by Nicole Helm
“Geez.” Kayla waved her phone in front of Dinah’s face, the screen displaying a myriad of apps. “Not even Snapchat?”
“Nope. It’s all very old-fashioned. Like Jane Austen. Or You’ve Got Mail. Only with sex stuff.”
“Go have some real sex, Dinah.”
“I do that too!” Although admittedly less and less. Maybe not for six months or so. Trying to prove herself to Uncle Craig was eating her life away, and the nice thing about a sexy email was she could read it whenever she wanted and didn’t have to remember its birthday or cook it dinner. It was perfect really, except the whole do-it-yourself aspect.
But do-it-yourself had been instilled on her from a young age, no matter how false the message rang in her adulthood.
The tract of land behind Gallagher’s that Uncle Craig wanted to buy was a strange sight in downtown St. Louis. Between one empty lot Uncle Craig had already bought, and an aging home with a scraggly yard that Craig was also after, a land of green emerged.
Not even green grass, but huge plants, archways covered in leaves, rows and rows of produce-bearing stems. So much green stuff the crumbling brick exterior of the old house behind it all was barely visible from where they stood in front of the chain-link fence that enclosed the property.
“It’s cute. Kind of funny we’re trying to get him to sell it so we can pave over it and then have a farmer’s market.”
Dinah had waged her own personal battle over the seemingly ironic or at the very least incongruous business plan her uncle had put forth, but being the black sheep of the family thanks to her dad screwing just about everything up meant Dinah didn’t have a say. Even Kayla adding her opinion as sustainability manager had done nothing to sway Craig.
So, Dinah would find a way to get Mr. Hippie Urban Farmer to sell his land, and with any luck, convince him she was doing him a favor and sign him up for a booth for next year’s market, which Kayla would be in charge of. The Gallagher & Ivy Farmer’s Market would be a success one way or another.
“Look, apparently, from what I can tell, he grew up on a real farm and his family left that one, then he worked on some other family member’s farm and they sold to a developer or something. This place was his grandmother’s house, and over the course of the past four years, he’s turned it into this. So, that may explain his refusing Gallagher’s initial offer.”
“What makes you think we can get through to him if my dad couldn’t?”
“His family has a history of selling land. He should be well versed in the benefits. Surely a guy like him wants a bigger space, and the money we’re offering will allow him that. Besides, we have a soul and decency on our side.”
Kayla snorted. “No offense, but I’m a little glad your dad went off the deep end and I’m not the only one with a soulless Gallagher as a father.”
“Gee, thanks,” Dinah muttered, trying to ignore the little stab of pain. She couldn’t be offended at the attack on her dad. It was warranted. They’d spent plenty of their childhood complaining about Kayla’s dad being a douche. But, still, it hurt. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Oh well, what could she do? She and Kayla stepped under the archway of green tendrils and the sign that read Front Yard Farm. The place was cute. Weird, no doubt, but cute.
Before they could make it past the first hurdle of beanstalks or whatever, the door to the brick house creaked open and a man stepped onto the porch. Dinah stopped mid-step, barely registering that Kayla did too.
He was tall and lanky and wearing loose-fitting khaki-colored pants covered in dirt and a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows over a faded T-shirt. It was the face, though, that really caught her attention. Sharp and angular. Fierce. Only softened by the slight curl to his dark hair, his beard obscuring his jawline. Something about the way he moved was pure grace, and everything about his looks made Dinah’s attraction hum to attention.
“He’s like every hipster fantasy I’ve ever had come to life,” Dinah whispered, clutching Kayla’s arm briefly.
“Lord, yes.”
The man on the stoop, with the hoe, and the flannel, and the beard—sweet Lord—stared at them suspiciously. “Can I help you two?”
Dinah exchanged a glance with her cousin, who was valiantly trying to pretend they hadn’t been drooling.
“Mr. Trask?”
“Yeah.”
“Hi, I’m Dinah Gallagher and this is Kayla Gallagher. We’re from Gallagher’s Ta—”
“Nope.”
The door slammed so emphatically, Dinah jerked back. She’d barely registered the guy moving inside before he was completely gone behind that slammed door.
“Well.”
“What were you saying about human decency and souls making a difference?”
Dinah started picking her way across the narrow and uneven brick path to the door. “He hasn’t had a chance to see it yet. Maybe the meeting with your dad ended poorly. We’ll have to mend a few fences.”
“Before we buy them all,” Kayla muttered. “Remember when we were kids and thought we’d be calling the shots?”
“We still will be. Just need another decade.” Or two. That was how family business worked. She wasn’t going to abandon it just because it was harder than she’d expected or taking longer than she’d anticipated. No, she was going to fight.
And should Kayla ever get married, Dinah would not follow in her father’s footsteps and sleep with her best friend and family member’s spouse.
Dinah reached the door and knocked. She didn’t entertain thoughts of failing because it simply wasn’t an option. Failing Gallagher’s was never going to be an option.
The door remained closed. Dinah pursed her lips. This was not going the way she’d planned.
“Okay. Well. I won’t be deterred.”
“Come on, Dinah. Let’s go.” Kayla stood in the yard, hands shoved into the pockets of her dress. “Call him. Write him an email. I don’t want him calling the cops on us. Oh, maybe you can accidentally write him one of your sex emails. That’ll get his attention.” She sighed, loud enough to be heard across the yard. “I would so not mind getting that guy’s attention.”
“I’m going to pick something.” Dinah surveyed the plants surrounding her. She didn’t know a lot about farmers or farming, but if he was so dead set on not selling, he obviously cared deeply about this yard of produce. So, she’d lure him out that way.
“Don’t! He’ll call the cops.”
Dinah waved her off. “I’ll pick something ripe and give it back to him. I’m doing him a favor, really.”
Kayla muttered something, but Dinah ignored her. She surveyed the arches of green and splashes of color—squash maybe.
Something about it all looked very familiar. Like she’d seen it . . . somewhere. Somewhere. Well, she didn’t have time to dwell on that. She had to find something ripe to pick.
And since she had no idea what she was doing, that was going to be a challenge.
* * *
Carter was not falling for this dirty trick. He wasn’t. If he was grinding his teeth and clenching his fists in his pockets, it was only because . . .
Aw, fuck it. She was winning. Touching his plants, his stuff, picking a damn unripe squash. He couldn’t let it go even if he knew that was her plan all along.
He threw open the window, pushing his face close to the screen. “I’m calling the cops,” he shouted.
“Oh, I wish you wouldn’t,” the brunette returned, just as casual as you please. “I only want to have a civil conversation.”
“Hell to the no, lady. I know what Gallagher means by civil, and it’s ‘screw me six ways to Sunday and then expect me to thank him for it.’”
“As you can see, Mr. Gallagher isn’t here.”
“Just because you have breasts doesn’t mean I’m more inclined to talk to you.” Even if they were rather distracting when she was kneeling facing his window. From his higher vantage point, he could see down the gap between fabric and skin. Dark la
ce against very pale skin. A few freckles across her chest and cheeks. He briefly thought of his last email from D.
Maybe we couldn’t wait, and I unbutton and unzip your pants right there on your front porch.
He couldn’t think about the rest of that email and maintain his irritation, so he forced it out of his mind and focused on the offending party.
Her hair was a fashionable tangle of rich reddish waves. Her face was all made up with hues of pink, and the heels of her shoes sank into the mud next to his zucchini. When she stood, wrinkling her freckled nose at him, he could see that she had long, lean legs, probably as pale and freckly as her chest, but black tights obscured them. Which was good. This was one attraction he had no interest in pursuing. A Gallagher for fuck’s sake. Of course she was gorgeous. She probably paid a lot of money to be. Her family was rolling in it.
“I’m calling the cops,” he threatened again.
“Don’t you think they have better things to do?”
“Listen, lady—”
“All I want is ten minutes of your time, Mr. Trask. That’s all. Much easier than getting the police involved.”
credit: Callie Boyd Photography
About the Author
NICOLE HELM grew up with her nose in a book and a dream of becoming a writer. Luckily, after a few failed career choices, a husband, and two kids, she got to pursue that dream. Nicole writes down-to-earth contemporary romance. From farmers to cowboys, Midwest to the West, she writes stories about people finding themselves and finding love in the process. She lives with her husband and two young sons in Missouri. She is slightly (okay, totally) addicted to Twitter (@nicolethelm), the St. Louis Cardinals, and someday owning a barn. Visit Nicole online at www.nicolehelm.com.