Riding the Sugar High: a Grumpy Sunshine Romantic Comedy

15. Your Boobs Distract Me

With the doorclosing 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?”

“Because it’s in the mug on the kitchen table, where I left it this morning?”

“Look at this.” I grab a banana peel from the sink. “And your clothes are everywhere. None of my stuff is where I left it. Oh, and where, for the love of god, are all these candles coming from?” I snatch a pineapple-scented candle from the window frame. “Are you a witch? Why do you need twenty-five candles to be lit up at all times?”

Her lips open, but I raise a finger to stop her.

“And I get it. I really do. Neither of us has exactly chosen this situation, but what kind of fuckery is this?” I point at her shirt. “You have your boundaries, and I have mine. Spoiler alert? You’re not allowed to wear my clothes, name my animals, or take my business into your hands.”

“Fine,” she yells back. “Just leave instructions on what I’m allowed to do, and I’ll ignore them.”

I stomp into the living room and grab the infuser. She didn’t do any of it maliciously, but I can’t stop the anger spewing from my mouth. I need her to stay away, but it’s Primrose I’m dealing with. She won’t.

“You know,” she says, bursting out of the kitchen. “I have far more reasons not to date you.”

Here we go.

I turn around and shrug. “Really?”

“Really.”

“All right,” I say, dropping the cup on the table. “What you got?”

“You’re constantly grumpy. Moody. Angry.” She widens her arms. “It’s like you don’t know how to smile.”

“And you’re always skipping around here like you don’t have a single worry when we both know that’s not true.”

Her lips pinch, and I raise my brows in a challenge. “What else?”

“No TV? No internet? Why, Logan? Are you afraid the government will control you with their drones and poisonous sky powders?”

I suck my cheeks in, trying to fight a smirk.

“And...” She swallows, stormy blue eyes bouncing around as if she’s running low on insults. “You...”

“I...”

“You wake up at five every day!” she squeals.

With a scoff, I lean with my back against the wall. “And?”

“And I have to wake up too, and—and it’s too early, Logan.”

She squares her shoulders as if she herself knows she’s making zero sense.

“Then it’s settled,” I say as I roll my eyes. “Let the animals starve to death, because Primrose, the pink glittery Barbie princess, can’t be woken up from her beauty sleep.”

“You are the most frustrating person in the world.” She grabs her book and walks away.

“Do I need to list my complaints again?”

She stops, shoulders hunched, and slowly turns to me. Her face is all scrunched up, red as if she’s not breathing. As if she knows the moment she opens her mouth, she’ll say something she can’t come back from.

She sneers at me, then hisses, “You know what, Logan? You need to get laid.”

I—what? “And what would you know about that?”

“Kyle mentioned you haven’t had sex in—” Her eyes widen. “He just...Please don’t kill him.”

With a scoff, I look away, tracing my upper lip with the tip of my tongue. Unbelievable. I’m not just going to kill him—I’m going to skin him alive.

Glaring at her, I mutter, “Keep my personal life out of your mouth. Try to be ten percent less of an annoying roommate, and wear your own goddamn clothes.”

She groans and looks up at the ceiling, fists clenched. When her gaze is back on me, she marches closer, and I brace myself for a smack. But she stops just an inch away, then pinches the fabric on her hips, pulling my shirt over her head. “Here. Take your stupid shirt back.”

The shirt flies at my face and slinks to the floor between us. I don’t move a single muscle, my eyes stuck to Primrose’s heavy tits, lightly bouncing with her erratic movements. Her pink nipples, the same I felt rubbing against my chest that first night, almost instantly harden, and my brain flatlines. I can’t think of a single thing as I stare and try not to drown in a pool of drool.

Everything about her is soft perfection. Her chest, with the faintest outline of her collarbone, the voluptuous curve of her hips and her belly, all the way down to the yellow shorts that could easily pass as underwear.

Gotta give it to her; this is a great way to win an argument.

When she breathes in a gasp, her body recoiling, I force myself to look away from her chest.

Is wearing a bra something one forgets to do? Because she looks as surprised as I am.

She regroups and lifts her chin in defiance, and I still say nothing, blinking again and again as more heat creeps up my neck and cheeks.

“Thank you,” I choke out after a few seconds. Now, it’s imperative I leave the room because I’m about to pitch a tent in my jeans. “Nice tits.”

She jerks her head back, and with a horrified expression, mumbles, “Asshole,” before scurrying away.

My shoulders only relax once her bedroom door closes behind her.

Silver lining? I don’t think she’ll be stepping over the line anymore.

Problem, though, is that now I want to grab the line and throw it out of the window. I want to cross it repeatedly until it fades away.

Fuck the fucking line.