Page 38 of The Back Forty
“Here you go,” she says, green eyes sparkling. “Good luck with your pitch.”
I reach for it, relief crashing over me, but then she adds with a wink, “And good luck with the handsome cowboy. I wish I was on the receiving end of the look he just gave you. Wow.”
My face goes up in flames and I blink at her in confusion. “What look?”
But she just laughs and waves me off, already turning toward another customer. And I’m left standing there, heartbeat way too loud in my ears, wondering if she saw something I missed. Because Lawson hadn’t looked at me in anyway. Not like that.
Right?
Right!?
“Thank you,” I mumble, clutching the tablet to my chest and forcing myself to move.
He’s already waiting outside by the curb, standing like a carved statue beside a cab he must’ve called while I was inside panicking. The back door is open, and he’s holding it there like the world’s most annoyed cowboy. His shoulders are tense. His jaw’s working like he’s grinding something down behind his teeth.
I have no idea what I did wrong, but I’m pretty sure I did it anyway. Maybe he thinks I'm unprepared. Maybe he hates the outfit and thinks I'm trying to look like a brunette version of Lainey Wilson.
Oh god, is it the earrings?
“Thanks,” I murmur as I slide into the cab, scooting quickly across the seat, except it’s not quickly enough, because Lawson gets in right after me and we basically collide. His thighs slam against mine, his hip presses into my side for a split second before we both shift, pretending we didn’t just touch like that.
He barks out our destination to the driver his voice full of annoyance, and I just sit there, spine straight, tablet clutched to my chest, trying not to freak the hell out.
Because if he’s this annoyed when we never get frustrated with each other, how much worse is it going to be if I bomb this pitch?
Chapter 15 – Lawson
Dani’s chugging this oil company's conference room coffee like it’s a premium brew that they're about to discontinue.
I know her routine, she usually caps herself at two cups a day, max three if she’s pulling together a last-minute presentation or arguing with her sister over a video call. But we’re way past that now. By my count, she’s on her fifth. Maybe sixth.
I steal a glance at the clock on the wall that's hanging behind her head.
Four-oh-five.
Sun’s already shifting lower in the Texas sky, turning the glass-walled conference room into a goldfish bowl. Everything’s bathed in soft amber and flame with light bleeding across the table, the floor, the walls. It's a beautiful autumn day and it's reflected in everything and Dani.
Especially Dani.
She’s pacing now, shoulders tight, long fingers wrapped around her mug like it’s the only thing that's keeping her from floating away back to North Carolina. The sunlight catches the undertones in her olive skin, lights up the scattered caramel strands threaded through her dark brown hair, and sets a soft burn in the rich brown of her eyes. Her yellow shirt glows like warm honey against her skin, and that soft, suede, cowboy hat—borrowed, I think, unless she went out and bought one—sits perched on her head like it belongs there.
She looks like a poster for the kind of small-town charm ad execs dream about.
Except I know she’s not that. She’s a California girl. Raised on tech sales, overpriced matcha and performance metrics. Where the weather's always perfect and the people are all looking to get famous.
But lately…
Lately, I think my hometown is getting under her skin. I thinkI’mgetting under her skin. And I don’t know what the hell to do with that because she's changed a lot from the woman she was when she first joined the Marshall family business. Because she’s standing in front of me, anxious and beautiful and fidgeting with her sleeves like she might explode from the inside out, and I’m sitting here trying not to imagine her stripped bare and spread across this very table, her boots still on, my name on her lips with my face between her legs.
Fuck.
I grip the corner of the smooth table and drag in a slow, steady breath, counting to five, then ten.
I’m her boss. She’s my employee. One who is way too young for me anyways. This is a high stakes meeting with men who eat weakness up for breakfast, and I can’t think about her like that.Not now, not ever. She needs to be focused, and I need to be her support.
What I shouldbedoing is saying something encouraging to her. Offer a calm, grounded“You’ve got this, sweetheart” or a quick breakdown of key points to remember before these assholes walk in and start grilling her.
Instead, I sit there silently. Watching her unravel with each long sip of her mug. Useless and turned on like a damn teenager underneath the conference table because she looks fucking beautiful.
