Page 45 of The Back Forty
His eyes lift slowly, brows barely ticking up. “Yeah?”
I nod, my teeth knocking together again. “I mean, I’m around you a lot. Like practically every day of the year. It’s familiar.”Familiar. Comforting. Calming. Infuriatingly masculine. So, freaking attractive. God, the man always smells so good.
He doesn’t pause or call me out, just slides forward on the edge until he’s leaning over the tub, staying carefully above water level but close enough that his chest is practically brushing against my face.
His gaze never drops, it never once flickers to where the water laps just below my breasts, where my body’s betraying me with hard, sensitive nipples exposed to the cool air.
Instead, he leans in closer until I’m wrapped in him—cedar, smoke, something subtly clean and warm, a trace of sweat and his smooth skin. I close my eyes and breathe him in deep, fitting my jaw tightly together to try to stop the chattering, and it’s like the static in my chest finally starts to dissolve.
This is the scent that I’ve fallen asleep beside on long flights. Sat next to during boardroom pitches. The scent that clung to my clothes after he let me borrow his hoodie once, after a red-eye home from Phoenix in the middle of January.
It smells like stability. Kindness when I needed it desperately. Like something solid and unwavering. Like my somehow best friend.Him.
I stay like that, eyes closed, breathing his scent, and the pulse in my ears finally quiets. The words in my head start to calm. My grip loosens from his forearm, and I sink deeper into the water, my body beginning to remember what calm feels like as I come back into myself.
“There she is,” Lawson whispers softly, his breath tickling my lips as his fingers brush against my cheek softly.
I open my eyes and he’s right there, so close that I can smell the mint on his breath, see each line around his eyes and the tiny, green flecks in his hazel irises. His gaze is molten and soft, and feels like a warm hug. He doesn't look disappointed in me for unraveling, he looks like... he adores me.
The air between us is charged, electric and fragile. And for one reckless second, I want to reach up. To touch the rough line of his jaw, run my fingers through his thick hair, lean into him and let whatever this thing that’s between us burn bright and real.
But then his eyes flick down—just for a heartbeat—to my chest. And I swear the tension in his jaw tightens before he flicks his gaze back to mine and pulls his hand away like nothing ever happened.
“Let’s get you dried off,” he says, already standing, already moving. “I’ll order room service for dinner.”
The spell shatters. He helps me stand in the tub, still not looking where I wish he would, and wraps me in a thick towel before leading me to the bed. The air is cool on my damp skin, and I shiver thinking about the moment that we just shared and what it meant.
“You think you can dress yourself?” he asks, turning away from me and giving me his back.
I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
He nods, then moves quietly to the bathroom and grabs my shirt from the floor. The same one that he peeled off me only a few minutes ago. He pulls it gently over my head again, careful not to jostle me too much but leaves my underwear behind like it’s a line he won’t cross.
Then he lifts me easily and pulls back the covers before sliding me beneath them. I watch as he orders food from across theroom—two salads, some pasta and waters—then flips on the TV like it’s just another Thursday night and not the single most vulnerable moment of my life.
We sit in silence for a while, something light and stupid playing in the background while I wonder what he’s thinking. Then the food comes, and without asking, he feeds me. A bite at a time. Holds a bottle of water to my lips. Waits while I sip.
And though I could probably do it myself now, I’m grateful that he hasn’t asked me to. Panic attacks tend to expend a lot of energy and once they are finished, I feel weak, sleepy and emotionally numb.
When I’m halfway through the meal, I try to move to clean-up, but he shakes his head firmly and takes the empty boxes and napkins from my hands.
“Let me take care of you, Dani.”
And then he disappears to the bathroom, returning with my toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste.
“What are you doing?” I ask softly.
He sits at the side of the bed and gently guides my head until it’s resting in his lap. This is way too intimate, the view from where I’m laying staring up at his jaw, the rough beard that he's neatly trimmed and his soft eyes gazing down at me.
“Hold still. I’m gonna brush your teeth.”
“What?”
Then he leans closer, hand resting lightly against my throat, thumb pressing against the hinge of my jaw. If he put just a little more pressure there, I think I might combust. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”
God, those words.
I do. Because I can’t think. Because I’m caught in his orbit and I can't break his gaze. His hand is warm and steady. His gaze locked on my mouth as he brushes with slow, careful strokes.
