Page 100 of The Back Forty
I skim through my notes while waiting for the car, reviewing everything from yesterday’s pitch and the questions that they’ll ask. The Marshall family’s new holiday spirits line, our sustainable farming practices, the marketing roll-out, I know this backwards and forwards. I amthis campaign, so I feel confident I'll nail this today.
By the time I’m settled into the makeup chair at the studio for simple touch ups, I’m composed, confident, and radiating boss energy. That is, until she shows up.
“Hi!” A perky redhead with a polished Southern accent and an impeccable blowout rounds the corner. “I heard you’re filling in for Lawson Marshall this morning.”
I offer her a warm, professional smile. “Yes. I’m Daniela Alba. VP of Sales and Marketing for the Marshall family businesses.”
She shakes my hand, her grip firm and just a bit assessing. “Nice to meet you. I’m surprised Lawson found someone he trusted enough to represent him. He’s not exactly known for giving up control.” Her smile sharpens and the way it twists hits me in my gut.
My stomach flips. I flush. She’s pretty. Charismatic. And from the familiarity in her voice, she knowshim more than just from a professional setting.
Has she slept with him?
She laughs, tossing her shiny hair over her shoulder. “Well, tell him I said hi when you see him next. You’re on in a few.”
I nod, pressing my lips together as she walks away.
Okay. It’s fine. This is fine. Lawson has been traveling for years. He’s probably slept with more women than I’d ever want to know. That’s not a reflection of me or him. That’s simply his past. He's eleven years older than me. This is normal. I need to focus on what’s in front of me. I’m not like the others. He’s said that. He’s never dated any of them. But we…we’redating… right?
Right?
Don’t spiral, Dani. This isn’t Elijah. This isn’t going to crash and burn. This is different and this is special.
I take a breath, meet my own eyes in the mirror, and nod.You’re different. You’re special. This is solid. Trust it. Don't panic before you go on live television.
A producer calls my name, and I hop off the chair, heels clicking against the polished set floor as I move to where I’m being directed to sit. I paste on my best smile and take my seat on theplush purple couch, settling in across from the woman who just unintentionally or not, rattled me.
I shift slightly, angling toward the camera like I’ve done this a hundred times, and nod when they give the countdown.
“Three… two… one… and we’re live!”
She beams into the camera, voice as smooth as her lipstick.
“Good afternoon, New Orleans. Today I’m joined by Daniela Alba, Vice President of Sales and Marketing for Whitewood Creek Distillery and Egg Farm in the heart of Whitewood Creek, North Carolina. Dani, the Whitewood Creek family farm is a sustainable, all-organic, free-range, no-kill facility. Is that right?”
I smile confidently, crossing one leg over the other as I lean in. “That’s correct. Once our hens stop laying, they get to live out the rest of their lives in comfort. Big open barns with views of the Blue Ridge Mountains, fresh grass underfoot, plenty of bugs and sunshine. No more pressure to produce. Just peace. The farm’s been in the Marshall family for generations, and the heart of it has always been about doing the right thing, by the animals, the land, and the people who depend on what we produce.”
The interviewer nods. “That’s beautiful. And the farm also has a distillery. I’ve heard you’re working on some exciting new spirits for the holidays?”
I shift slightly in my seat, smoothing my hands over my skirt. “Yes, that’s right. We’re launching another limited seasonal line this year—warm, spiced flavors using ingredients grown right there on the property or sourced from other small local farms in North Carolina. It’s a reflection of who we are rooted in tradition but always evolving.”
She gives a satisfied nod, then turns back to the camera with her practiced charm, and just like that, the interview carries on.
Ten minutes later, the segment wraps. My palms are damp, my heart hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears. As soon as we cut to commercial, I step off the stage and shake the interviewer’s hand.
“Great job,” she says briskly, already pivoting toward her next guest.
I blink, stunned by how fast it all moves. “Thanks,” I murmur, more to myself than to her, then step aside and exhale sharply, pressing a hand to my chest to try to calm my racing heart.
Okay. You did it.
You didn’t black out, throw up or say anything humiliating. That went… surprisingly well?
I make my way back to the prep room, grab my bag, and fish out my phone ready to text Lawson with an update that I’m heading to the airport only to find a string of messages from him already waiting.
Lawson:Watching you from the hospital. Beckham is in good spirits. They think it’s just a fracture. Boot for six weeks and then PT.
Lawson:Fucking beautiful, baby. Damn that red lip on you is doing things to me.
