Page 26 of Riding the Sugar High

Fine. I guess we have two positive interactions now.

A breath-catching kiss, and a seriously impressive ass saving.

* * *

“Come on, then.”

I turn to Logan, sliding into a pair of boots by the door, then set my book against my chest. After my meeting ended, we ate lunch, and through all of it, he hasn’t said a single word. Nothello, notpass the salt. Nothing for two whole hours, until “Come on, then.”

I also didn’t thank him, because though what he did was nice, he’s been otherwise despicable.

“Come where?”

He points at the door. “Out.”

“You must realize that’s not enough information.”

“Josie works the afternoon shift today, and I can guarantee she’ll pay us a visit. So unless you want to face her alone, you need to come with me.”

That’s enough information. “Wasn’t that difficult, was it?” I mumble as I stand and drop my book on the couch. He seems annoyed as I join him at the entrance, but who can tell. He’s had this expression on his face for twenty-four hours.

Tennis shoes on and cardigan in hand, I look up at him, but he doesn’t move. Instead, his eyes run down my body slowly. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

God, give me the strength. “Are you used to people bending over at your monosyllabic orders?”

He says nothing, and it’s all the confirmation I need.

“Well, I’m not a goat. So if you have something to say, use your words.”

He cocks a brow at my A-line miniskirt, and my shoulders hunch uncomfortably. What’s the problem with my outfit? I love this skirt—it has yellow, white, and pink flowers on a background of pastel green. And with it, I’m wearing a simple light-pink T-shirt. He can’t have anything against that.

“You’re not having a picnic. This is a farm. Put some clothes on that you don’t mind getting dirty. Boots.”

“All I have in my luggage is more of this,” I say as I pinch the hem of my skirt. I packed what I’d need for two weeks of work in Roseberg—never at any point did I plan to spend seventeen more days on a muddy farm on the outskirts of tiny Pinevale. “You’ve picked it up this morning—it’s a tiny piece of luggage.”

“How’s that—” He raises his brows in disbelief. “It’s bigger than you.” I’m about to point out that I’m also quite small, but he raises his hand in a dismissive gesture. “At least wear some pants.”

“I don’t have pants.”

He scoffs. “Jeans, then.”

“I don’t have jeans.”

As he processes what seems to be truly shocking information, I grab my big bag and watch him come back to his senses. “You wear skirts all the time?”

“Well, skirts or dresses or those cute shorts that kinda look like skirts but aren’t. You know?”

His brow furrows so much, his forehead looks like crumpled paper, but he eventually waves toward the door, mumbling something under his breath. I’m pretty sure I hear a “princess” in there.

Once in the pickup, he plays some music and we ride in silence. I catch sight of an orchard, its trees heavy with apples, peaches, and cherries at different stages of ripening, and as soon as we move past it, the expansive fields of green stretch out in every direction, divided by neat rows of crops that dance in the gentle breeze.

“What are those?”

He points his thumb back. “We passed the fruit trees, and we’re currently moving through wheat and other cereals.”

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