Page 14 of The Back Forty
I used to tease him about this move, accuse him of acting like a celebrity. Until I realized... he kind of is in small town America. Between the national interviews he participates in almost every week, morning talk shows, social media videos Regan posts, and magazine features on the Marshall family’s rise from local egg distributors to a full-on farm-to-shelf empire, he’sbeen recognized in airports, grocery stores and even once at a gas station outside of Omaha by a man whose niece just married on the Mayberry Manor farm.
It doesn’t bother me. I’m from L.A. Born and raised with billboards, influencers and tourists filming on every single street corner. But Lawson? It still makes him twitchy, and the attention has only gotten worse now that he's been profiled as one of this years'Hottest, Single Blue-Collar Men Over ThirtybySmall Town Living Magazine.
He nudges my arm and hands me a paper cup. One whiff and I nearly let out a moan. The sweet scent of chai latte, oat milk, no added sugar attacks my nostrils in pure bliss. My lifeblood if I'm not drinking coffee and for some reason, it’s a difficult thing to find in these small town airports.
“Oh my god,” I say, already wrapping my hands around it like it’s sacred. “Where did you find this?”
He smirks. “Same place that sells the foot massages and shoeshines.”
I take a long sip, the spiced sweetness flooding my system like a warm hug from the inside out. “I'm not sure how I should feel about a foot massage shop making a latte this good but thank you. I’m still not like you. I don't know all the secret little airport spots.”
“You’ll get there. A couple more years of constant travel and you'll know all the hidden haunts; I won't have any secrets left.” He shoots me a wink then leans back, folding his arms. “Now tell me, what had you shouting ‘motherfucker’ in the middle of this tiny Mississippi airport?”
My brows shoot up. Lawsonneverswears, even if he's giving a direct quote of something that I've said. Like, I’ve worked with the man for over a year, and I’ve only heard him drop a curse wordonce, and even then, it was under extreme circumstances.
That one time? It was during my first ever solo interview on behalf of the Marshall family businesses. Six months into the job, living in Whitewood Creek with Isla, a snowstorm had rolled in, and Lawson—who normally travels with me to everything—had to stay home with his son, Beckham. His ex, Mel, and her husband were stuck in Florida on a cruise, and he didn't want to dump his tween on any of his siblings.
So, with more nerves than I care to admit, I flew to Tucson to handle it alone. We prepped like maniacs. I felt ready. The interview was going great until the last question. One that wasnoton the pre-approved list. The reporter asked if my boss was seeing anyone, citing some ridiculous ranking that named him“America’s Most Eligible Farmer.”
That’s right, he's constantly making random rankings for his ridiculous good looks.
I froze. Like deer-in-headlights, soul-left-my-body, full brain crash because I was immediately thinking about the woman I saw leave his hotel room two weeks ago, and the other one from a week before. But I recovered. Gave the standard line:“No, he isn’t. Mr. Marshall values his privacy and his career and doesn't have the time to date right now.”
I even said it with a smile.
When I called Lawson after, he answered on the first ring and immediately let loose a string of curse words so loud that I’m pretty sure the studio mics caught them from a thousand miles away. I had to yell over him to get him to calm down. He wasn’t mad at how I handled it. He was mad they’d asked me at all because they never would’ve had the guts to ask him that to his face.
So, hearing him saythatword now? In this airport? Formybenefit? Well. Let’s just say the chai latte isn’t the only thing warming me up.
That’s the thing about Lawson. He’s private. Likereallyprivate. The kind of man who keeps his emotions sealed up tight and only cracks the vault open for Beckham or his dad. I learned that early on. But being his marketing assistant has given me a front-row seat to his… let’s call it, extracurricular calendar.
And yeah, I’ve seen him date. Or, schedule dinners, anyway. A different city, a different woman. All with strategic value, of course. That’s what he always says. It’s women with ties to retailers who could carry our egg brand in high-end grocery chains. Event planners with networks that could feed into the wedding business his sister Regan is building out at the farm.Sommelier connections in Napa and Paso Robles who could help expand the distillery’s reach.
Very professional. Very above board.
Except I’m not dumb. And I’m also not blind. The women are beautiful and while I’ve never asked, I’d bet good money he’s slept with at least some of them. And frankly, I get it. Constant travel is lonely. Airports, hotel rooms, unfamiliar pillowcases and silence that stretches too long when the workday ends—it all gets to you. Which is why I always keep my trusty vibrator with me when we fly.
Still, I’ve never once seen him get emotionally attached. Never seen him light up over someone. Not the way he talks about his son Beckham or his family businesses. Those seem to be enough to keep his heart full of love.
Without a word, I turn my phone and hand it to him, screen lit up with the text message that I just got from Catalina. That’s just who Lawson and I are. We don't keep secrets. We share everything. Phones. Coffee. Meals. Inside jokes. Logistics. In some strange way, we've moved from boss and employee to sort of best friends.
If you'd told me that this would happen a year ago, I wouldn't have believed you.
There have been more than a few weeks when I’ve crashed in the guest room at his place, especially when he’s traveling and Beckham’s mom is out of town. I pick him up from school, make sure he eats something green, sit with him while he does math homework that I pretend to understand and he doesn't need my help with, and occasionally, indulge in video games with him. I like Beckham and he likes me, so it works out.
It’s easy, in the strangest, most unexpected way. Lawson and I have become a team. A weird, slightly dysfunctional, totallyeffective team that has made insane leaps for the family businesses in such a short period of time.
It's also the best team that I’ve ever worked on. Which is funny, considering Lawson practically hated me when I first joined. He threw me to the wolves more than once. Made me sink or swim on some of the toughest assignments. But I proved myself fast. And once I told myself there was zero value in crushing on him, or even noticing how wildly attractive he was, everything got easier. He realized I could not only survive under pressure but thrive. And once he saw that, he let me into his world.
And the anxiety that I’ve always dealt with, it’s still there, humming like white noise just under my skin. But I manage it better now. Medication, yes, but also yoga classes with Isla, meditation apps I occasionally open, and sporadic orgasms courtesy of toys that I hide in my sock drawer.
Progress is progress.
Lawson's eyes scan Catalina’s text, then he hands my phone back without much fanfare. “Okay, so why is this a big deal?”?
I sigh, already exhausted. “Because she’s staying with me and Isla for two weeks, which means she’ll take my bedroom. Which means I’ll be on the couch for the next two weeks. That condo is already cramped and the couch’s going to jack up my back.”
His brows lift slightly as he unscrews the cap on his water bottle. Still the weirdest thing that I’ve ever seen—Lawson Marshall without coffee. A few months ago, he gave it up completely. Said it was making him too dependent on it. Challenged me to do the same, which I laughed in his face about. I’ve taken him up on almost every dare he’s thrown at me since we met—some of them wildlystupid and borderline reckless—but giving up caffeine? Non-negotiable.
