Page 12 of The Back Forty
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 cando 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 printednewspaper.
The sight of it makes something flutter in my chest that I do notwant 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: Ineedthis job. Iwantthis 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 breathehere. 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 Icanpromiseyou 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’rehoping 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 withouthesitation, without blinking, like I’ve been studying this material for years instead of weeks. I came prepared and I refuse to be caught slipping.
