Page 13 of The Back Forty
Working in sales as a woman is ten times harder than it is for a man. You don't know something as a man? Execs will give you a pass to get back to them on it via email. As a woman? You get scoffs and eye rolls like you're incompetent and should be at home sewing and baking cookies. Not that there's anything wrong with doing those things and being a homemaker, but there's a clear double standard that I've witnessed for years, and it's always frustrated me.
When he finally pauses it's because boarding for our flight has started. He stands and gives me a long once-over, slow and thorough enough to light my skin on fire. His gaze drops, then lifts again, dragging heat across every inch of my body. My nipples tighten involuntarily, and thank the stars for the padded bra I’m wearing because I might just die of humiliation otherwise.
He's my boss, not a guy I can be interested in. I know on the outside I look calm and unaffected to him, so I just need to keep up that appearance.
“You know the highlights,” he says, adjusting the strap of his bookbag as we move towards the group that’s now boarding. “But how do you handle pressure? Like, real pressure. Say, an interview on live news?”
I smirk, rising to stand beside him. “I’ve done worse. I once pitched to a room full of Fortune 500 execs a product that I didn’t believe in.”
That gets the tiniest spark of something in his eyes—respect, maybe. Or intrigue. I’ll take either.
“At least this time,” I add, voice softer, “I'll believe in what I’m selling.”
He nods once, slowly, and for a beat there’s just silence between us as we look at each other.
“And for the record,” I say, slipping past him toward the gate, “I hatebeing doubted. I get that you didn't want to hire me, but at least give me a chance before you start writing me off.”
A low chuckle escapes him. “Noted,” he says. “But I’m still gonna test you. Gonna pressure you. Push you into uncomfortable situations where you might fail.”
I stop just short of the gate and turn back to face him, my confidence solid and rooted somewhere deeper than ambition now. Maybe even in belief. Belief that this job, this place, this chance might be the new start that I’ve been desperate for.
I can do this. I willdo this. I’ll bury the fluttering attraction that I feel towards him in the darkest corner of my mind and lock it up tight. I've done it before, buried secrets, pretended that I was fine when I wasn't. I can do it again.
I’ll pour everything I have into this role. I’ll show my parents and sisters that I’m okay and they don't have to worry about me anymore. Prove to myself that I’m more than my burnout and more than the crippling anxiety that I’m always fighting against.
I’ll build something new here in Whitewood Creek. I’ll start over. And I'll ignore every fiber in my body that is drawn to Lawson Marshall.
“Bring it on,” I say.
Chapter 6 – Dani
One year later…?
“Motherfucker,” I whisper under my breath. Or… at least, I thoughtI was whispering it.
Because when I lift my eyes from the text message that my older sister Catalina just sent me, something only shecould 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. Ihadto 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 listenswhen 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.
