Page 71 of Riding the Sugar High

I tune out the woman’s words, my face scrunching. This can’t be normal. No new clients for six months, then two in twenty minutes? What are the chances?

“Hello?”

“Uh, yes, sorry. You...you wanted a quote?”

“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all. Let me get your number, and someone from my team will contact you tomorrow.”

I hang up, rubbing my beard, and look down at the two new potential leads. Is it possible? Have my efforts finally paid out? Maybe for once, I won’t be an absolute fuckup, and I can pull through.

Maybe...or maybe not.

It just can’t be a coincidence. There’s no way. And there’s only one new thing around here.

I turn around, eyes laser-pointed at Primrose. “What did you do?” I ask in a low rumble.

“Hm?” She shrugs from her spot on the couch, then brings the book closer to her face. Hiding, the little rat.

“Tell me how you got involved. Right now.”

“I didn’t—” When she notices the murderous and unforgiving glimmer in my eyes, her nose scrunches. “Okay, fine. I featured Kyle chopping wood without a shirt on my social media to give a little shout-out to the farm.”

Why did she even take a picture of Kyle? Was she planning to use it all along, or did she want it for herself?

No. Jesus, no. That isn’t the point.

“How dare you?” I hiss. “Who gave you permission to do something like that? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”

“Wow, okay.” Setting her book down on her chest, she scoffs. “That’s your reaction?” She presses her lips tight. “Then I probably shouldn’t tell you about the five other people who called.”

Holy shit. Seven new clients? In one day?

I’m speechless, but it lasts no more than a second. Then, I have so many words begging to be shouted, gritted out, groaned. Howdarethis woman come here and revolutionize my life? She’s messy, chatty, fucking hopeful and naive to an annoying degree. She’s hot and smart and funny, and talking to her is as effortless as being alone, and she can do so much better than me. And now, she’s getting involved with shit that isn’t her business. She’s doing my job for me.

Why is it that everyone can succeed at this but me?

And I thought I’d managed to do something right. Fucking idiot.

Pointing a finger at her, I snarl, “Don’t you dare meddle in my business anymore.”

“Seriously?Sevennew clients.” She sits up, then stands, setting the book face down on the couch. “Can’t you just say thank you?”

I open my mouth to snap back, but my eyes stick to her chest. Staring at the faded white logo on the green cotton, I mumble, “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

I point at her, and when she looks down at her shirt—myshirt—she crosses her arms. “Oh, yeah. I found it in the guest bedroom. I had to put my pajamas in the wash after Lola—or Paco—slept on them.”

Lola? Paco? What the hell...?

Reading the question in my eyes, she shrugs. “The pigs. You didn’t like any of the names I suggested, so...” She shrugs.

So she named my pigs. Wore my shirt. Helped my farm.

I rub a hand over my mouth, knowing there’s only one thing I can do. Only one thing Ishoulddo. Lock myself in the bathroom, take a shower, and, as shameful as it may be, jerk off. Because she’s wearing my clothes, the green shirt reaching just above her knee, and she looks so hot I can’t think. Can’t reason. Can’t cope.

“Take it off,” I hiss despite my best judgment.