Page 23 of The Back Forty
Vice. President.
Of the Marshall family businesses.
It has a nice ring to it. Like a melody I’d like to replay repeatedly. The Marshall’s don’t hire many full time staff that aren’t family or family adjacent but they have a few who work the egg farm and distillery. They’re kind folks I’ve interacted with over the last year while gathering material for pitches and marketing plans.
This feels even bigger than that.
And yeah, it’s terrifying. It’s going to be a beast of a year. We just finished our two year roadmap and have twice the workload. Bigger expectations and now I’ll have a brand new assistant that I’ll need to train and I’m living under the same roof as Lawson for the next few days.
But still, I can’t help the little thrill that zips down my spine.
This?
This feels right.
Like I earned it. Like I belong here. Like blowing up my entire life in California wasn’t all for nothing and even better things are on the horizon.
I can’t wait to see what they are.
Chapter 9 – Lawson
“So, what’s the plan this year, boss?” my younger brother Cash asks, coming up behind me in the parking lot where we’re prepping for the welcome parade float lineup.
Every year, the week before the North Carolina State Fair, our town throws a massive parade. It winds down Main Street and officially kicks off autumn, celebrating the small businesses that keep this place alive. And every year, the Marshalls have a float in it—highlighting our sustainable egg farm, which has been in the family for generations.
Last year, I got stuck driving the truck hitched to the infamous pumpkin mayor float aka the one carrying Cash and Rae looking like two oversexed versions of Cinderella. They disappeared halfway through the route into the belly of the float, and I had to keep smiling and waving from the cab like I didn’t know my brother was hooking up with his girlfriend behind me… just a few feet away from half the town.
But this year, we’ve added more to the mix. One more float for Regan’s booming wedding business at the Mayberry Manor and Colt's distillery, which just expanded into summer seltzers that Dani and I have been promoting the past five months straight. So, it’s more than just eggs now—it’s a small empire we're responsible for, and I’m the one calling the shots on how it all gets represented in the public eye.
“Giant egg,” I say, eyes still on the tablet that's permanently glued to my side. “Maybe we’ll stuff you inside it, have you pop out mid-parade like a newborn chick.”
Cash snorts. “When the hell did you get a sense of humor?”
I glance at him. “I’ve always had one.”
He raises a brow. “Yeah, no. Colt’s the quiet grump. Troy's the politically correct one and you’re the tight-ass, dead pan sales exec. No time for jokes. Too busy catching a flight for an interview.”
I roll my eyes and swipe to the next design mockup. “We’re doing a big whiskey bottle for the distillery float. Regan’s been working on it with the logo. She sketched out the general shape, but I need you to help finish constructing it. Why don't you reuse the materials from last year's pumpkin float?”
He scratches the back of the neck and smirks. "Yeah, that float isn't reusable. It's currently parked in our back yard."
"I'm not even going to ask."
He chuckles and salutes, then jogs off like he’s still seventeen instead of pushing thirty-six. I follow him across the lot. Regan’s not here to help today, she’s prepping for a wedding over at Mayberry Manor and getting the nursery ready. Baby Walker number one is due this winter and she's excited to become a mom. So, the float construction falls to me, Cash, and Colt thisyear. Thankfully, Dani said she’d swing by later after having breakfast with her sisters.
We get to work, passing tools back and forth, cracking a few jokes while I paint wide strokes of pale, eggshell white on one float and deep amber on the next. I’m halfway through mentally ticking off the never-ending to-do list when I remember that this was supposed to be my vacation. A rare two-week break from travel for both me and Dani. I talked her into taking it with me. Sort of.
Though I’m driven—and I always have been—Dani makes me look like I’ve been coasting. She’s the most focused, relentless person I’ve ever worked with. Type A, bullet-list addicted, ten steps ahead even when I think I’m leading. It’s probably why instead of relaxing by the lake or catching up on the kind of domestic things we keep putting off, we’re here. Working. Prepping floats and trying to make our businesses shine. Basically, it's what I've dedicated my whole adult life to.
“Hey, guys!” Dani’s voice cuts through the midday heat.
I wipe at my forehead and turn to wave andwhoa,fuck me.
She’s crossing the lot, holding two brown paper bags in one hand, a water bottle tucked under her arm, wearing tiny cut-off shorts and a cropped pink tank top. Her dark brown hair is twisted into a messy bun, a few tendrils falling loose around her face, and her legs are bare and tan, long and strong from the morning runs that I know she never skips.
I’ve seen her in a hundred different outfits over the past year that we've worked together. Pajamas on hotel work trips when she knocks on my door asking to borrow toothpaste. Pencil skirts and sharp blazers when we pitch to new accounts. Yoga pants and sweatshirts on overnight flights when we crash in airport lounges. She's always been an attractive woman; I've just neverallowed myself to take notice. But this? This laid-back, clocked out, sunshine-soaked version of her? That’s new.
And dangerous.
