Page 101 of Riding the Sugar High

“Then do it,” I say, notsolelybecause I’m dying to feel his hands on me. I’d take anything to keep him off that bike.

“Okay.” He approaches. “Hope you don’t mind me locking you in the bathroom.”

I take a step back and turn to face away. “Stop, Logan. This isn’t fu—” I shriek when he lifts me from behind, then burst into laughter and kick my feet forward.

When he finally releases me, his eyes are considerably more serene than they were just moments ago. He brushes some hair off my cheek, slowly shaking his head. “You know what’s really annoying?”

“Me?”

“That too. But I was talking about how you can turn my mood around in a matter of minutes.” He thoughtfully stares at me, his gray-blue eyes shining. “Even when I have every reason not to be happy, you still make me smile.”

“And we all know how much you hate that.”

“Just worried about wrinkles.”

I tilt my head toward the house. “Come on. Let’s go in?”

“I have a better idea.” He walks to the garage and emerges a moment later with a helmet and gloves.

“You want me to...” My eyes dart to the bike.

“Yes, if you’re up for?—”

“Yes!”

With a huffed laugh, he slides the helmet over my head. “Lucky you. You get the good helmet.”

“Goodhelmet?” Unprepared for its heaviness, I wobble. Adrenaline courses through my veins, and my common sense slips away. “All your helmets should be good if you’re ridingthat.”

Jesus, I can’t see anything with how dark the visor is, and it’s so thick, it’s setting me off-balance.

I slide the gloves on my fingers next, though they’re easily two sizes too big. “What now?” I ask. I’m not even sure he can hear me through the helmet.

He reaches under and taps my neck, so I crane my head back. His fingers move to the clasp, but he pauses, staring at my neck for long enough that I wonder if there’s something weird on it. A mole? Yogurt from breakfast? He brushes my hair back, his pupils blown, but he still doesn’t move.

“Logan?” I whisper.

A grunt travels up his throat, and he snaps the clasp closed, then pulls the string until the helmet is tight under my chin. Once he’s pulled my visor up, he straddles the bike and offers me his hand. “Done. Now, come on.”

“Shouldn’t I be wearing biker gear? A jacket—pants?”

“Well, it’s always safer to use protection, but it feels better when you don’t.”

When my eyes narrow over his face, he smirks. “Are you still talking about the bike?”

“What else?”

He knowswhat else.

I squeeze his gloved hand with mine. “What now?”

“We’re not holding hands, Barbie. Get on.”

“Huh? I—yes. How do I do that? I don’t know how to do that.”

“First, foot here,” he says as he points at a tiny metal piece jutting out from the side. “Second, push yourself up. Third, there is no third. It’s climbing a bike, not metaphysics.”

With an eye roll, I set my foot on the pedal. But—what if it breaks? Or even worse, what if the bike falls on me? “I’m afraid the bike will tip over.”

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