year later…?

“ Motherfucker ,” I whisper under my breath. Or… at least, I thought I was whispering it.

Because when I lift my eyes from the text message that my older sister Catalina just sent me, something only she could do with zero notice and get away with it, I’m immediately met with the unimpressed glare of a young woman seated diagonally across from me in the terminal.

Her baby is tucked into one of those trendy slings against her chest, a pacifier bobbing in and out of its tiny mouth, eyes closed, completely oblivious to my apparent public cursing as it rests.

But the mother’s expression? Full mom-judgment mode.

“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, sitting up straighter. “I never swear. I honestly didn’t realize anyone was around me.” Let alone a baby.

She doesn’t blink. Just pulls her infant tighter and shifts her whole body like she’s shielding the kid from my corrupting influence.

Okay. That's a bit much . That baby can't even say the word 'mom' yet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a soft snicker, timed perfectly with the sound of slow, confident footsteps headed my direction, and that’s when I see him.

Lawson Marshall, my boss of the past over thirteen months, striding toward me with that easy, grounded swagger of his, like the airport floor was built just for him to walk on.

He drops down into the seat beside me without a word, the metal armrest between us creaking a little under his solid frame.

His hair looks freshly cut—short on the sides, slightly longer on top—undoubtedly from the barber shop he always visits when we come here, and those ocean-dark blue eyes of his scan the terminal like he’s clocking exits, threats, and probably which little stand has the newspaper that he loves to read.

He’s wearing his unofficial travel uniform this morning: a crisp white T-shirt, light washed jeans that cling to his strong frame, and work boots that somehow always look broken in but clean.

It’s ridiculous, effortless, and totally predictable yet for some reason, it always draws attention to him when we fly when I know that's the last thing that he wants.

The mom who just turned her whole body away from me? Yeah, she peeks back now. Can’t blame her. Happens everywhere we go. I’ve gotten used to it. I had to get used to it.

Somewhere in my first month of working for Lawson, I decided the only way to survive was to stop noticing the things that made him objectively attractive.

Like his quiet charm, his dry humor, his good manners, loyalty, the way he actually listens when people talk and maintains an overwhelming amount of eye contact—and I started cataloging his flaws instead.

It’s the only way I could focus on being the best damn marketing and sales assistant the Marshall businesses had ever seen and to forget about my stupid, little crush on my boss.

No distractions. No swooning. No “ hot farmer sales executive meets single dad ” fantasies. And it worked.

Lawson leans forward and pulls a worn baseball cap from his bag, the one with our company’s distillery logo stitched across the front, and tugs it low over his face like he’s dodging paparazzi.

I used to tease him about this move, accuse him of acting like a celebrity.

Until I realized... he kind of is in small town America.

Between the national interviews he participates in almost every week, morning talk shows, social media videos Regan posts, and magazine features on the Marshall family’s rise from local egg distributors to a full-on farm-to-shelf empire, he’s been recognized in airports, grocery stores and even once at a gas station outside of Omaha by a man whose niece just married on the Mayberry Manor farm.

It doesn’t bother me. I’m from L.A. Born and raised with billboards, influencers and tourists filming on every single street corner.

But Lawson? It still makes him twitchy, and the attention has only gotten worse now that he's been profiled as one of this years' Hottest, Single Blue-Collar Men Over Thirty by Small Town Living Magazine.

He nudges my arm and hands me a paper cup. One whiff and I nearly let out a moan. The sweet scent of chai latte, oat milk, no added sugar attacks my nostrils in pure bliss. My lifeblood if I'm not drinking coffee and for some reason, it’s a difficult thing to find in these small town airports.

“Oh my god,” I say, already wrapping my hands around it like it’s sacred. “Where did you find this?”

He smirks. “Same place that sells the foot massages and shoeshines.”

I take a long sip, the spiced sweetness flooding my system like a warm hug from the inside out. “I'm not sure how I should feel about a foot massage shop making a latte this good but thank you. I’m still not like you. I don't know all the secret little airport spots.”

“You’ll get there. A couple more years of constant travel and you'll know all the hidden haunts; I won't have any secrets left.” He shoots me a wink then leans back, folding his arms. “Now tell me, what had you shouting ‘ motherfucker ’ in the middle of this tiny Mississippi airport?”

My brows shoot up. Lawson never swears, even if he's giving a direct quote of something that I've said. Like, I’ve worked with the man for over a year, and I’ve only heard him drop a curse word once , and even then, it was under extreme circumstances.

That one time? It was during my first ever solo interview on behalf of the Marshall family businesses.

Six months into the job, living in Whitewood Creek with Isla, a snowstorm had rolled in, and Lawson—who normally travels with me to everything—had to stay home with his son, Beckham.

His ex, Mel, and her husband were stuck in Florida on a cruise, and he didn't want to dump his tween on any of his siblings.

So, with more nerves than I care to admit, I flew to Tucson to handle it alone.

We prepped like maniacs. I felt ready. The interview was going great until the last question.

One that was not on the pre-approved list. The reporter asked if my boss was seeing anyone, citing some ridiculous ranking that named him “America’s Most Eligible Farmer. ”

That’s right, he's constantly making random rankings for his ridiculous good looks.

I froze. Like deer-in-headlights, soul-left-my-body, full brain crash because I was immediately thinking about the woman I saw leave his hotel room two weeks ago, and the other one from a week before.

But I recovered. Gave the standard line: “No, he isn’t.

Mr. Marshall values his privacy and his career and doesn't have the time to date right now.”

I even said it with a smile.

When I called Lawson after, he answered on the first ring and immediately let loose a string of curse words so loud that I’m pretty sure the studio mics caught them from a thousand miles away.

I had to yell over him to get him to calm down.

He wasn’t mad at how I handled it. He was mad they’d asked me at all because they never would’ve had the guts to ask him that to his face.

So, hearing him say that word now? In this airport? For my benefit? Well. Let’s just say the chai latte isn’t the only thing warming me up.

That’s the thing about Lawson. He’s private.

Like really private. The kind of man who keeps his emotions sealed up tight and only cracks the vault open for Beckham or his dad.

I learned that early on. But being his marketing assistant has given me a front-row seat to his…

let’s call it, extracurricular calendar.

And yeah, I’ve seen him date. Or, schedule dinners, anyway.

A different city, a different woman. All with strategic value, of course.

That’s what he always says. It’s women with ties to retailers who could carry our egg brand in high-end grocery chains.

Event planners with networks that could feed into the wedding business his sister Regan is building out at the farm.

Sommelier connections in Napa and Paso Robles who could help expand the distillery’s reach.

Very professional. Very above board.

Except I’m not dumb. And I’m also not blind.

The women are beautiful and while I’ve never asked, I’d bet good money he’s slept with at least some of them.

And frankly, I get it. Constant travel is lonely.

Airports, hotel rooms, unfamiliar pillowcases and silence that stretches too long when the workday ends—it all gets to you.

Which is why I always keep my trusty vibrator with me when we fly.

Still, I’ve never once seen him get emotionally attached. Never seen him light up over someone. Not the way he talks about his son Beckham or his family businesses. Those seem to be enough to keep his heart full of love.

Without a word, I turn my phone and hand it to him, screen lit up with the text message that I just got from Catalina.

That’s just who Lawson and I are. We don't keep secrets.

We share everything. Phones. Coffee. Meals.

Inside jokes. Logistics. In some strange way, we've moved from boss and employee to sort of best friends.

If you'd told me that this would happen a year ago, I wouldn't have believed you.

There have been more than a few weeks when I’ve crashed in the guest room at his place, especially when he’s traveling and Beckham’s mom is out of town.

I pick him up from school, make sure he eats something green, sit with him while he does math homework that I pretend to understand and he doesn't need my help with, and occasionally, indulge in video games with him.

I like Beckham and he likes me, so it works out.

It’s easy, in the strangest, most unexpected way. Lawson and I have become a team. A weird, slightly dysfunctional, totally effective team that has made insane leaps for the family businesses in such a short period of time.