I laughed incredulously. “And what reason is that? That some asshole just wants to come in and sweep the farm out from under him? You are delusional. And I am a fool.”
I pushed past him and out of the barn, hating that I still felt the effects of that amazing orgasm he’d given me, which was quickly losing its luster.
“Rachel, don’t walk away from me.” Sebastian was charging behind me, seizing me by my elbow even as I tried to shake him off.
“You can’t take this farm away from Dad,” I said, whirling around to face him, tears welling in my eyes. “You don’t understand. He loves this place.”
“I’m not going to take it away,” he said urgently. “I just want to buy it. To help it succeed and grow.”
“It doesn’t need your help,” I said hotly. “We don’t need your help, and we don’t want it either.”
“It’s your help I need, Rachel,” he tried. “Help me convince your father to sell the farm to me. Nothing else has to change except for ownership. It’s the only way.”
What reality was Sebastian living in? Nothing made sense to me anymore. I couldn’t let him get to Dad. Dad would never sell the farm; he would never buy whatever Sebastian might try to sell to him. I wasn’t going to help Sebastian do this to Dad. To us. To the farm.
“You go to hell,” I hissed, pushing his hand away from me. “Where do you get off coming out here? You think that by sticking your dick in me, it will automatically bend me to your will? Get the hell out of here. Get off our property. We’ll never sell to you. Not in a million years.”
“That’s not what I—Rachel, wait!”
I was done with Sebastian Clementine. Whatever quality of his that had piqued my curiosity initially, sparking that enormous attraction, did nothing for me now. At least, that’s what I wanted to believe. My limbs were still loose and languid. I was still physically attracted to him—I’d admit that to no one but myself. But love? I’d confessed to loving the man charging after me, just after we’d hooked up in the barn. That was false. I’d made a big mistake with that.
“Can’t I explain?” I could hear his quick step behind me, but I trusted he wouldn’t try anything out in the open. If he tried to put his hands on me again, I’d shout and draw the attention of everyone within hearing.
“There’s nothing to explain,” I tossed over my shoulder. “I know exactly what you are, now.”
“Rachel, don’t. Don’t think like that. I want to help you understand.”
But we were already at the front door of the house, and I was already beating my fist nearly through it, loud enough for Dad to almost rip the door off its hinges in his haste to see what the emergency was. The emergency was that I needed to be rid of Sebastian. I didn’t want to talk to him anymore or look at him anymore. I needed a break.
“I thought there had been an accident,” Dad said, frowning at me, as I cradled the fist I’d used to get him to the door fast with my other hand. I wondered if I’d broken something in my anger.
“No accident. We’re done here,” I told him.
“Did you see everything you wanted to see?” Dad asked cheerfully, directing the question over my shoulder to Sebastian while willfully ignoring whatever scowl I was sure I had plastered on my face. I couldn’t pretend things were okay even if I wanted to.
“I sure did,” Sebastian said, grinning as if nothing were wrong. “I’d like to meet with you to talk business, if you’re free sometime.”
“I’m free right now,” Dad said, pleased and surprised, either not noticing or not acknowledging my efforts to try to signal to him not to do it.
“Well, perfect,” Sebastian said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Rachel, it was a real pleasure. Perhaps I’ll see you again before I leave today.”
“Not a chance,” I told him.
“Rachel, for crying out loud,” Dad said, shaking his head at me, exasperated. “Mr. Clementine, please excuse my daughter. I tried to raise her as well as I could, but I obviously had some failings.”
“Please, it’s Sebastian.”
The two of them walked into the house like old chums, toward the dining room, which Dad had converted into an office for the farm, complete with a desk and file cabinets and rolling chairs. If Dad wasn’t going to listen to me about this, then there was nothing I could do but wait and hope for the best.
Sebastian had betrayed us. If he’d told Dad the truth about why he’d come out to visit the farm today, Dad would’ve run him off rather than listen to another word about selling the place.
My crisis was almost existential. For all of my doubts about my dreams, the seeds my mother had planted in my head about what I should really be doing, and the fun I’d had away at college—the farm was my home. I’d grown up here. Dad hadn’t moved around. I’d been born at the nearest hospital and brought promptly back to this very house. It was the only place I’d ever lived beyond my four years at college.
Sebastian couldn’t take my home away from me. He just couldn’t.
It struck me to try to creep toward the office to try and eavesdrop on what they were talking about. They’d left the door a little ajar. It would be the easiest thing to do, and it would give me a head start on heading off this disaster.
But as I crept across the floor, avoiding the squeaky parts with practiced ease, the door popped fully open and Sebastian and Dad walked out. Their faces would’ve been comical if I’d felt like laughing. Sebastian looked, for the first time I’d ever seen him, cowed, and Dad looked furious. I felt a swell of pride. Of course Dad wouldn’t sell the farm to the likes of Sebastian. I should’ve placed more faith in him.
“The stubborn apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Sebastian remarked as he swept past me, Dad stopping short. “I’ll see you around, Rachel.”
“I doubt that very much,” I said sweetly.
Dad didn’t say anything until we heard the roar of the sports car’s engine outside, its tires spinning on the loose gravel in Sebastian’s apparent eagerness to get away.
“Did you know he wanted to try and buy the farm?” Dad asked, as the sound of the car faded in the distance.
“Why do you think I was so rude to him?” I fired back at him, smiling prettily. “I have your best interests in mind, Dad. I wouldn’t be mean to a potential client just because I felt like it. Give me a little credit, now.”
“That’s my girl,” he said, giving me a rough kiss on the cheek. “I’ve wasted enough time on that guy. I have to get back to business.”
I’d done my part to protect Dad’s dream. But when silence ruled that house, I was surprised at the feeling that consumed the greater part of me—regret. Regret that I’d probably never see Sebastian Clementine again.
Good riddance, I tried to tell myself. He’d had sex with me to try and get me on his side, to try and convince Dad to sell him the farm. There wasn’t anything there except for subterfuge.
And yet, that regret lingered and swelled and fermented, and all I could do was puzzle over it.
Chapter 8
I halfway expected life to go back to normal, and for five whole days, it did. I did my chores, helped out where I could around the place, made my deliveries, and did my best to forget the way Sebastian’s touch had seared my skin.
It was Dad who brought Sebastian up again at dinner, and only because I asked him.
Dad sighed, as he pushed the spinach around on his plate.
“If you don’t like dinner, you can just say it,” I said and sighed right back at him. “All I’m trying to do is make sure your diet isn’t completely fried.” I’d made a grilled chicken salad with fresh spinach we grew right here, along with some tomatoes and bell peppers that I’d picked from our personal garden earlier in the week. I thought it was pretty good, especially with the dressing I’d made from just a bit of olive oil mixed together with freshly squeezed lime juice. But I knew Dad’s tastes leaned toward the salty, breaded, deep-fried territory.
“The salad’s fine,” he said, shor
t.
“There are leftovers in the fridge from earlier in the week,” I tried again as he stabbed a slice of tomato with his fork. “You said you thought the pasta was good, and I made the sauce from scratch.”
“I said this is fine!” His shoulders slumped, and he dropped the fork on the plate. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I've just been thinking a lot about that guy.”
“What guy?” I asked automatically, even though I knew exactly whom he meant.
“That Clementine.” Dad leaned back in his chair, his frown deepening.
“You’re not really having second thoughts about his offer, are you?”
“Of course not,” he snorted. “But he was really something. Full of himself, you know?”
“Oh, I know.”
“Did he act like that while you were showing him around?” Dad asked.
I shook myself. I needed to remember that, until Sebastian’s in-person visit to the farm, Dad wasn’t aware that we had any history. Nothing about the wreck, certainly not a word about me crashing his work meeting and making out with him in the office, and absolutely nothing about our happy reunion in the barn.
I forced myself to shrug noncommittally. “He just seemed kind of weird when I was showing him around,” I said. “He walked like he owned the place already.”
“Figures.” Dad pushed himself away from the table, leaving his plate mostly untouched. “Would you be offended if I went on to bed without finishing up here? There was nothing wrong with your salad, Rachel, but I’ve lost my appetite talking about Clementine.”
My gut clenched with anger. “That’s all right, Dad. Sorry that guy has you all riled up. Screw him.”
“Language, young lady.”
“Fuck him?”
To his credit, Dad managed to keep his face straight save for a quick quirk of the corners of his mouth. “Really, Rachel. I have no idea where you learned that kind of language.”
“Do you really have no idea?” I asked, laughing. Farming folks were earnest in deed and word. I’d grown up knowing all the choicest words, teaching my friends at school how to use them. Barring stuffing my ear canals with plugs, there was nothing Dad could’ve done to protect my innocence—and my curiosity.
“Must’ve been college,” Dad sniffed. “Good night. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I’d did what I could to ease Dad’s black mood, but I was immersed in my own now, thinking about Sebastian being mean to Dad. No one could be mean to Dad. I couldn’t even be mean to him. He was too cute for mistreatment, small in stature and big in personality. I flew through cleaning the dishes in a righteous fury, but my anger hadn’t dissipated by the time I got upstairs.
I stared at my computer, and I hatched a terrible idea. Revenge was always a terrible idea, but I was a loyal daughter to Dad. He would be avenged. I would undertake this in the name of his pride and in the name of this farm.
Sebastian was going down.
I cranked the old machine on and waited patiently as it labored toward the Internet, my lips mouthing the words I wanted to use, searching for just the right way to say it. My grin got wider and wider as my message crystallized.
I directed the browser to the website of Clementine Organics and clicked on links until I found a comments page. I couldn’t help my wicked laugh at some of the other reviews already posted—all glowing reviews of the company’s professionalism and dedication to the environment and sustainability. I cracked my knuckles one by one, enjoying the delicious popping and release, and positioned my hands over the keyboard.
“I have to question Clementine Organics’ professionalism after several highly unprofessional interactions with its president and CEO, Sebastian Clementine,” I typed, almost afraid of what my face looked like as I did it. “These interactions have led me to believe that there is a rotten fruit at the top of the tree at Clementine Organics. It’s one thing to tout your company’s important work on quality organic produce. It’s another completely different thing to try to lord your influence over a family-owned farm, waving handfuls of money at its owners to try to gobble it up into your corporation while simultaneously wriggling out of gentleman’s agreement. Clementine Organics, consider dumping Sebastian Clementine. He is rotten through and through.”
Just to be sure the message got across, I created social media accounts as quickly as the aged computer would allow me to and shared the same message on Clementine Organics’ Facebook page and Twitter timeline. Of course, it took a screenshot to share it on Twitter, but I was fairly sure I got the message across.
My Facebook was the first to ping. That surprised me. I’d expected perhaps some kind of response from the company’s supporters—I’d chosen a pen name in anticipation of some hate mail—but I hadn’t thought the company would employ someone to watch its social media mentions around the clock. It was far past normal business hours.
“We are so sorry to hear about your bad experience,” the message read. “Would you care to discuss it further via direct message so we can try and solve your problem?”
I smirked and typed back. “No. I would prefer to let everyone see just how crooked Sebastian Clementine is. A little transparency might go a long way in saving your company from rot.”
I got another alert shortly thereafter, this time, from my cellphone. Poor computer. It just couldn’t keep up anymore with social media notifications.
But when I examined my display, it was from my bank, not my new Facebook account. Someone had just tried to transfer five hundreds bucks into my account. How was that even possible? My frown of confusion deepened into a scowl of irritation when I saw it was a wire transfer from one Sebastian Clementine.
He’d attached a message to it. “Does this clear my name?” it read. “Please cease and desist your online commenting. The lawyers are getting concerned.”
Cease and desist? Me? He needed to cease and desist his machinations for our family farm a long time ago. I huffed and refused to accept the wire transfer.
“I would like the public to know that an attempt has been made to bribe me,” I typed in response to my previous Facebook comment. “I have refused this payment and would like to recommend that Sebastian Clementine immediately resign from his position.”
I got a “like” on this comment from a random account and smiled. Sebastian was going to hit the roof.
His response was even swifter than before, making me suspicious that he was the one manning the watch over social media mentions for his company. My phone made another sound, and my eyes bugged out of my head. It was a wire transfer for a thousand bucks, and another message from Sebastian.
“Please just take the money and let it be the end of it,” the message read. “The idea that I would resign at your urging is laughable. I pity you and this pathetic campaign. Don’t make a joke out of yourself.”
I gritted my teeth and refused the wire transfer yet again, turning back to my keyboard and Facebook.
“If I thought I could do a screen capture of my bank account and post it here for proof without getting my identity stolen, I would,” I typed, “but I have just been offered hush money in a larger amount. I will not be silent. Sebastian Clementine must go. Let’s make this viral.”
This time, I got five likes—three of them almost immediately. There must not have been much else going on online, and people were starting to perk up and pay attention to this exchange. Perfect. I smiled as my phone signaled once more, but my stomach did a flip-flop when I saw the notification.
Sebastian’s price had risen to $10,000, and he’d left another message to go along with it.
“I understand why you’re upset,” it read. “Will you take it out on me instead of my company? Use this money to help around the farm. Call me.” He’d included a phone number, and I stared at it numbly, as Facebook comments continued to pop up regarding my smear campaign.
“What’s going on?” someone typed. “Is this thing still on, or what?”
Someone else liked t
hat comment, and added another. “Just when things were starting to get juicy…”
I felt a rush of shame and hung my head before deleting my comments and my social media accounts. I hadn’t even attracted any responses on Twitter, even though half a dozen half-naked women had followed me in the short amount of time I’d been online. What had I been thinking? I’d been so indignant that Dad’s feelings had been hurt that I’d done something stupid. Sebastian was being nice, if a little bit desperate, and if I’d succeeded in making people think his company was crooked, innocent people working their for a living would be hurt.
It was as if I’d clocked out of my own mind for a few long minutes and come back to find the place in shambles.
I closed my bedroom door before looking again at my phone. If I kept the money, it would more than double what I had in my savings account. I shook my head. No. I wasn’t keeping the money. Even if it would’ve been more than enough to conduct a couple of much-needed upgrades around the farm. Keeping the money would somehow absolve Sebastian of what he’d tried to do, and there was no way I was going to do that. I was still angry with him, and he was going to hear about it. He wasn’t off the hook. Not even close.
I rejected the transfer yet again and dialed the number he’d given me.
“Sebastian Clementine.”
His smooth voice made me shiver in spite of my anger at him, and I had trouble speaking for a long, awkward moment.
“It’s me,” I said finally, disappointed that my tone wasn’t angrier. “Rachel Dare.”
“I’m glad you called, Rachel, but unhappy that you didn’t take the money.”
“I don’t want your money.” As the words fell out of my mouth, I realized they were true. I didn’t want Sebastian’s money. Not even the five hundred dollars he owed me for the repairs to my truck. Taking that money would bind me to him, and I preferred to try and keep myself above the fray from now on.
“Five hundred dollars is nothing to me,” he said, and I knew he was telling the truth. The man was the president and CEO of a highly successful company. People would pay good money for organic produce. It was why the farm was still afloat. If Clementine Organics was to snap up exclusive distribution rights from a number of organic farms, there was no limit as to what kind of growth the company could experience.
Dare Page 7
