Riding the sugar high a.., p.15
Riding the Sugar High: a Grumpy Sunshine Romantic Comedy, page 15
“So do you and Logan.” She grabs the wine, takes another sip, and settles the bottle between her legs. “An interesting couple for sure.”
There’s a little resentment in her words, probably due to a mix of wine and, from what I can sniff out, personal dissatisfaction. And she must recognize it too, because she gives me an apologetic smile.
“I want him to be happy.” The corners of her lips now seem hesitant, as if carrying the burden of long-buried sadness. “Both of us do. I just wish he could be happy with us in his life. Aaron misses him so much, and occasions like this, when we’re all back together, make me hopeful and then . . . they just crush me.”
Placing an elbow on my thigh, I rest my chin on a fist. “I’m sorry. I don’t know much about what happened, but I can see there are a lot of emotions involved. I’m sure they need time. Eventually, they’ll talk it out.”
“Maybe. Or maybe some scars are just too deep to fix.”
I let the silence spread until with a sigh, she reaches into her pocket and takes out a transparent bag. “Look, Prim. I’m not even supposed to tell you, but we found his keys in the small forest between his and Derek’s property.”
My jaw slacks, my mouth turning as dry as sand as I look down at the keys.
“We’ll find more evidence.” Her eyes are cloudy, and her voice soft, as if she’s speaking out of worry for her brother-in-law and not as a cop. “And then there’ll be nothing you or I can do to help him.”
Lowering my gaze, I try to breathe through the crushing sensation on my chest. Of course, I can’t tell her that I can’t say a word without incriminating myself, but I wish she knew that I’m not just being careless with Logan’s future.
“Look, I get it.” Her hand cups mine, and once I venture a glance at her face, her green eyes sparkle with compassion. “You don’t want to rat him out. Logan and I have been friends since we were eleven, and I know exactly what he’s been telling you. That we won’t figure it out, that we’ll let it be.” Lips stiffening into a hard line, she shakes her head, her fiery red hair swinging with the motion. “But we won’t. Connor and Derek won’t.”
My stomach churns as I weigh my options, but doubt creeps in, clouding my judgment and making it difficult to see clearly. What if she’s right and Logan is wrong? By withholding the truth, we’re extending our punishment. We’re getting into a sea of trouble. This was nothing but a stupid accident, and I can’t lose everything because of it, but I also can’t let Logan take the fall.
Maybe I should just trust Josie, tell her everything, and hope she’ll help us. It’s obvious she cares about him.
“I . . .”
She tilts her head, studying my eyes as she takes my hand. “Yes?”
“Okay. Look. What happened is—”
The door opens behind us, and as Logan peeks his head out, she mumbles a curse under her breath. “Ready to go?”
Was she hoping to catch me alone?
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“Think about what I said, okay?” Her eyes are pleading as I stiffly nod her way. “It was so nice to meet you under different circumstances, Prim.”
“Yes, it was,” I say as I stand and straighten my dress.
She grabs the bottle, holding the railing for stability, then gives me a drunken smile before she hugs me. I meet Logan’s gaze over her shoulder, but he looks away, a somber aura around him.
‘Nice to meet you’ my ass.
I can’t believe I almost got played.
The phone rings, interrupting the silence, and the kiwi-pineapple gummy in my hands falls to the floor. Before I can even hope to reach it, one of the pigs enters the kitchen and swallows it without even chewing. “Hey,” I scold weakly as I walk to the phone. “Your dad said I shouldn’t feed you anything. He won’t be happy when he gets back home, young lady.”
The piglet watches me as if she’s actually paying attention, and with a giggle, I bring the phone to my ear. Logan left an hour ago to do something—and despite my insistence, he made it pretty clear that I’m not meant to know what. “Hello?” I say as I bring the phone to my ear.
“Uh—you’re not Logan. Do I have the wrong number?”
“No, this is the Coleman farm, but Logan is out right now. Can I take a message?”
“Yeah. Tell him Tom said he should buy a cellphone like a normal person.”
I snort, quickly deciding I like Tom, whoever he is. “Will do, but I can’t promise it’ll work.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” There are some traffic noises, then, “Well, look, he was supposed to come by my office an hour ago, but he never showed. It’s kind of urgent.”
It sounds like Tom is deciding whether he can share with me whatever he needs to tell Logan, but I don’t want to interfere with his privacy, so I offer, “That’s probably my fault. I, uh . . . dropped in earlier in the week without warning and took over his house.”
“Oh. Oooh, you’re his girlfriend. Well, okay. Tell him we have a potential buyer, but we need to act fast. I got the feeling they were fretting, so we don’t want to give them too much time to change their minds.”
My brows scrunch, but I nod. “Sure, okay. Hope you guys make the sale.”
“That’s very kind of you. I wish you were my client instead of that grumpy ass.”
I chuckle, leaning against the bookshelf. “I’ll keep you in mind if I ever need to sell something.”
“You do that. Apartments, villas, commercial spaces, and apparently, farms.”
My heart stops in my chest as my whole body turns cold. Did he say . . . farms? As in . . . Logan’s farm? Is Logan trying to sell?
“Hello? I think I lost you.”
“No, uh, sorry. I’m here.”
“Oh, guess who just parked in front of the office? Sorry to bother you; it looks like your boyfriend was just horribly late.”
“Yeah,” I say faintly. “Okay. Bye then.”
Once I hang up, I bring a hand to my chest. Each new wave of emotion is chasing the last so fast that I can’t fully feel anything. Is he seriously selling this place? His home?
Kyle and Simon can’t possibly know a thing about it, or it would have come up. And his brother—his family. Nobody knows about this, I’m sure.
Why is he giving up on this farm? On what’s most important to him?
The fresh scar of betrayal bleeds again as I slowly make my way over to sit on the couch. I thought he was starting to open up to me—that we were becoming something like friends—but maybe Derek is right.
Maybe there’s no friendship, no affection or loyalty. Just an opportunity to escape jail. And I’m an idiot who’s falling for the same scheme a second time.
your boobs distract me
Logan
With the door closing behind me, I exhale, my eyes bouncing from the candle on the coffee table to Primrose’s makeup bag on the bookshelf and her tablet abandoned on the carpet in front of the small fireplace. Her book is face down as if she’s using the whole couch as a bookmark, and all the lights in the house are on, though she’s nowhere to be found.
I click my tongue, tossing away an empty yogurt cup. I’m not a neat freak, but living with this woman is like being swept up by a tornado.
As I approach the corridor, the phone rings rings, and I stop to answer. “Hello?”
“Hi. Farm Coleman?”
“Yes. Who am I speaking to?”
“It’s Ashton Clifford. From Clifford’s Vegotruck.”
“Uh, yeah.” I rub the side of my head, trying to figure out if I’ve ever heard of it. “How can I help you?”
“We’d like a quote. We heard your produce is vegan?”
Oh, fuck. A new client? We haven’t had any requests in months. “Yes, we’re certified by the Vegan Farming Association.” I grab my notebook and a pen. “Happy to send you a quote. Give me your contact information, and I’ll have one of my guys call you.”
He recites his number, and I say, “Thanks, man. We’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
When I hang up, I’m smiling. This hardly makes a difference in the big picture, but it’s a new client. It’s something. Especially seeing as the quote I got from the mechanic nearly gave me a stroke. Could it be the ads I set up throughout the region? Or maybe word of mouth is doing its job? Well, who cares? What matters is that I’m doing something right after all.
As I turn around, Primrose comes out of the corridor with a book held open against her chest. She drops on the couch, her eyes running down my mud-covered clothes, and begins reading without so much as a “Hello.”
“Hi,” I mumble. “All good?”
She ignores me, flipping pages like I don’t exist.
Is she mad about lunch or something? She tried to discuss it as we drove back, after whining about Josie, who apparently tried and nearly managed to trick her into confessing. I managed to calm her down when she freaked out about the keys they found, though I’m most certainly concerned about it, then successfully avoided her billion questions about my brother and me.
I was rude, but nothing out of the ordinary. Normal-rude. So why does she look pissed off?
Glancing at the sweater on the chair, then the empty dish on the counter, I clear my throat. I’m not sure what exactly happened in the three hours I’ve been out of the house, but she’s pissed. Seeing as I’m already annoyed after the day I had, I can’t say I expect this to end well.
“Did you decide what recipe to send Marisol?”
She shakes her head but doesn’t say a word. Seeing as she’s physically incapable of silence, it’s not a good sign. Maybe that’s why she’s in a shitty mood, though it seems targeted at me.
“Well, why not?”
When she shrugs, my patience wears out.
“Look, if something’s bothering you—” I start, only to be interrupted by the male piglet, who welcomes me with a squelch as he bites the hem of my jeans. “If you have something to say—”
“What, Logan?” she asks in a snappy tone. “Do you want me to be honest with you? To just come out with it and tell you the truth?”
The spark of anger inside me flares, because you know what? This place is a mess, and having her around all the time is a constant and exhausting exercise in restraint. The situation with the police is stressing me out, and after my meeting with Tom, the last thing I need is to come back home and be screamed at for no fucking reason.
“You got a call,” she says. Her voice is weirdly calm and collected, but somehow, I know it’s because I’m standing in the eye of the hurricane, and the storm is just an inch away.
“Okay.” I give her a dry look. “Who was it?”
“Tom.”
“Oh.” My eyes jump to the phone, then back to her. He didn’t mention anything when I saw him today. “What did he say?”
“That you have a potential buyer.”
Swallowing, I study her expression. I can’t believe that idiot told her, and I can only hope he didn’t share more. That all she has is a suspicion.
“Mm. Well, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not it.” I brush it off. “I’m just selling my bike.”
She shakes her head, and I try to ignore the frantic beating of my heart. It’s as if a bucket of disappointment is perched above her head and slowly drenching her, drip by drip. “Really? You should call him back, then, because he thinks he’s selling your farm.”
I stare at her for a long moment, my jaw tightening.
“Are you not going to say anything?”
“What’s there to say?”
“You lied to me, Logan. You’re lying to everyone.”
“Oh, yeah?” My frown deepens. “Why should I tell you I’ve put the farm up for sale? You don’t work here. We’re not friends—we’re nothing. You’re a guest.”
She bites the inside of her cheek, and a light dims in her eyes. I’m being an asshole, but it’s the truth. I told her from the beginning that I was not looking for friendship or romance. Whatever remains is what we are, and that doesn’t grant heart-spilling or secret-sharing. I owe her nothing.
“What about Simon and Kyle? Are they just guests?”
“They’re my employees. I’m under no obligation to—”
“Aaron, then. Does he know you’re planning to sell the family farm?”
“Leave Aaron out of this,” I snap back. “You don’t know anything about him. He has no say on what goes on with my farm.”
Eyes darting down, she frowns, which is just great. She went from pissed off to sad.
“Look,” I mumble as I try to soften my voice, but the phone rings again, and I scoff. I usually get one call a week, if that.
I walk to the receiver, pick it up, and bark, “What?”
“Uh, hmm. Hello? Coleman Farm?”
Exhaling, I will my heartbeat to settle. “Yes, this is Logan. How can I help you?”
“Yes, hi. I’m calling from Eco Spot.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re a new vegan grocer that just opened in downtown Roseberg. We’ve been looking for a produce supplier, and . . .”
I tune out the woman’s words, my face scrunching. This can’t be normal. No new clients for six months, then two in twenty minutes? What are the chances?
“Hello?”
“Uh, yes, sorry. You . . . you wanted a quote?”
“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all. Let me get your number, and someone from my team will contact you tomorrow.”
I hang up, rubbing my beard, and look down at the two new potential leads. Is it possible? Have my efforts finally paid out? Maybe for once, I won’t be an absolute fuckup, and I can pull through.
Maybe . . . or maybe not.
It just can’t be a coincidence. There’s no way. And there’s only one new thing around here.
I turn around, eyes laser-pointed at Primrose. “What did you do?” I ask in a low rumble.
“Hm?” She shrugs from her spot on the couch, then brings the book closer to her face. Hiding, the little rat.
“Tell me how you got involved. Right now.”
“I didn’t—” When she notices the murderous and unforgiving glimmer in my eyes, her nose scrunches. “Okay, fine. I featured Kyle chopping wood without a shirt on my social media to give a little shout-out to the farm.”
Why did she even take a picture of Kyle? Was she planning to use it all along, or did she want it for herself?
No. Jesus, no. That isn’t the point.
“How dare you?” I hiss. “Who gave you permission to do something like that? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”
“Wow, okay.” Setting her book down on her chest, she scoffs. “That’s your reaction?” She presses her lips tight. “Then I probably shouldn’t tell you about the five other people who called.”
Holy shit. Seven new clients? In one day?
I’m speechless, but it lasts no more than a second. Then, I have so many words begging to be shouted, gritted out, groaned. How dare this woman come here and revolutionize my life? She’s messy, chatty, fucking hopeful and naive to an annoying degree. She’s hot and smart and funny, and talking to her is as effortless as being alone, and she can do so much better than me. And now, she’s getting involved with shit that isn’t her business. She’s doing my job for me.
Why is it that everyone can succeed at this but me?
And I thought I’d managed to do something right. Fucking idiot.
Pointing a finger at her, I snarl, “Don’t you dare meddle in my business anymore.”
“Seriously? Seven new clients.” She sits up, then stands, setting the book face down on the couch. “Can’t you just say thank you?”
I open my mouth to snap back, but my eyes stick to her chest. Staring at the faded white logo on the green cotton, I mumble, “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
I point at her, and when she looks down at her shirt—my shirt—she crosses her arms. “Oh, yeah. I found it in the guest bedroom. I had to put my pajamas in the wash after Lola—or Paco—slept on them.”
Lola? Paco? What the hell . . .?
Reading the question in my eyes, she shrugs. “The pigs. You didn’t like any of the names I suggested, so . . .” She shrugs.
So she named my pigs. Wore my shirt. Helped my farm.
I rub a hand over my mouth, knowing there’s only one thing I can do. Only one thing I should do. Lock myself in the bathroom, take a shower, and, as shameful as it may be, jerk off. Because she’s wearing my clothes, the green shirt reaching just above her knee, and she looks so hot I can’t think. Can’t reason. Can’t cope.
“Take it off,” I hiss despite my best judgment.
“What?”
“Take. My shirt. Off.”
She squints, her shoulders rolling forward. “Is it . . . is it an important T-shirt?” She looks down at the faded white drawing. “You can give me another, or—”
“No. Wear your own clothes, not mine.”
She stares at me for a couple of seconds, then, with a challenge in her eyes, whispers, “Really, Logan? I helped you. I posted about your farm while you’ve been lying to me. Now, because of a T-shirt—”
“End of fucking discussion, Barbie,” I bark as I walk into the kitchen. I need to walk away from her. Maybe drink a beer. Or tea. What would work best against unwanted erections?
I opt for tea, and with heat climbing up my neck, I rummage through the cabinets for the infuser. Of course, it’s not where I left it. Nothing is ever where I leave it.
I open the cutlery drawer, and she barges into the kitchen, arms bowed at her hips and a furious look in her eyes. “Stop pretending you’re looking for something. What is your problem? It’s a T-shirt.” She puffs her chest out and sighs. “No. You know what? I’m done being nice to you. You’re impossible. That’s why I wouldn’t date you.”
“Oh my god, you can’t be serious.”
“I am, I—”
“Barbie,” I say, drowning out her voice. “You want a reason not to date you? Look around.” When she does, I gesture at the cabinets. “I’m not pretending I’m looking for something. I’m actually looking for the tea infuser. And I can’t find it. You know why?”
