by Nicole Helm
Carter snorted. Yeah, he’d heard that line before. “We must have very different definitions of mutually beneficial. Rich people usually do.”
She pursed her lips. “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.”
“I heard all I need to hear. Your boss, or dad, or whoever, wants to buy me out and pave this place over for some kind of extra parking for Gallagher’s Tap Room. Well, even if that wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever heard, I’d still be saying no. This place is mine, and I’m not selling.”
Let the rest of his family turn tail and leave, this Trask was standing his ground.
“Dinah, come on, let’s head out. We’ll reevaluate.”
Dinah glanced behind her, then back at him, the frown line never leaving her forehead. Something wasn’t right, not with the way the first guy had acted, not with the way these two were acting, but that wasn’t his concern.
His only concern was to say no.
But Dinah Gallagher stepped forward, holding out a card. “Please, take this.” She forced a smile, but it barely curved the edges of her pink tinted, full lips. “If you find you have ten minutes—that’s all—I’m sure we can clear up this misunderstanding.”
Yeah, right. But she took his hand, pressed the little business card to his palm, her pale skin with dark pink nails looking out of place against his tanned, dirty hands. When her fingers brushed his palm, the electric current of attraction didn’t surprise him. But it did irritate him.
A Gallagher with a “misunderstanding.” Yeah, not on his life.
“Don’t come here again.” His voice didn’t sound nearly as forceful as he wanted it to.
She gave him a small, sad smile and a wave and walked back to her colleague. Together, they exited the yard, and he couldn’t see them beyond the arches and rows of plants.
Which was good. He didn’t want to see them, and he wouldn’t ever again if he could help it.
Chapter 2
When Dinah stepped inside her apartment at the end of the day, she hurled her bag across the living room. It landed with a satisfying thud against the couch.
She’d fumed all day, tried to magically transform anger into work, but all she could do was boil and pace and throw things.
Uncle Craig was setting her up for failure. He wasn’t a dumb man, especially when it came to business. The only reason he’d riled up Trask was to sabotage her. They weren’t planning on building a parking lot. They were planning on building a farmers’ market. And yes, that might mean paving over the little farm this guy already had going, but what was going to be more lucrative for this area? Some loner farmer growing things in his yard, or a whole area devoted to people selling their local produce?
Telling Trask it was for a parking lot undermined everything they were really trying to do, and it was personal. She couldn’t believe Craig had slipped up and picked the wrong words to win this guy over. Craig wanted her to fail. All because her dad had run off with his wife.
He hated her father that much. To take it out on her. To take it out on Gallagher’s. As if she or their plans had anything to do with it. She hadn’t told her father to sleep with Aunt Linda. Certainly hadn’t condoned their running off together and leaving the rest of the family with the aftermath. Not that Mom had stuck around for the aftermath. She’d disappeared just as Dad had. Leaving Dinah with angry, hurting family members.
Why on earth was Craig punishing her? She’d never particularly cared for her uncle. He was cold and ruthless—even his own daughter thought so—but still . . . Gallagher’s was a family affair.
And he wanted her out. It was the only explanation for telling Trask a parking lot was in the plans. That wasn’t the plan.
She screamed in frustration. Then she flopped onto her couch. She knew life wasn’t fair, that was a given, but there had to be some way she could fix this. Why couldn’t she find the fix?
My answer was, is, and always will be no.
“We’ll see about that, mister.” Everyone had a point to fold, a concession to make with the right stakes. A guy like him had to see that growing things didn’t belong in the middle of city traffic and bustle. A guy like him had to see that the money they would offer could build him something bigger and better elsewhere.
She’d convince him. She’d find that concession, that point to fold, and she’d show Uncle Craig where he could shove his sabotage.
She flipped open her laptop, ready to do some more research on Carter Trask. But her email was up, her last email with C.
He’d written, I’d like to think we’d be the kind of people who wouldn’t get tired of each other. We could eat together, have sex, read, work, hand-in-hand, and never give up, never walk away. I’d like to think we could be those people, even if it’s just a fantasy.
He wrote like poetry. Sure, they traded elaborate sexual fantasies, but he ended each email or exchange with something kind and sweet. Something romantic, the further along this thing went. Fantasy, yes, that’s exactly what they had.
But, in the past eight months, though she still only knew the bare minimum about the details of his life, she felt like she knew him. Or at least the email version of him. She didn’t know if that was real, but she’d given him pieces of herself, her real self.
It was probably really warped, but he was comfort—without having to risk . . . well, anything. He couldn’t make her feel useless, or break her heart. He could, at most, disappear, and that would suck, but she wouldn’t lose anything except some invisible man on the other side of the keyboard.
She frowned at the thought of him disappearing. What would she do then when she was feeling restless and upset? Emailing with anyone else would seem wrong. As for going out and having some real sex, as Kayla had suggested, oddly enough the idea didn’t appeal. Not with C in her inbox.
“Oh, Dinah, you are one royal screwball,” she muttered to herself.
But this—C—he was all fantasy, so what did it matter how screwed up she was? Over life. Over this unorthodox emailing relationship thing. In their fantasy, it didn’t matter, and right now she needed it not to.
She hit reply.
What would you do if I came to your place in one of those trench coats and high heels, just like out of a movie. You invite me inside, I drop the jacket, and say, “I want you to fuck me.”
She stared at the words. It was the beauty of this situation. She could say all the things she was scared to say in real life. She’d never been able to bring herself to say fuck during sex before. Or cock or to beg for something harder or rougher. Anytime she had the inclination, embarrassment and fear of rejection had flooded her.
But here, with nothing but a computer screen glaring back at her, she could put all those fantasies into words. She was in charge and powerful and could ask—and get—whatever she wanted.
She hit send because she needed that right now, when everything felt completely out of her control. She needed to feel like something could go right, and if it meant a little fictional sex, well so be it. There were a lot worse ways to be a total wacko.
After only a few minutes, her email dinged. I’d tell you to get in the bedroom and sit on the edge of my bed.
Hallelujah. She switched over to the instant messaging program they’d been using lately, and C continued.
I’d take my time following you. I like to watch you walk. I’d even guess something was wrong, but you don’t want to talk about it, do you?
Talk? No. The only words she wanted were dirty ones. In fact, that’s exactly what she’d write.
She liked a lot of things about C. The descriptive way he wrote, the sweetness he could infuse into the dirtiest of scenarios, but mostly she liked that he was an incredibly fast typist because his responses didn’t take long.
I didn’t think so. So, I let you sit down, and then I’d tell you to take off your coat. And your shirt. And your skirt. Slip off your heels and your tights.
He knew what she’d be wearing; they’d talked about it often e
nough. Workday meant skirt and heels. Weekends meant jeans and tennis shoes. Saturday nights meant lingerie she’d made up at first, then bought . . . just because.
This was pathetic, wasn’t it?
But she kept reading, because pathetic or not, his words were hot and she wanted to get off on them. The fantasy. Sex without worrying about anything. Not the other person. Not herself.
Tell me what your underwear looks like. In great detail.
Oh, she had some great detail for him. Today, it’s all black lace. My underwear is completely sheer, except for the black thread polka dots. My bra is the same. You can see my nipples. They’re already hard, just watching you watching me. I spread my legs, because that’s exactly where I want you.
Because you want to be fucked?
Yes. Hard. Nothing nice about it.
I can do that. First, I’d tell you to stand up. An order, like a teacher instructing a student. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I told you exactly what I wanted you to do.
I’d do whatever you want.
I’d tell you to bend over the bed, and I’d make you wait, your ass in the air, so I could really appreciate your entire backside. So I could think about all the things I’m going to do to you. So I could torture myself while I’m torturing you, because you don’t know what to expect.
Dinah’s breath went heavy. Damn, he was so good at this. She might not know what he looked like, but she could see it all. Feel it all. Unfolding in front of her like a dream.
And then I’d smack my palm against your ass.
She groaned into the silence of her apartment. She’d never given much thought to spanking, but just the idea, the fantasy of it, had her rolling her tights off, pulling off her shirt. Instead of shimmying out of her skirt, she just inched it up around her waist.
She was wet. Her nipples were hard, and as much as she wished for this to be real, it was real enough.
You’d be so wet. I’d just slide my finger over the outside of your panties and I could feel it. How much you want me. And then, I think you’d beg.
I would. I’d beg. I’d beg you to fuck me. Hard and rough with that big cock. I’d say I’d do anything for it.
It always amazed her, the words she wrote. Such half-finished fantasies she never allowed herself in reality. But here? Here she could beg and plead for whatever she wanted.
Anything. That’s a lot of power to hand over to someone. I’d slide your panties down your legs, slowly, making sure every inch of each hand was always touching your skin. You’d feel each callus, each rough bump and scrape along those smooth, pale legs of yours. Once I got the panties to your ankles, I’d kiss my way back up. Calf, the back of your knee, thigh. What do you want, baby? My mouth or my cock?
Cock. Please. Hurry. Because she’d cheated a little and already slid her finger across her sex, sliding it back and forth, enjoying those first few jolts of utter arousal. But now she wanted more than jolts. She wanted everything.
I’d settle the head of my cock right at your pussy, but I’d make you wait. I’m not pushing inside until you beg.
Please. Please. I need you inside me. Which was frighteningly true, but she’d deal with that fear of need some other time.
I’d thrust, as deep as I can go, and I’d settle myself right there until you begged again.
It wasn’t hard to pretend. She used her fingers exactly as he said he’d use his cock. When she wasn’t typing, she circled her nipples with her fingertips. The excitement grew, her breathing growing heavier with each please fuck me harder she tapped out.
Are you pretending your fingers are my cock, sliding into you? Fast and hard, just what you asked for.
Yes, yes. I’m going to come. Fucking my fingers. Thinking of you.
Make yourself come, baby. Pretend it’s me making you come.
It didn’t take much more. She was an expert on getting herself off at this point. The wave of pleasure, release from all that manic tension, swept through her. As the climax fizzled out, she all but melted on the couch.
Relaxed. Satisfied. Mostly, anyway.
And then I’d make you crawl under the covers, and I’d get you a glass of wine, and you’d tell me about your day.
Why wasn’t this real?
At first, she’d never had those thoughts. Of course, at first it was just sexmailing. Something about the last few weeks had morphed it into . . . more. Like the glass of wine and talking about what’s wrong—even if she didn’t respond, the offer was there.
She held her breath and counted to ten. She was not going to suggest they meet because that would ruin everything. What they’d just done was the only thing she wanted.
So, why didn’t she feel better? Sure, a little satisfied, but mainly she was just as angry at Craig as she had been, and she felt just as powerless. Just as restless and frustrated.
Good night, C. Thanks. She hit send and rested her head back on the couch, looking up at the plain apartment ceiling. Nothing was going the way she’d planned. Work. Love life. At twenty-seven she was supposed to be farther along.
So why was she stuck?
Well, screw being stuck. She needed to grab the reins of her spiraling-off-course life.
She poked around on the Internet for a while, idly flipping through Tumblr. Looking for inspiration, a spark of an idea. She followed a few fashion people, a few foodies, and then C’s page.
She stopped at his latest post, felt a weird wave of unease settle over her.
The image of the front yard of Front Yard Farm had stuck with her all day. The arches, the rows of plants. The redbrick pathways. It was all so damn familiar, and not because it was situated next to Gallagher’s Tap Room. She never went that way. She’d never stopped to ponder Front Yard Farm.
But this picture . . . it was Front Yard Farm. It was. What were the chances...
No. Impossible. She was jumping to conclusions. Just because he uploaded the photo instead of reblogging it from another site, just because the caption read my little slice of heaven, did not mean . . .
There was no way. No chance. She clicked on his main page and scrolled through his pictures, photos she’d mooned over without thinking about it. Pictures she hadn’t placed. Captions she hadn’t fit together into a puzzle.
C worked with his hands, worked with the land. He talked about plants. And his father had been a farmer. He’d said that in one of his emails. When I was a kid on my dad’s farm . . .
But how could this be? How was it possible that she’d started emailing with a guy who . . .
“Oh my God.” It couldn’t be, but this . . . this all worked together as irrefutable proof. She’d been sexmailing Carter Trask.
“Well, fuck.”
* * *
The pounding on his door was a surprise. Carter glanced down at his half-eaten dinner, thought idly of ignoring the door, but the pounding kept reverberating through the century-old house.
“All right. All right,” he grumbled. He flipped on the porch light and glanced out the peephole. “Jesus Christ. Don’t you people ever give up?”
Wrenching open the door, he scowled down at Dinah Gallagher. She was dressed the same as this afternoon, sans tights and heels. Instead she had on bright purple sneakers that did not match her office-ready outfit or bright yellow jacket at all.
“This is you!”
Carter squinted at the phone screen being shoved into his face. It was his Tumblr page. “Yeah. So?”
“You! You’re the one writing me sex-mails!”
“What the hell is a sex-mail?” Oh. Wait. No. She couldn’t be . . . He felt a little sick to his stomach. This was some kind of prank.
“You! You!”
Well, if her panic was any indication, no prank. “Calm down.” He was talking more to himself than to her. If what she was saying meant . . . somehow . . . he’d been trading dirty emails with a Gallagher for eight months. Oh, not okay. So completely not okay.
“My career depends on the grumpy farmer I’ve been
writing sexmails to.” She flung her arms into the air, pacing the tiny box of his stoop.
“Christ, stop yelling sex-mail. My eighty-year-old neighbor will hear you and chew me out.”
“I just . . . You are . . .” She was waving her phone around and Mrs. Washington’s porch light flipped on, so against his better judgment, Carter pulled her inside.
“Calm down,” he said, this time to her. Very much to her.
Dinah Gallagher. D. His mind instantly went to their email exchange. The one that had made him postpone dinner until well past his normal eating time.
Because she’d wanted him to fuck her.
Metaphorically. Fictionally. Not... now.
Right?
He should be pushing her out the door, not leading her through it. “Is this some joke? Some elaborate scheme?”
She fisted her hands on her hips. “Are you high? We’ve been doing this for almost a year!”
Wow. That sounded pathetic. But it also made him think about all the things they’d written to each other. All the ways he’d fictionally fucked her. This gorgeous woman standing in his living room.
Gallagher. She was a Gallagher. She wanted to buy the last piece of himself he had left. Beautiful or not—D or not—this could not change anything.
Please fuck me harder. Pound that big cock into me. Hello, unwelcome erection. But seriously, how was he supposed to just not remember those words she’d typed him not that long ago?
Touching herself. His gaze drifted to the hem of her skirt. She hadn’t changed out of the outfit she’d been wearing this morning, so she was still wearing what she’d had on as she’d gotten herself off over his words. Was she wearing the see-through underwear she’d described to him? Because he’d seen a hint of black lace this morning and . . .
His dick was so hard it hurt, and when he forced himself to look back up at her, she was staring, not at his face, but at his very obvious erection.
“Sorry, he’s not as business-minded as me,” Carter managed.
She inhaled sharply, her cheeks tinging pink. “I’m not sure my lady parts are as business-minded as I am, either.” She sounded a little breathless, and that was enough to think, remember, imagine.
