Riding the Sugar High: a Grumpy Sunshine Romantic Comedy

2. Be My Partner In Crime

“Look,just call road assistance. That’s what they’re for,” the man says in a gruff voice as he exits the car. He’s been trying to start the engine for the past ten minutes with no result, so it’s safe to say something important is broken.

This is just perfect, isn’t it? Just brilliant.

“It’s a rental.”

“Then call the rental company.” He studies me for a few seconds through the slit in his helmet and shrugs. “See ya.”

My eyes flare.

This guy can’t be serious. The car is broken because of him, and now he’s just going to leave me out here to fend for myself against wild beasts in the middle of the night? “Wait—where the hell are you going?”

He keeps walking. “Uh, none of your business?”

“You can’t leave me here.”

“I can, and more importantly, I have to. There’s somewhere I need to be.”

“Well, same.” And I can guarantee my plans are more important than whatever he has going on. “It’s your fault I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere. Now, you’re going to leave me in the hands of potential serial killers?”

“In Pinevale?” He snorts out a laugh. “You’re talking to the only criminal in the area.”

Eyes bobbing left and right, I shake my head. “That’s not reassuring!”

“Let me ease your concerns.” For a moment, his eyes stare into mine, then he hops on the motorcycle. “Bye.”

“No—no!” I rush in front of the wheel. “You’re not leaving. You hear me? If I’m stuck here, you’re stuck here.”

He rubs his brow as if appealing to deeply buried patience. “You know when you see those tiny-ass chihuahuas barking at Rottweilers and Pit bulls and think, ‘man, those rats should choose their battles?’”

“Are you comparing me to a dog?” I hiss.

“I’m comparing us both to dogs. I’m comparing you to an annoying dog unaware of its size.”

Though I’d love to argue, with his helmet and those broad shoulders, he’s pretty reminiscent of a Rottweiler—silent, dangerous power.

And I do feel like quite the chihuahua right now.

“Fine. You know what? I don’t need you. In fact, you’d probably get in the way. Go. Thank you for absolutely nothing.”

With a flip of my hair, I turn around and walk back to the car, then take out my phone. I’ve never dealt with anything like this before, seeing as in a big city like Mayfield, we mostly move around with public transportation, but it can’t be too hard. They’ll have to send someone out here.

Not sure where out here is exactly—around me, there are trees upon trees, endless silence, and a sweet, spring melody created by the buzzing of insects all around—but I can check online.

Holy shit. No reception.

He said there’s no reception.

Why did I come here? I knew it was a bad idea. But with my two-week-long work trip to Roseberg, a visit to its neighboring town Pinevale was too tempting to pass on.

“You have to walk to the end of the road.” Arms crossed, he stares at me with his back against the bike. He’s taken his helmet off, and now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I can see his high cheekbones and broad forehead. His eyebrows are thick and well-defined, sitting above striking almond-shaped eyes. With his straight and slightly narrow nose, long beard and mustache, and dark brown hair falling over his shoulders, he’s the most astonishingly attractive person I’ve ever seen in real life.

And for some reason, he kissed me.

“Great,” I mumble.

“You know, there’s no way a little bump caused this. It would have happened regardless of our accident.”

“I thought you were leaving?”

He shrugs, then walks. “And find out in the morning that you’ve been a victim of the local Hannibal Lecter?” He raises the hood of the car. “Wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

“Ha-ha.” I step closer, then look down at the incomprehensible cables and boxes. “Do you know what you’re doing? I don’t want more trouble with the rental agency.”

“Happy to leave you to yourself if you’d like.”

I’d like him to go to hell, but ‘the end of the road’ feels like a whole lot in these heels, and I can’t deal with how dark and silent this place is. With nothing around but fields, the thought of being alone out here is terrifying.

As casually as I can, I twist my neck and watch him, the kiss flashing through my mind. How his beard scratched my skin, and his taste, which I can only describe as “wild nature.” He has the most beautiful hooded bedroom eyes I’ve ever seen, and while I’m usually more into metrosexual men than gruff, rugged types, I’m pretty sure he rearranged my chromosomes.

“See if there’s a toolbox in the trunk.”

I walk around the car, then stand in front of the trunk, looking for the handle. By the time I finally find the hidden button, he’s glaring at me over the car’s roof. “Got it.”

“Congratulations.”

Ugh, why does such a good kisser have to be an ass?

There’s a small green box, so I bring it over, and with a relieved sigh, he opens it. “No flashlight.”

Flashlight? “I have a flashlight.”

He cocks a brow at me, and with a huffed chuckle, I take out my phone.

I turn the flashlight on, eyes narrowing when he goes ‘huh,’ then point it at the hood. He’s already removed a black piece that looks identical to all the other black pieces, and grabbing a wrench from the toolbox, he begins working.

Once again, I lose myself watching him, but I guess I’m excused. Finding someone who kisses you that well is not an everyday occurrence. In fact, I’d say if ever, it takes someone a good amount of tries to get it exactly right. But this guy had never met me before, had definitely never kissed me, and yet he just knew. There’s something to it, isn’t there? Like chemistry.

“Quit staring at me.”

Okay, maybe not chemistry.

I scowl, and for a while, I watch his hands at work, though I have no clue what he’s doing, and all I can do is pray that he knows. But it feels like forever, especially with the soft rustling of leaves and grass as unseen creatures navigate their way through the darkness.

Swallowing, I lean with my hips against the car. I focus on the noises I hear, shifting left and right, until my heart is thumping and I’m as tense as a bowstring. “Tell me something about yourself,” I burst.

Wrench in hand, he cocks a brow at me. “Huh?”

“I can’t stand the silence. The darkness.” I look around, picturing what could be hiding behind the bushes and tall grass. “Just say something.”

“You don’t like the silence and the darkness. You say something.”

Fair enough. He just had his first panic attack, and I’m here trying to make conversation. He must be exhausted, scared, confused—of course, he doesn’t want to talk. But I don’t mind talking, and it’s not like I’m dying to get to know this guy. “Uh, fine. I...I love making candy. Do you like candy?”

His lips press tight together.

“I’ve never ridden a bike,” I say, figuring I should aim for the one thing I know he likes. “How did you learn?”

He rubs his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, his hands black with motor oil.

I give up. I have absolutely no idea what to say, and I’m ready to bet ‘How old are you?’ or ‘What’s your zodiac sign?’ won’t achieve better results.

“I have a love bucket list,” I offer when the silence turns quieter and the night darker. His eyes dart to me, and I give him a tight-lipped smile. Seeing as this has attracted the attention of millions of people online, I figured it was a safe bet even with this ray of sunshine.

“A love bucket list?”

With a timid shrug, I say, “A list of things I’d like to do with a boyfriend. Or that he’d do for me. With me. To me.” I tap my fingers on my knee. “You get it.”

His eyes study me. “Are you dying?”

“What? No!”

“I had to make sure. Who has a bucket list at your age?”

“What’s the point of a bucket list if you write it on your deathbed?” I ask. When he tilts his head in a ‘you have a point’ motion, I continue. “There are certain things I want from love, and they haven’t happened yet, which can get quite depressing quite fast. When I feel down, I look at the list, and I can see my future. The future I want, anyway.”

He pauses. “But you’re not dying.”

“No, I’m not dying,” I confirm, my voice taking an annoyed edge.

When he smirks, I roll my eyes. He’s mocking me, and I’m making it easy. “What’s on the list?”

“A lot of things.”

“Tell me one.”

Pressing my lips tight, I hum. “Kiss my forehead.”

“Tell me one you haven’t crossed off.”

Eyes lowering to the ground, I pause for a long moment. “Uh, I guess... Fight for me.”

He says nothing, and I could kick myself for choosing something so depressing.

“How about Kiss someone I just ran over? Do you have that one?”

Laughter blossoms out of my lips, and thankful for the quick change of topic, I tilt my head. Though I’m afraid it isn’t on my bucket list, that kiss should be. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The low vibration of pleasure out of his mouth and right into mine. The way his hand inched down my back.

“Kiss me until I can’t breathe.” I look up at the clear sky sprinkled with stars. “I could cross that off now.”

He clears his throat, but I see how his chest puffs up with pride. “Could?” he asks. “You won’t?”

“I don’t havemy list.” I bring a hand to the back of my neck. “I lost it a while back.”

“So write it again.”

“Yeah. I should.” The muscles beneath my fingers stiffen, and I quickly regret mentioning the list at all. It’s all I’ve been thinking about—that stupid list. It was supposed to represent my hope, to give me comfort. Now, it’s a nightmare, following me wherever I go. A reason for ridicule. A scar.

“Okay. Let’s test this out,” he says. When I stare at him wordlessly, he points at the car. “That means get in and try to start this piece of junk.”

“Oh.” I settle on the driver’s seat, then turn the key in the ignition. Though it makes a slightly more encouraging noise than before, it’s still not what I’d like to hear.

“—re gas.”

“What?” I ask.

“Give it?—”

“I can’t hear you!”

“Goddamn it,” he grunts as he appears by my side. “Let me try.”

“You think I don’t know how to start a car?”

His eyes narrow, his lips pressed so hard it looks like his head might explode. Taking pity on him, I get out of the car and let him in.

In two seconds, the car engine is roaring.

He’s right. It is a piece of junk.

“There.” He steps out of the car. “It needed more gas.”

“Oh.” I nod, then throw him an awkward glance. I guess this is it. Maybe I should ask his name—I’d like to have something to call him when I reminisce about tonight. About our kiss. “Thank you so much.”

He barely acknowledges me as he walks to the hood and pulls it down. Then, brushing his hands together, he stands silently for a long moment. “Well, all right. Goodbye. Again.”

“I’m Primrose,” I say to his back once he turns.

He stops, then throws me a head-to-toe glare. “Of course you are.”

I’ve been told my name fits my aesthetic well, but never in that tone. Is he just not going to tell me his name? “And you?”

He shrugs. “Logan.”

Ugh. Logan.Even his name is hot. He doesn’t deserve a hot name.

When he slides his helmet on, I enter the car. By the time his engine roars, I’m holding the seat belt, unable to look away from Logan. Though the dark helmet shields his face completely, I know he’s staring at me.

I wave, and without as much as a nod, he takes off. Before long, he turns around the corner.

Gone.

Trying to release the adrenaline off me with a deep sigh, I focus on the car dashboard. This was a minor detour, but tonight is hardly over. I have a love bucket list to retrieve, and I’m not leaving this podunk of a town until I have it.

I pull into first gear, then release the handbrake, and after moving half a foot forward, the car engine sputters and dies, leaving me in the utter silence and darkness I spent the last half hour trying so hard to avoid.

Huffing out a breath, I throw my head back.

Fuck. My. Life.

* * *

The cab stops, and on one side of me are vast fields sectioned by rows of fruit trees, while on the other, a gate leading down a long, dark driveway. Though the weather might not have gotten the note about spring starting a few weeks ago, nature has, and the rolling hills in the distance are covered with blankets of lush green grass and dotted with colorful wildflowers.

“Is here okay?” the driver asks.

“Uh, y-yeah.” I have no idea, actually. “Is that Derek Gracen’s farm?”

He nods. “Well, it’s his dad’s farm, but he retired a couple of years ago, and Derek has taken over.” He throws a concerned look at me through the mirror. “He’s not a great kid, you know, sweetheart?”

Through the rearview mirror, I glance at the driver, whose worried expression reminds me of my dad. Where was he six months ago to warn me about this demon of a man?

“Oh, I know.”

He nods, then points at the black gate. “That’s him.”

With a “thank you,” I get out of the cab, clinging to my bag, then walk to the gate. There’s a doorbell, but I’m sure he’d refuse to see me if I rang it. He’s been avoiding confrontation for so long; I doubt he’d be keen now.

But I’ll make him.

Sure, I planned to show up here at eight, not at midnight. But with the accident, then having to call the rental company, then the cab, I’m not left with much choice. I’ll have to find a way back to Roseberg tonight, because my flight back home is tomorrow.

So it’s happening. Tonight. I’m getting my list back.

I hold on to the metal gate, then pull myself up and climb over another horizontal metal piece, praying to god I don’t fall and break my neck.

“Okay. Almost there,” I mumble as I swing my other leg over. I find the same piece of metal to stand on and release a deep breath, hopping to the ground.

Done. Wasn’t so bad either.

Silently, I walk down the driveway, my lips parting as the villa comes into view. It’s gorgeous. Its large windows emit a soft yellow light, painting the surrounding grounds with a warmth that reaches out into the darkness. The sturdy wooden beams and expansive wraparound porch make it look even more imposing as I step closer, the scent of wood smoke and earth filling my senses.

Following along the well-kept driveway, I reach the front porch, my hands sweating as my heart thumps faster.

I need to do this.

Yes, it’s downright idiotic, especially with everything he’s been saying about me online. But that’s my list. My stupid piece of paper.

“I want it back,” I mumble, and when I hike my bag up my shoulder, its contents spill onto the porch. Because of course they do. With a silent ‘Fuck!’ I lean down, then hastily shove my makeup and keys back inside. I silently wait for Derek to open the door and find me on my hands and knees on his porch, but nothing happens besides a noise in the distance.

Thank god he didn’t hear me.

I grab the lighter that landed next to the flower pot, only now realizing I still have that pack of cigarettes I confiscated from my dad last month when I visited him.

I’m not a smoker, but I’m also not a trespasser, yet here we are. So, hoping it’ll help calm my nerves, I take out a cigarette, bring it to my lips, and flick my thumb over the spark wheel, igniting a flame on my fourth try. When I breathe in, I almost immediately explode into a coughing fit.

“Shit!” I choke out as I try to cough on the inside. The smoke from the cigarette makes my eyes tear up, and smelling it only seems to worsen my cough. I stand, rushing down the steps and onto the front yard, then drop it and hack into my elbow.

Whydo people smoke?

When my throat is done spasming, and my lungs feel clear, I register the smell of the cigarette, only to notice a small pile of dry leaves catching fire.

Seriously?! Of all the places it could have landed on?

“No, no, no,” I whisper-shout as I approach it, then hold my foot over it. I think of stomping on the flames, but they’re rising too quickly. Next best option is to smother it, so I gather more leaves in my hands and throw them on top. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect.

“Holy shit,” I breathe out as I watch the fire grow higher, the flames licking the trash can next to the porch.

A loud noise nearby has me flinching, and with my heart in my throat, I run. Fast, ignoring the bouncing of my boobs—hardly supported in a bra that was not made for sports—or the fact that my heels are sinking in the mud, and I can’t see a single thing.

I run, knowing that if I’m found here, trying to set my ex-boyfriend’s property on fire, my life is officially over.

When I make out a long fence in the distance, I sprint toward it, hoping there’s safety on the other side. By the time I reach it, my lungs burn, and my muscles shake so hard that I’m not sure I can pull my leg over it. I gasp, catching my breath as I look behind me at the flames casting an orange glow in the night.

The sound of a gate clacking shut has me turning to the right, where a man in all black is running away from the house in a very similar fashion as what I just did, except it looks like he’s escaping from the back of the property.

“Oh crap,” I whimper when I realize he’s running my way. It must be Derek, and the thought of being caught paralyzes me on the spot.

I’m so screwed.

My heart gallops in my chest as he stops a few feet from me.

Are those...piglets tucked under his arms?

“You must be kidding me” comes out of his lips, and with a flinch, I realize this man is definitely not Derek. He’s taller—his shoulders much broader. Broader than the average human, actually. And his voice is gruff, stern—nothing like Derek’s slightly nasal tone.

I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to. It’s him. The man I hit. The one who panicked. The one who kissed me, then abandoned me.

Logan.

Why is he here? And why is he holding a piglet under each arm?

When a loud voice comes from the house, Logan turns around, his eyes bulging as he probably sees the flames.

He steps onto the fence, then tries to get one leg over it, but the squirming piglets restrict his movements, and he wobbles back down. “Shit—” He turns to me. “Grab her.”

“What?” I hiss, cowering away from the small pink animal he’s holding out.

“Grab the piglet and climb over.”

“I’m—I’m not touching that...that wild beast.”

“It’s a pig, not a bear,” he grits.

I open my mouth to quip back, but the sound of police sirens shuts me up instantly. I grab one of the piglets, tuck it under one arm exactly like he did, and climb over the gate after him.

He grasps my arm to help me ease down, and I land in front of him just as someone turns a light on outside Derek’s house, illuminating his face just enough for me to make out the gray-blue irises of his hooded eyes, the sharp line of his jaw. Geez, he’s handsome.

By the time I remember myself, his full lips—which have been pressed into a rigid line—open in a snarl. “You want a picture, Barbie? Fucking run.”

“What?”

“Run,” he barks. “And don’t look back.”