Page 86 of The Back Forty
Maybe Isla's right, maybe we can try to go back to the way things were after this pitch today. Or maybe Lawson already has and I'm just lagging behind him.
I crank up the thermostat until the room’s a sauna, kick off my heels and coat, and collapse face-down on the bed still in my suit pants and thin shirt. I close my eyes, hoping I can hit the reset button before the pitch in an hour but all I dream about is him.
***
An hour later, my alarm blares and I jolt upright.
“Ah, shit.”
I scramble through the room like a woman possessed—fixing my smudged eyeliner, finger-combing my hair, smoothing out the worst of the wrinkles in my suit with a damp towel. I grab my tablet, double-check the slides that Luca sent over, and race to the lobby.
Lawson’s already there, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace like he walked off the cover ofModern Outdoorsman. He’s got another cup of tea cradled in his hands, legs stretched out, calm as ever, watching the snow fall gently outside the large, floor to ceiling windows.
And when he turns to face me,glasses.His brows lift as he watches me, eyes lingering on every step I take. But it’s not the same as before. There’s heat there, sure, but not the kind that promises a firestorm. It’s softer. Quieter. Like he’s letting himself admire me but doesn't have the urge to touch. And somehow, that’s worse.
Because Imiss all that. I miss the way he used to look at me like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss me or ruin me. And I know it’s my fault. I told him not to look at me like that anymore. I askedhim to draw the line. But God, I didn’t realize how cold it would feel once he actually did.
How did I go from working for this man to wanting him every second of the day?
I know in my heart that I need to get the courage to tell him how I feel. But more than that, I need to get the courage to leap headfirst into whatever this is with him and not automatically assume that it'll end in disaster.
“You ready?” he asks, rising to his feet with a warm smile that feels a lot like he's put me in the friends and employee box again.
“Yep,” I say, gripping my tablet tightly to my chest and telling myself not to think about that right now.
He nods and leads me outside to the waiting taxi. The drive to the office building is short, but my nerves are already gathering like a storm cloud. Thankfully, Lawson must be able to tell and allows me silence on the drive until we arrive to the location for our meeting.
The headquarters looks nothing like I expected. No sleek glass building or modern high-rise. Instead, we’re staring at a massive, warehouse-style structure, all industrial beams and exposed brick. It’s like stepping into a startup that hit it big and never bothered to change its roots. It's not at all what I imagined for one of the largest liquor distributors in the U.S.
I exhale slowly, shifting my weight as we step out of the car.
“Alright,” I murmur to myself. “Let’s do this.”
“You got this,” Lawson murmurs as we step into the conference room, both of us wearing our most charming, business-friendly smiles.
He's so damn good at his job. Scratch that, he's natural at this job. All the Marshall family is charismatic but Lawson's on adifferent level. He puts everyone at ease and never forgets the personal details. I used to joke him about his "uniform" of denim jeans, a casual shirt and sometimes a cowboy hat, but now I get it. He just makes people feel warm and comfortable. He makesmefeel safe and at ease.
I fall into step beside him, but the moment I catch sight of the group seated at the long, modern conference table, my stomach does a little flip.
This crew is a change from the two execs I pitched to in Texas. There’s a broader mix of people—diverse in age, background, and style. A solid twelve of them, all with sharp eyes and patient smiles, quietly waiting to see if I’m worth their time.
I clear my throat and square my shoulders, reminding myself that I’ve done this before. Worse than this, actually. I’ve stood in front of billion-dollar tech CEOs and pitched products I barely understood, selling shit with confidence and charm.
This? This I know. This is familiar, like muscle memory. The Marshall family brands, their whiskey and bourbon lines, their summer seltzers and holiday liquor, I know them like the back of my hand. I know what sets them apart. Not just the craftsmanship, not just the legacy, but the why behind it all: family, love, community, connection.
That’s what I carry with me as I click into the first slide on my presentation. This isn’t about landing a deal for my resume. It’s not about praise or a bigger bonus. I want to get this right because I believe in what we’re doing. In the Marshalls. In this weird, patchwork family I’ve somehow found myself woven into. Because even though I have people-pleasing tendencies that I’ve spent years trying to unlearn, it’s not just about approval from Lawson anymore. It’s deeper. I want to make him proud of me so that he sees me as more than just a good employee.
That he sees me as family.
As I speak, my focus stays mostly on the three decision-makers Lawson flagged for me earlier, but I can feel him watching me the entire time. Like his gaze is a low hum across my skin, tracking my every gesture. I wonder what he’s thinking, if I’m holding my own, if I’m winning them over. If he regrets hiring me now that we’ve seen each other mostly naked. If he regrets yesterday. The way I came apart for him, asking for more and then hurting him selfishly.
I push the thought down and keep moving through the deck. By the time I wrap, my heart is racing, but I don’t let it show. I glance toward him just for a second and catch something I wasn’t prepared for in his smile.
Pride.
He’s leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, winter beanie off, and wearing a wide smile. He’d swapped the cotton hat for his signature cowboy, brown hat—his go-to when we’re dealing with these types of accounts, the old-school liquor guys who respect a man that looks like he owns a horse. And of course, it’s working for him. Too well. All I want is to walk over, straddle his lap, and kiss him until we both forget all the reasons that we’re pretending to be nothing more than coworkers.
But I don’t. I can’t. Not now.
