Page 6 of Riding the Sugar High

“Congratulations.”

Ugh, why does such a good kisser have to be an ass?

There’s a small green box, so I bring it over, and with a relieved sigh, he opens it. “No flashlight.”

Flashlight? “I have a flashlight.”

He cocks a brow at me, and with a huffed chuckle, I take out my phone.

I turn the flashlight on, eyes narrowing when he goes ‘huh,’ then point it at the hood. He’s already removed a black piece that looks identical to all the other black pieces, and grabbing a wrench from the toolbox, he begins working.

Once again, I lose myself watching him, but I guess I’m excused. Finding someone who kisses you that well is not an everyday occurrence. In fact, I’d say if ever, it takes someone a good amount of tries to get it exactly right. But this guy had never met me before, had definitely never kissed me, and yet he just knew. There’s something to it, isn’t there? Like chemistry.

“Quit staring at me.”

Okay, maybe notchemistry.

I scowl, and for a while, I watch his hands at work, though I have no clue what he’s doing, and all I can do is pray thatheknows. But it feels like forever, especially with the soft rustling of leaves and grass as unseen creatures navigate their way through the darkness.

Swallowing, I lean with my hips against the car. I focus on the noises I hear, shifting left and right, until my heart is thumping and I’m as tense as a bowstring. “Tell me something about yourself,” I burst.

Wrench in hand, he cocks a brow at me. “Huh?”

“I can’t stand the silence. The darkness.” I look around, picturing what could be hiding behind the bushes and tall grass. “Just say something.”

“Youdon’t like the silence and the darkness.Yousay something.”

Fair enough. He just had his first panic attack, and I’m here trying to make conversation. He must be exhausted, scared, confused—of course, he doesn’t want to talk. But I don’t mind talking, and it’s not like I’m dying to get to know this guy. “Uh, fine. I...I love making candy. Do you like candy?”

His lips press tight together.

“I’ve never ridden a bike,” I say, figuring I should aim for the one thing I know he likes. “How did you learn?”

He rubs his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, his hands black with motor oil.

I give up. I have absolutely no idea what to say, and I’m ready to bet ‘How old are you?’ or ‘What’s your zodiac sign?’ won’t achieve better results.

“I have a love bucket list,” I offer when the silence turns quieter and the night darker. His eyes dart to me, and I give him a tight-lipped smile. Seeing as this has attracted the attention of millions of people online, I figured it was a safe bet even with this ray of sunshine.

“Alovebucket list?”

With a timid shrug, I say, “A list of things I’d like to do with a boyfriend. Or that he’d do for me. With me.Tome.” I tap my fingers on my knee. “You get it.”

His eyes study me. “Are you dying?”

“What? No!”

“I had to make sure. Who has a bucket list at your age?”

“What’s the point of a bucket list if you write it on your deathbed?” I ask. When he tilts his head in a ‘you have a point’ motion, I continue. “There are certain things I want from love, and they haven’t happened yet, which can get quite depressing quite fast. When I feel down, I look at the list, and I can see my future. The future I want, anyway.”

He pauses. “But you’re not dying.”

“No, I’m not dying,” I confirm, my voice taking an annoyed edge.

When he smirks, I roll my eyes. He’s mocking me, and I’m making it easy. “What’s on the list?”

“A lot of things.”