Page 7 of So Wrong It Must Be Right

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 readmy 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’rethe 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 foreight 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 yellingsex-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 heroutthe 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?

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