Page 44 of The Back Forty
“Okay. I’m going to ease you in the water now,” he murmurs.
His hands are gentle as they lift between my knees and he places me into the deep, soaker tub. The water’s hot. It laps at my skin, rising until it cradles me, just below my collarbone. I shiver even as it soothes, the shock from the change of sensation helping me come back to my body.
“That alright, sweetheart?”
I nod just barely. My right hand is still gripping his bicep outside the tub like I’m scared to not be touching his warm flesh, or I might slip under. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t flinch despite my tight hold. Just lowers himself to a crouch beside the edge, one hand turning the water down to a soft trickle, the other still within my reach, giving me something to hold onto.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I whisper when I finally find my voice again. My hands won’t stop shaking. I tuck one of them beneath the surface of the water, but they tremble anyway, the other that’s squeezing his forearm is shaking his body slightly.
He doesn’t respond to that directly. He doesn’t give me any pity or try to soothe the shame. Instead, he covers my hand that’s on his arm with his rough fingers toughened by hard, manual labor and a single brass ring baring the Marshall crest, and then offers me something better: A distraction.
“Want to hear a funny story?” he asks.
I nod, still clutching his forearm as he shifts to sit on the edge of the tub now facing away from me so that I don’t feel any more exposed than I already do. Of course, he's being the respectful gentleman that he’s always been to me. Even during my weakest moment he’s considering my feelings.
“I was twenty-three years old when I found out that Melissa was unexpectedly pregnant with Beckham,” he says, a soft chuckle underlining the words. “She came to my house where I was still living with Dad and all my siblings, and chucked the positive test at my head. Literallythrewit at my head. I thought she cut me with the sharp edge of it but nah, it just left a temporary dent on my forehead.”
A choked laugh bubbles out of me. My teeth chatter with it, the fear loosening its grip just a little in the form of humor. “No way that she did that. Mel’s so nice.”
“Oh, she definitely did it,” he says with mock solemnity. “And I deserved it. I hadn’t called her in like two weeks because I’d moved on from the relationship. We were never all that serious.”
“Lawson,” I laugh, breath finally coming easier now. “She’s a saint. Honestly the best mother you could have given Beckham.”
He tilts his head back toward the ceiling, lips twitching into a crooked smile. “I know it. We were just supposed to be casual, though. But I always had a lot of love for her. We didn’t want to be parents at first and especially not together.”
I nod, finally able to meet his gaze. I know that part of their story. How they've always co-parented with mutual respect, no mess, no drama, focused on their son alone. It’s rare. It’s real. And it’s just so completely who Lawson is. He’s that type of guy. Gets a casual girl he's dating pregnant, doesn’t cause a fuss and steps up to be a dad without hesitation.
“Anyway,” Lawson says, his voice low and scratchy like gravel and smoke. “After I found out, I got it in my head that I needed to build the kid a damn house. No way we were gonna stay at my dad’s place splitting custody in that chaos. Plus, Mel needed a place to stay while she figured out her own path. Colt and Regan were teenagers, and Troy was living in New York with Max at that point, but I wanted something of my own. His own bedroom and a place I could put all his toys.”
He shifts slightly, settling against the side of the tub, right forearm still slack so I can keep clinging to it like it’s a rope tethering me to this moment.
“I picked the furthest corner of the property. The edge of the tree line. Figured I could hide the house out there.”
That wordhidecatches in my chest.
“Hiding from what I’d done. The way I’d embarrassed myself. My family. The Marshall name.” His jaw ticks, throat bobbing as he scrubs a hand through his hair, then lets it drop again like he’s too tired to keep carrying the weight of that memory anymore. “I didn’t know a thing about construction, but I threw up this log cabin type of house. Looked decent enough ’til the first, autumn storm hit, and half the roof flew into the next county.”
Despite everything, I laugh, teeth chattering slightly. “Oh God, was Beckham born at that point?”
He huffs a laugh, just a breath of warmth in the cool, bathroom air. “Thankfully, no. I wasn’t sleeping in it that night either. Anyhow, Cash was twenty-one and alreadyBob the Builderjunior. He and Colt took pity on me, came out to my property, helped draw up real plans and we all built it together that next spring. By the time Beckham was born, the place was solid. Melissa moved in for a while, got her feet under her, and weco-parented from there until Beckham was four years old and she met her now husband and fell in love. It just… worked. We weren't romantic but we were committed to Beckham, and it’s the only reason I think I’ve got the relationship I have with them both.”
My heart rate picks up again and the water sloshes gently against my skin. I feel stripped bare, physically and emotionally. My throat’s tight, but it’s not panic anymore. It’s something deeper, softer, something that hurts in a different way because dammit, why is he the best man that I’ve ever met?
And why do I feel like he’s set some invisible bar that every guy in my future will never be able to meet?
My body shakes, mostly from the panic attack and partially at the thought that I’m going to compare every person I ever date to my unattainable boss.
Lawson glances at me. “Are you cold?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. It’s just… this is what happens sometimes. The shakes.”
He nods like he gets it, doesn’t ask questions, just retrieves his phone from his pocket with one hand and types something into it before he starts scrolling.
“The internet says the scent of something familiar can help regulate your nervous system. You got a favorite lotion or perfume in your suitcase that I can grab for you?”
And that right there—that stupidly thoughtful gesture—the fact that he’s researching ways to help my nervous system calm down, makes my heart squeeze tight and say the first thing I think of without considering the repercussions.
“Your cologne,” I blurt out.
