Page 56 of Riding the Sugar High

“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’stsk. 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.

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