Page 18 of So Wrong It Must Be Right

He gave a little nod of acknowledgment, and then they were walking from the parking lot of Gallagher’s, toward his little farm oasis in the middle of the city.

She knew they weren’t dating. They weren’t in a relationship, and they probably didn’t even really know each other, but she couldn’t resist sliding her hand into his and giving him a reassuring squeeze as they walked.

* * *

Carter was losing it. The last thing he should’ve done tonight was walk over to Gallagher’s. But it had been there,loomingin the distance, staring at him—the blinking beacon of what he wanted.

D. Fantasy. A life that didn’t hurt so damn bad like this one did.

It was fucked up beyond belief that D was Dinah, and worse that they were pretending that they could set aside half their lives—no, more than half their lives—95 percent of their lives, and have this little 5 percent of messed-up sex.

But he didn’t care. His heart hurt and he just had to get out of this space before all of that pain came crashing down inside of him.

His family had left this morning after the funeral yesterday, and that was part of the pain. That they could come and grieve, and then just leave. The way everyone always did. Everyone always taking everything andleaving.

But D’s hand was in his, warm and alive. Other than his farm, her words had been the only constant, living thing in his life in the past few months. Everything had centered on starting the farm, then growing it the past few years, and she’d been the only one to penetrate that focus.

The fact she was real . . .

Maybe some other day he could focus on the messed-up part of all this, how she was irrevocably Gallagher and the enemy, but today he didn’t have it in him. If he didn’t let some of this pressure go, he would explode.

They reached his gate, having said absolutely nothing in the quick walk. He thought about offering her one last chance to back out. He thought about trying to affect some nonsense persona, someone who didn’t give a shit if she wanted to stay or not. He almost told her to just go, that this was all a mistake.

But he didn’t see the woman who had tried to buy his land out from under him next to him tonight. This woman had her hair back in a ponytail, and her makeup must have smudged off over the course of the day. She had a silky shirt on, jeans, and yeah, those ridiculous fashion boots women were always wearing these days, but she didn’t look like Dinah Gallagher, ruler of her own little world.

She looked like any other woman. Soft and warm and approachable. So he didn’t say a word, he just opened his gate, and she walked in ahead of him.

He was hard just from watching her saunter through his rows of plants that led to the door. The soft curve of her ass in those jeans, the way it felt like she’d walked that row, sauntered toward his porch, a million times before.

After all, how many times had he written this scenario? Coming home together, walking toward that house with sex on their minds. He’d imagined it in great detail over and over for months.

She didn’t disappoint. Not in the least. He followed her at a leisurely pace, the pressure in his chest already unwinding. Sick. Pathetic. Sure. But if that’s what fantasy could do, if it could get him through this boiling, painful grief, then he would use it. He would use C and D, even if it was wrong.

Hell, she’d started it. With herWhat if I said I wanted you to fuck me?that night, in his living room.

It was his turn to have his way. She took the stairs of his stoop with that confident grace that never seemed to leave her. She was standing at his door, giving him one of those little arched-brow looks he imagined worked on a million men in a million boardrooms. She was a force. Powerful. He wanted some of that for himself, even knowing it was from the last woman he could possibly want anything from and survive.

He took the stairs slowly, one by one, feeling something like a predator. And he liked it. He liked it because he could tell that she liked it. The way she inhaled sharply and gave a little sigh, the way she leaned slightly against his door, her breasts arching out as if they wanted to touch him.

He didn’t stop. He kept going until he was pressed up against her pressed up against that door. Her palms were flattened against the rough wood and he pressed his on either side of her head.

Her breath came in short puffs and her eyes all but glowed green in the porch light. She smelled like a mix of citrusy perfume and the greasy bar food of Gallagher’s. It was a strangely erotic combination because it was strangely revealing. Polished, pretty Dinah Gallagher in her pencil skirts and high heels and probably expensive perfume, managing what really wasn’t much more than a glorified bar.

Except that didn’t matter. Not the Dinah Gallagher part of her. He didn’t want that. He wanted D, this fantasy person.

He didn’t move. He let the moment stretch out, drawing tighter and tighter as their gazes held. He ached for her, and there was something deliciously potent in that. Potent enough to make him forget what this was all about. Who she was. Who he was. All he could feel was the steady throb of his dick. All he could see was the lust in her gaze, and all he could feel was the sweet softness of D.

He wanted to live in this moment. Soak it up. Stay here—right here in heady anticipation. But she moved, her hands coming off the door, reaching out, her fingers slowly curling under the waistband of his jeans. He could feel the slight scrape of her nails against the sensitive skin at his hips.

The little sound of satisfaction she made flashed through him like a sweet burn. Her fingers edged toward the center and she deftly flicked the button open and then undid the zipper. Her finger traced the rock-hard outline of him. Again she made that little pleasured noise and this time he groaned too.

She laughed, something sweet and bright about it that lifted him up out of the darkness he’d been struggling so hard to rise above.

He shouldn’t do this. He didn’t deserve this, and yet he couldn’t walk away.

“Do you remember the one where we started out here?”

As though one of their little scenarios was a memory instead of a few typed words. But something about their exchanges had always been like memory.

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