Page 10 of The Back Forty
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. Hedoesn’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 anda 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.
