Page 8 of Riding the Sugar High

Ugh. Logan.Even his name is hot. He doesn’tdeservea hot name.

When he slides his helmet on, I enter the car. By the time his engine roars, I’m holding the seat belt, unable to look away from Logan. Though the dark helmet shields his face completely, I know he’s staring at me.

I wave, and without as much as a nod, he takes off. Before long, he turns around the corner.

Gone.

Trying to release the adrenaline off me with a deep sigh, I focus on the car dashboard. This was a minor detour, but tonight is hardly over. I have a love bucket list to retrieve, and I’m not leaving this podunk of a town until I have it.

I pull into first gear, then release the handbrake, and after moving half a foot forward, the car engine sputters and dies, leaving me in the utter silence and darkness I spent the last half hour trying so hard to avoid.

Huffing out a breath, I throw my head back.

Fuck. My. Life.

* * *

The cab stops, and on one side of me are vast fields sectioned by rows of fruit trees, while on the other, a gate leading down a long, dark driveway. Though the weather might not have gotten the note about spring starting a few weeks ago, nature has, and the rolling hills in the distance are covered with blankets of lush green grass and dotted with colorful wildflowers.

“Is here okay?” the driver asks.

“Uh, y-yeah.” I have no idea, actually. “Is that Derek Gracen’s farm?”

He nods. “Well, it’s his dad’s farm, but he retired a couple of years ago, and Derek has taken over.” He throws a concerned look at me through the mirror. “He’s not a great kid, you know, sweetheart?”

Through the rearview mirror, I glance at the driver, whose worried expression reminds me of my dad. Where was he six months ago to warn me about this demon of a man?

“Oh, I know.”

He nods, then points at the black gate. “That’s him.”

With a “thank you,” I get out of the cab, clinging to my bag, then walk to the gate. There’s a doorbell, but I’m sure he’d refuse to see me if I rang it. He’s been avoiding confrontation for so long; I doubt he’d be keen now.

But I’llmakehim.

Sure, I planned to show up here at eight, not at midnight. But with the accident, then having to call the rental company, then the cab, I’m not left with much choice. I’ll have to find a way back to Roseberg tonight, because my flight back home is tomorrow.

So it’s happening. Tonight. I’m getting my list back.

I hold on to the metal gate, then pull myself up and climb over another horizontal metal piece, praying to god I don’t fall and break my neck.

“Okay. Almost there,” I mumble as I swing my other leg over. I find the same piece of metal to stand on and release a deep breath, hopping to the ground.

Done. Wasn’t so bad either.

Silently, I walk down the driveway, my lips parting as the villa comes into view. It’s gorgeous. Its large windows emit a soft yellow light, painting the surrounding grounds with a warmth that reaches out into the darkness. The sturdy wooden beams and expansive wraparound porch make it look even more imposing as I step closer, the scent of wood smoke and earth filling my senses.

Following along the well-kept driveway, I reach the front porch, my hands sweating as my heart thumps faster.

I need to do this.

Yes, it’s downright idiotic, especially with everything he’s been saying about me online. But that’smylist.Mystupid piece of paper.

“I want it back,” I mumble, and when I hike my bag up my shoulder, its contents spill onto the porch. Because of course they do. With a silent ‘Fuck!’ I lean down, then hastily shove my makeup and keys back inside. I silently wait for Derek to open the door and find me on my hands and knees on his porch, but nothing happens besides a noise in the distance.

Thank god he didn’t hear me.

I grab the lighter that landed next to the flower pot, only now realizing I still have that pack of cigarettes I confiscated from my dad last month when I visited him.

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