Page 16 of The Back Forty
He snorts without looking up. “Really?”
I lean over, watching as he scribbles a word into the crossword puzzle. “Booty? Honestly?”
He smirks. “It asked for another word for pirate’s treasure.”
“Sure, it did.”
“Tell Jeannine I’m not taking interviews at this time,” he responds.
I tap out the response, voice dry. “Oh, cryptic. Very on-brand. Yes, Lawson, give me nothing.”
“See, that’s why I keep you around. Smart ass comments like that are all the fuel I need to get my day started.”
The overhead speaker chimes and the gate agent announces our boarding group. I scoop up my carry-on and glance at Lawson who, as always, only brought a backpack slung casually over one shoulder. And, also as always, the second my hand touches my bag, he takes it from me like it weighs nothing.
I never used to be the kind of woman who let anyone else carry her stuff. I enjoyed my independence and handling things on my own. But working for Lawson Marshall? Let’s just say I’ve gotten used to letting someone else be the muscle while I keep all the things from catching fire.
And it’s not lost on me that in the year I’ve worked for him, I’ve streamlined his entire business. Grown the Marshall family’s market presence. Doubled their following on socials giving his sister Regan a much needed break from managing that. Negotiated deals that make his siblings look at me like I’ve got some kind of magic touch. They don’t just tolerate me anymore; they’ve claimed me as one of their own and I love feeling part of a family that works so well together.
As we fall in line toward the gate, Lawson casually drapes his free arm over my shoulders. Warm and easy. Familiar. I’m grateful for the friendship that we’ve built.
“So, you’re staying with me and Beckham for the next two weeks then?” he asks.
I groan, playing it up even though we both know I already said yes and would loathe sleeping on my sister’s couch while Catalina’s in town. I can only imagine waking up every morning to her criticizing the way I don't fold my clothing in the drawers, the mess of laundry in the corner and my new career.
“Apparently.”
He laughs. “You won’t even see me. Or be there yourself, half the time. Didn’t Rae rope you into helping with the mayor’s float for the big State Fair kick off parade?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, thinking of Lawson’s sister-in-law Rae and how effortlessly she manipulated me into volunteering during what was supposed to be my first real break in months.
She’s the mayor of our small town, a position she earned two years ago after battling it out against Lawson’s younger brother Cash, and she’s also the most Halloween loving, black cat energy female I’ve ever met. We clicked instantly and anytime that I'm in town, I try to meet up with her, Regan, Molly and their best friend Lydia.
“See?” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’ll be no big deal. We’ll hardly see each other.”
No big deal. Right.
Except somehow, sharing a house with my boss—even one I already know inside and out and have strictly put in theboss box—feels like a very big deal.
Chapter 7 -Lawson
“Hey Becks, you home?” I call into the stillness of the house, my voice echoing faintly off the walls. It’s dark now, later than I meant to get in, but our flight got delayed taking off due to weather.
We’re tucked deep in the back of the Marshall family property, surrounded by miles of cornfields, open sky, and the kind of silence that hums louder the longer you stand in it.
Technically, this patch of land is what locals would call theback forty—the most remote part of the acreage. Used to be the kind of spot where your phone dropped calls the second you stepped outside, where water came from the stubborn old well my grandfather dug for the farm that still feeds into the chicken coups, and the power flickered every time it rained.
But all that changed the day I found out that Beckham’s mom was pregnant. I’d built this place from the ground up with Cash before he even took his first breath. Back then, I didn’tknow much about raising a kid, but I knew he’d need electricity to watch his cartoons, and I’d need reliable internet to work remotely on the weeks he was sick, or the custody schedule shifted.
So, we upgraded. Got decent Wi-Fi, swapped out our connection to the well for clean county water, and put in solar just in case the storms knocked out the power.
It’s not perfect, service still cuts out sometimes, but it’s home. Quiet, peaceful, untouchable and away from my siblings who've also built their houses on the land.
I spend most of the year on the road, ninety percent, easy. Interviewing, pitching, chasing whatever the next thing is that'll grow the businesses. But when I’m home,thisis where I come to breathe. Out here, it’s just me, the dirt, and the Blue Ridge Mountains rising beneath my feet like a painting stretched across the face of the world. And this time of year, they’re at their peak, lit up in reds, golds, and deep pumpkin-orange. Nature showing off before winter rolls in and kills off the foliage.
“In here, Dad,” Beckham’s voice calls back, muffled.
I follow the sound, heading down the hallway and turning left into the living room. Sure enough, he’s on the floor in front of the TV, controller in hand, eyes locked on whatever game he’s laser-focused on. Kid doesn’t even look up. Just sits there cross-legged, shoulders hunched, completely in the zone.
