Page 74 of Riding the Sugar High

“It’s stupid.”

I sigh, hoping this version of grumpy Logan is just an excerpt and not a preview for the whole day. He’s been like this since last night, when I accidentally flashed him, though we’ve managed to mostly keep our distance. While he’s been on the fields all day, I’ve been working tirelessly on finding a recipe that I hope will please the people at Marisol. That is, until his mom called and threatened to come to the farm unless webothshowed up at Sunday family dinner.

So here we are.

The single-story red-brick home in front of us sits on a manicured lawn, surrounded by a picket fence. It looks welcoming enough, and with the sun low on the horizon, it’s the perfect setup for a nice meal. Though Logan clearly disagrees.

“Let’s do this,” I mumble, holding my hand out. Logan’s eyes catch on my open palm, but he makes no movement, so I drop it down my side. “We’re together, aren’t we?”

“I don’t hold hands.”

“Right.Arrr.”

One unimpressed glare later, we walk through the small gate and along the cobbled pathway that leads to the veranda. We approach the door, and it takes a full five seconds for Logan to actually knock. Tension vibrates off him, and it’s making my hands sweat. Last time he was this nervous, the lunch ended in disaster, and today, I won’t be lying to Josie and Aaron alone, but to his whole family.

The door opens, and Aaron fills the entrance, his smile slipping only a fraction. “Oh, hello.” He turns to me, his grin back in place. “Primrose.”

“Nice to see you again,” I say with a timid nod.

He lets us in, and as I join Logan in the corridor, he says in my ear, “So you’re polite to everyone but me?” but I ignore him in favor of Aaron, who asks how everything’s going. We chat as he leads the way farther into the house and toward the cacophonic mix of noises. Through the sliding glass door in the living room, I spot people sitting at a long table outside, the smell of grilled meat making me salivate immediately.

“We’re having barbecue,” Aaron says to Logan.

“That’s fine. I’ll have a salad.”

“There’s probably cheese in it.”

“Then I’ll eat a tomato,” Logan grunts out, obviously on the winning side of their glaring contest.

Clearing my throat, I step closer and lock arms with Logan. It gets his attention, and with a smile, I say, “How about we start with a beer and leave the tomatoes for later? Hm? Beer’s always vegan, isn’t it?”

“You’d be surprised,” he mumbles, “but the one my parents drinkisvegan. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

He walks away, and after throwing an awkward look at Aaron, I follow.

I hate to say it, but Logan might have a point about Aaron. He was hostile before we’d even stepped inside. Plus, he knew Logan was coming. Did nobody think to accommodate his diet?

I reach Logan as he steps through the back door—just in time to see a short, middle-aged woman stand and cup her mouth with both hands, a loud gasp escaping her smiling lips. Everyone else turns around in response, and there’s a whole chorus of welcomes and hollering.

Nothing evil, not at first glance.

“See,” I whisper as the woman—his mom?—rushes around the table. “Not that ba?—”

His fingers slide between mine, though he keeps his gaze away. His shoulders are bunched at his ears, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip. He’s nervous. So nervous that he’s holding my hand.

“Logan!” the woman squeals as she approaches us, her arms extended for a hug. Her eyes dart to our hands together and go comically wide, but she quickly recovers and throws herself at Logan.

“Hey, Mom.” He lets go of my hand to hug her back, and I can’t help grinning at the scene before me. Though I’m still very annoyed after yesterday’s performance, this is cute.

“You’re here!” She smiles at me over his shoulders as she gently rubs his back. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Don’t cry, Ma.”

“Oh, let me be.” She pulls away from him and brings a finger to her eye. “I’m old and sensitive.” She turns to me, her eyes lit as if the sun itself were behind them. “And who’s this beautiful woman?”

“Primrose Bellevue.”

“Lucy Coleman,” she says, shaking my hand. She waits, clearly expecting one of us to explain, but it’s not up to me to say, so I hold my breath as Logan awkwardly looks down at his feet, until eventually, Lucy claps her hands. “Okay, grab whatever you want to eat. I’ll go fetch you a couple of chairs.”

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