Page 11 of The Back Forty
Ohshit.
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.
Chapter 5 – Dani
The next morning, I’m at the airport by 5:30 a.m. sharp. It’s an hour and a half before takeoff and well ahead of Lawson, just as I’d planned.
Sleep came eventually, but not before I replayed everything thatI’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 reachinto 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? Theyseetoo much.
I've hardly ever visited the east coast. I always thought thatwest is bestand 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 bendaround 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.
