Page 29 of The Back Forty
“My boss promoted me,” I say, forcing a smile as I surprisingly slurp the last of the drink. Wow, that one went down way too fast.
The whiskey sour burns less this time, probably because I’ve numbed half my tongue. The ice clinks against the glass, loud and final, and even I’m shocked.
I don’t usually drink like this. Never with him. Because drinking to a buzz means letting go of some control and the only way I can seem to manage my simmering anxiety is through keeping control tightly wound up in my fist.
Lawson’s eyes flick to the empty glass, then to the table behind me. I follow the line of his gaze just in time to see him lift a hand in a polite wave with a thin smile. Catalina must’ve waved at him—of course she did. She’s charming and driven and beautiful in that crisp, kind of scary way that screams“I never have breakdowns or panic attacks, I just handle my shit like a grown up.”
She's the kind of woman men like Lawson gravitate toward: clean lines, no mess, major confidence.
“She’s into you,” I say before I can stop myself, the words slurring slightly as they leave my mouth.
He startles, eyes snapping back to mine. “What?”
“My sister. Catalina.” I shrug one shoulder, trying to act casual as I rest my elbow on the bar and place my chin in my palm to look up at him with what I hope aren’t puppy dog eyes. “If you want, I can set up a date with her, or whatever.”
It was supposed to come across as a joke but instead it comes out as serious. Deathly serious and something sharp and pathetic curls beneath the words. I hate how obvious it must sound.
I’ve done this before, I think. Helped schedule late night dinners for him that I've been certain turned into early mornings. But this? Catalina? That would be a whole different kind of stomach punch. Yet I know he should do it. For my head and my pussy. To tell her she needs to stop being so stupid and needy.
Lawson’s brow furrows as he studies me, like he’s trying to peel something back. I straighten in my seat, shifting my weight and rolling my shoulders back as if I can shake the jealousy off with good posture alone.
God, get a grip, Dani.
Thirteen months. Thirteen months I’ve worked with him. Traveled with him. Shared meals and brainstormed pitches and watched him run his hands through his soft, light brown hair that curls a little at the bottom when he’s frustrated. Watched him slip on those dark rimmed glasses when his eyes are tired of reading pages of pitches at night. And I’ve neverlet myself think about him like this for this long.
“May I have another one?” I ask Regan, my voice too high, too breezy as I slide the glass toward her.
She freezes behind the bar, her hand hovering near the bottle like she’s not sure if this is a trap. Bless her. I probably look like I’ve just been dumped and promoted all in the same breath and then I realize she’s been watching our interaction. I wonder if she sees just how pathetic I’m looking at her brother right now too.
“She’s done,” Lawson says calmly without even looking in his sister's direction.
I whip my head toward him. “Hey, why? It’s a Friday night.”
“Because we have to fly to Texas tomorrow morning,” he says, as if that explains anything. His eyes don’t leave mine.
“What?”
“Last-minute pitch,” he adds. “I just got the call. There’s a major oil company that wants to sell our airplane-sized bottles in their gas stations across the country.”
The room stills around me. The alcohol in my bloodstream practically evaporates as I sober up at the mention of work. Because that's why I moved here, not to fall into some sort of movie style romance with the hot, small town, cowboy executive.
“Are you serious? That’s, that’s huge, Lawson.”
He nods once. “It is.”
My mind’s already spinning with numbers and brand strategy and distribution channels. “Wait, are you doing the pitch or—?”
He cuts me off with a slow, almost smug smile. “I was thinking my new Vice President could handle it.”
I blink at him. “Me?”
“You’re ready,” he says simply, like it’s a fact and not a compliment that lands so squarely in the center of my chest I feel like I might cry. “You could pitch with zero prep if you needed to. You know the product inside and out. This is your lane, Dani. And this will be the largest account you've landed if you pull it off. And I know you will.”
And that’s it—that’s the part that ruins me.
The belief in his voice. Like I’m not just another over-achiever with something to prove. Like I’m more than the girl who used to hold her breath waiting for a “good job” from anyone who cared enough to say it.
He sees me. And worse, hebelievesin me. It’s my stupid, middle child love language that is desperate for words of affirmation even when I know I’m doing a good job and completely capable.What can I say, I’m a slut for someone telling me I’m agood girl.And though I know that’s not exactly what he just said, it's close enough for now.
