Riding the Sugar High: a Grumpy Sunshine Romantic Comedy

11. You Keep Using The Word ‘Snuggle’

“What do you think?”Primrose asks.

I lift my head, focusing on the tenth pair of identical brown boots she’s tried. She moves around the mirror, turning one side and the other, lifting one leg, and crossing her ankles. It takes everything I have to limit myself to a simple, “Hmm...That this is the worst day of my life.”

“You wanted to come,” she says as she walks on the spot.

No, I want to make sure she buys appropriate footwear so she doesn’t die on my farm, and that’s the only reason I’m here.

“You understand you’re not shopping for Paris Fashion Week, right?” I rest my forearms on my thighs and lean forward. “These boots will be nasty come tomorrow. Just buy the most comfortable ones.”

“But it’s not just a matter of comfort.” She turns to me, and my heart squeezes at her defeated expression. “Do I want a zipper? And are they warm? Because mornings can get pretty cold around here. And what about water resistance? And durability!”

“You don’t need durability.”

She halts, seems to think it over, then turns to the mirror without saying a word. I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole again, but it’s the truth. Seventeen days. Twelve now. Simon even printed her plane ticket, and it’s now sitting on my bookshelf, so it’s official.

“I don’t know. They’re all so...brown.”

“They might have them in black or gray. Afraid pink isn’t an option.”

With a sad pout, she mumbles, “I’ll probably get those,” and points at the first pair she tried. When was that? About an hour ago?

“Fine.” I grab the box as she sits beside me and removes the boots. Once she’s back in her pink tennis shoes, I look around, trying to locate the cashier, and instead my eyes land on the most Primrose pair of boots I have ever seen, on a plastic stand to my right.

I should just shut up. She chose her boots, and if she sees those, it’ll prolong the torture.

“Let’s go?” she says as she joins my side and pulls out her wallet, her lip stuck out. She looks so sad, and I can tell this is the least fun she’s ever had shopping.

Damn me, I like it so much more when she’s happy.

“How about those?”

“Hm?” She turns around, then gasps loudly as her eyes land on the white cowboy boots. “Oh—yes, yes! I want those!”

She walks over, her fingers brushing the complex beige stitch pattern. “They’re so pretty. Aren’t they pretty?”

“Dreamy.”

Her big blue eyes wander around the shop. “I wonder if they also sell cowboy hats.”

“I’ll kick you off the farm.”

“Come on, give me a ‘yee-haw!’ I know you want to.” When I groan, she must take pity on me, because she raises a hand. “Okay, okay. Just the boots. I’ll try them on; give me a second.”

She walks back, then slides off her shoes. She fits the boots on quickly, and hands on her hips, stares at herself in the mirror.

Though my eyes briefly linger on her ass, wrapped in the shortest white dress to ever exist, I focus on her reflection.

Her blonde locks frame her face, the pink tips brushing over her round, dimpled cheeks. Joy radiates from her bright blue eyes, and I can”t help but feel captivated by her genuine happiness.

It’s a whole different sight.

“I love them. And they’re made of faux leather.” With a wink, she twists to look at me. “So you have to love them too, cowboy.”

“Still not a cowboy, Barbie.”

“Still don’t care.” She cheerily walks to the small bench and removes the boots, and once she approaches the counter, I step in front of her. “I’ll pay for them. You’re buying them to stay at my farm.”

“But I’ll keep them once I’m gone.”

“But you wouldn’t be buying them if it wasn’t for my mud.”

She elbows her way in front of me, then hands the cashier her card. I wouldn’t need more than a pinkie to move her out of the way, but I step back and let her pay.

We leave the shop and join the influx of people walking around the mall. While it always makes me uncomfortable to be in such a large crowd, it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me today.

“Think we can find a nice café in here?”

“I don’t want coffee.”

“Well, I do. And pastry—oh! Or cake!” She excitedly claps, then noticing my unimpressed gaze, bites her bottom lip expectantly. “Do you mind?”

This woman, I swear. Only because she’s pretty, with those thick thighs and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, she thinks she can bat her lashes, and I’ll do everything she wants.

“Fine.”

Apparently, she’s right.

She rushes to the right, then darts inside the first café we find, and I lazily follow. When she asks about vegan options and gets told all they have is coffee, she’s out and on searching for the next one. I follow her to the next café, then to the next, and we keep receiving more of the same answers and curious looks. Until eventually, Primrose points at a small corner juice bar and shrieks. “That one! That must have something vegan!”

Gripping my arm, she leads me inside, then approaches the counter and asks the woman behind it to show us her vegan-friendly selection.

“Of course.” The brunette woman in a green cap wipes her hands on a kitchen towel. Everything you see in this tray is vegan. We have cakes, cookies, and a couple of slices of pie.” She points at the board behind her. “And all the drinks marked with the leaf are vegan, too.”

“So many options,” Primrose says with a cocky grin as she turns to me. “We’d nearly given up when we found you, but I was determined to find something for him.”

“I’m Cassidy,” the woman says as she looks up at me. Her smile softens, and her eyes stick to mine longer than I’m comfortable with. “I’m vegan too.”

Great. Now she thinks we’re instant buddies. Why is Primrose making friends with some random café worker?

“Primrose. And he’s Logan,” Primrose says. “Don’t be fooled by his chattiness; he’s quite moody.”

When I glare, she gestures at me as if to show Cassidy this is what she meant.

“So, Logan, what can I get you?”

“Uh...a black coffee.” Primrose’s eyes widen dangerously, so I add, “And a slice of blueberry pie.”

“And for you?”

I look away from Cassidy, who keeps glancing at me even as she takes Primrose’s order.

“Okay, I’ll warm up your pie and bring it out. You guys can take a seat.”

“I’ll pay,” I rush to say. Primrose has already spent money on the boots, and I don’t like feeling indebted to people. But I probably spoke with too much intensity, because Primrose takes a small step back with wide eyes.

“I’ll wait at the table.”

She walks to the back of the shop, and I approach the cashier. “Eighteen dollars,” Cassidy says.

I take out my card, then tap it on the card reader.

“I haven’t seen you around here before, have I?”

“Uh, no.” The card reader buffers. “I hate malls.”

“Really? Why?”

I think of answering with, Because I don’t like strangers asking me personal questions, but settle instead on a mumbled “Too crowded. Noisy. And I swear everyone keeps staring at me today.”

“You do look like an outdoorsy guy,” she says, leaning against the counter with a grin I don’t fully understand but makes me all sorts of uncomfortable. It’s too... friendly. “But I’m pretty sure people are staring at you because of, uh, Primrose.”

Noticing my blank stare, she cocks a brow. “She’s Sugar High, is she not?”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“She’s quite the internet personality.”

I check the machine again. What’s wrong with this card? “Uh-huh.”

“Especially after the list—that Gracen dude is an asshole. Why would he post it online?”

Great, now I’m gossiping.

I hum, which should be enough for the conversation to die, but after a long silence, she asks, “Do you work around here?”

“No,” I say, eyes stuck to the buffering icon. “I have a farm.”

Her eyes narrow.

“A vegan farm.”

“Oh. That sounds cool. I’ve never been on a farm.”

God, what’s taking so long? And where is Primrose? I turn around, but can’t see her past the busy tables.

There’s a beep, and I release a breath, waiting for my receipt so I can walk away. Free of Cassidy, I notice Primrose sitting a few tables down, tucking her hair behind her ear as she looks down at her phone.

Thinking of the billion scrunchies disseminated all over my house, I join her.

Her eyes meet mine, and she excitedly wiggles on her chair. “How did that”—she jerks her head toward the counter—“go?”

“What, paying? My farm’s doing like shit, but I can still afford coffee.”

“No, not paying.” She rolls her big blue eyes at me as if I’m supposed to know what the hell she’s talking about, then wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Cassidy.”

“What about Cassidy?”

“Logan, she was flirting with you.”

“What?” I look back to where Cassidy is working behind the counter. She turns to me and smiles, so I quickly focus back on Primrose. Was she flirting with me? “She was just being friendly,” I scold her. “Don’t turn this into a whole thing.”

“You seriously—” She scoffs. “Then why did you ask me to leave?”

“I didn’t ask you to leave. I said I’d pay.”

She looks up as if thinking about it. “Oh. So you’re not interested?”

“No, I’m not...” I lean forward, then insist, “She wasn’t flirting with me, okay? Just because she’s a vegan, it doesn’t mean we’ll play together.”

She widens her eyes. “Can’t say I feel too sorry for Cassidy.”

“Hm.” I tap my foot, impatient for the food to arrive. The neon lights here give me a headache, and the noise is unbearable. People chatting, a service dog barking, children screaming. It’s mayhem, and there’s a nearby table of teenagers cackling like hyenas and driving me mad.

“Here’s your food.” Cassidy appears beside me and sets the tray on the table. She dishes out our orders, and I can feel Barbie’s inquisitive eyes glued to the side of my face. What is she expecting to see, exactly? My eyes turning into cartoon hearts and thin red lines on my cheeks?

“And your coffee,” Cassidy says, setting the cup before me.

“Thanks,” I mumble. I keep my gaze on the dark brew until she leaves, and finally, I let out a breath, ignoring Primrose’s tsk. What an annoying noise.

I set the napkin next to my pie on the table and start eating, but Primrose grabs it, and with an even more annoying “Ha!” she turns it around. “Looks like Cassidy wants to play with you.”

I glance up at the words scribbled on the paper next to her number. Would love a tour of the farm.

Momentarily shocked, I blink, but that seems to amuse Primrose even more, and with a quick movement, I grab the napkin and ball it up. “Whatever. I’m not interested.”

“You don’t even know her!” she squeals. “What—you don’t think she’s pretty?”

Good god, why am I being punished?

“Leave it alone.”

“Fine. I get it. You’d have to lose the whole ‘grumpy guy angry at life’ aesthetic if you were to have a girlfriend.

Her lashes flutter against her flushed cheeks as she takes a bite, a genuine smile curving her lips. Her emotions play out on her face as intensively as she feels them, and it’s annoying. Inconvenient, even. But also impossible to look away from, for some reason.

Her eyes flick to mine, and licking the fork, she tilts her head. “Why are you smiling?”

“What? I don’t know.” My face scrunches, so I try to relax it into a neutral expression. Noticing a smear of chocolate over her lips, I ignore the instinct to clean it up with my thumb and hand her a napkin.

She wipes her lips. “Clean?”

No, not clean. I could lick that chocolate off her skin. She ordered off the vegan tray—I really could.

“Logan?”

“Here—” I point at the spot over my own lips, and this time she wipes it off.

“I made some candy for you.” She sets the napkin down. “It’s on the kitchen table.”

Oh, so that’s what that is. When I came back home for lunch today, I noticed the orange bowl filled with gummies, but I figured she was experimenting with her recipes for Marisol. “Let me guess,” I say, thinking of the yellow candy. “Saffron and cornstarch.”

“Lemon, actually.” Her lips pinch. I figured you’d appreciate it, given how sour you are.”

I hide my amusement with another forkful of pie. “No thanks.”

Why does she keep making candy for me? Is it because I didn’t throw myself at her feet about it?

“Seriously? Can’t you just try it?” She shoves a hand in her bag and takes out individually wrapped red hard candy. “How about this one, then? It’s my favorite. I’m begging you,” she insists. “Have mercy before this drives me crazy.”

I think of making a joke about her definitely being nuts already, but it looks like I’m driving her up the wall, and I guess if I have to eat her candy, I want to see what her favorite is about. “Fine, Jesus.”

I grab the candy, unwrap it, and pop it in my mouth. It mixes with the flavor of blueberries from the pie—another thing I’m eating because she asked me to—but once the strawberry overpowers it, I hesitate.

It’s familiar—and excellent, of course—but I forget to even say something to Primrose, anxiously awaiting my feedback, because I can’t figure out when or where I’ve tasted this before.

“So?”

I let the thought go and nod. “It’s great.”

Her eyes roll. “Thank you. I strive for that kind of lukewarm feedback.” Gathering some chocolate cream on her fork, she mumbles, “So, why won’t you give Cassidy a chance?”

Here she goes again.

I could tell her to fuck off. That it’s none of her business, and I’m not talking about this any more than I already have. She’d take it and eat her cake and probably look all sullen about it for a while.

But once again, it appears as if I care about how she feels, so I calmly say, “I don’t think the love of my life is someone who’d give me her number while I’m with another woman.”

“Who, me?”

“You are a woman, aren’t you?”

She waves me off. “Women aren’t usually intimidated by me. And besides, we’re obviously not together.”

I open my mouth, then close it. Why would that be obvious? Should I ask? It’s not like she’s going to offend me either way. I don’t care.

“How is it obvious?” I mumble.

She keeps eating until, probably motivated by my insistent stare, she points the fork at herself. “Guys like you don’t exactly date women like me.”

Guys like me? Women like her?

I have no idea what she means.

My eyes flick to her blond hair, the strands fading into pink. “Women with pink hair?”

“No.”

“With watermelons on their skirts?”

She rolls her eyes.

“What women, Primrose?” I ask in a bored voice as I break off another piece of pie.

She stares into my eyes, then sighs. “I just mean, I don’t think I’m your type.”

One corner of my lips lifts before I can do anything about it. I kissed her five minutes into knowing her. “Really? Was my tongue in your mouth too subtle?”

“You were going through a lot. It doesn’t count.”

Funny that she’d think she has any right to decide that.

“What’s my type then?”

She taps the back of her fork on her lips. “Women with legs as long as highways and strong arms. Who look remarkably beautiful even in the simplest clothes and wear no makeup because they don’t need it. With freckles and flattering smile lines and?—”

What the fuck?“Is this someone you know?”

“Tell me I didn’t just describe your ex,” she deadpans.

When I look down at the blueberry jam on top of my pie, she lets out a smug “Huh,” then adds, “Guess who fits that description?”

“Cassidy?” I ask flatly.

She taps the tip of her nose, and I roll my eyes. What an idiotic thing to believe. Not that I have anything against a tall woman with freckles, but that’s not my type. I don’t have a type. If I had a type, that wouldn’t be it.

“Trust me, Barbie, your arm strength is at the bottom of the list of reasons why I wouldn’t date you.”

She shrugs, then slurps her pink drink. “Likewise,” she says before she sets the glass down. Letting out a chuckle as if laughing at her own joke, she takes another forkful of cake. “And the top spot? No TV.”

“Is that what you look for in a man? A TV?”

“Yes,” she says with a playfully snarky tone. “How else are we supposed to watch a movie and snuggle?”

“Want to know my number one reason not to date you?” Without waiting for her answer, I say, “You keep using the word ‘snuggle.’”

“I bet Cassidy would never,” she teases.

I set my coffee down, then grab the balled-up paper and look around. Aiming for the bin to my right, I throw it in, then turn to Primrose. “Okay. You want to know what my actual type is?”

She nods.

“Smart women.” I point at the counter behind me. “And any woman who thinks you’re not a force to be reckoned with, Barbie, is a very stupid woman.”