Page 9 of Riding the Sugar High

I’m not a smoker, but I’m also not a trespasser, yet here we are. So, hoping it’ll help calm my nerves, I take out a cigarette, bring it to my lips, and flick my thumb over the spark wheel, igniting a flame on my fourth try. When I breathe in, I almost immediately explode into a coughing fit.

“Shit!” I choke out as I try to cough on the inside. The smoke from the cigarette makes my eyes tear up, and smelling it only seems to worsen my cough. I stand, rushing down the steps and onto the front yard, then drop it and hack into my elbow.

Whydo people smoke?

When my throat is done spasming, and my lungs feel clear, I register the smell of the cigarette, only to notice a small pile of dry leaves catching fire.

Seriously?! Of all the places it could have landed on?

“No, no, no,” I whisper-shout as I approach it, then hold my foot over it. I think of stomping on the flames, but they’re rising too quickly. Next best option is to smother it, so I gather more leaves in my hands and throw them on top. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect.

“Holy shit,” I breathe out as I watch the fire grow higher, the flames licking the trash can next to the porch.

A loud noise nearby has me flinching, and with my heart in my throat, I run. Fast, ignoring the bouncing of my boobs—hardly supported in a bra that was not made for sports—or the fact that my heels are sinking in the mud, and I can’t see a single thing.

I run, knowing that if I’m found here, trying to set my ex-boyfriend’s property on fire, my life is officially over.

When I make out a long fence in the distance, I sprint toward it, hoping there’s safety on the other side. By the time I reach it, my lungs burn, and my muscles shake so hard that I’m not sure I can pull my leg over it. I gasp, catching my breath as I look behind me at the flames casting an orange glow in the night.

The sound of a gate clacking shut has me turning to the right, where a man in all black is running away from the house in a very similar fashion as what I just did, except it looks like he’s escaping from the back of the property.

“Oh crap,” I whimper when I realize he’s running my way. It must be Derek, and the thought of being caught paralyzes me on the spot.

I’m so screwed.

My heart gallops in my chest as he stops a few feet from me.

Are those...piglets tucked under his arms?

“Youmustbe kidding me” comes out of his lips, and with a flinch, I realize this man is definitelynotDerek. He’s taller—his shoulders much broader. Broader than the average human, actually. And his voice is gruff, stern—nothing like Derek’s slightly nasal tone.

I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to. It’s him. The man I hit. The one who panicked. The one who kissed me, then abandoned me.

Logan.

Why is he here? And why is he holding a piglet under each arm?

When a loud voice comes from the house, Logan turns around, his eyes bulging as he probably sees the flames.

He steps onto the fence, then tries to get one leg over it, but the squirming piglets restrict his movements, and he wobbles back down. “Shit—” He turns to me. “Grab her.”

“What?” I hiss, cowering away from the small pink animal he’s holding out.

“Grab the piglet and climb over.”

“I’m—I’m not touching that...thatwild beast.”

“It’s a pig, not a bear,” he grits.

I open my mouth to quip back, but the sound of police sirens shuts me up instantly. I grab one of the piglets, tuck it under one arm exactly like he did, and climb over the gate after him.

He grasps my arm to help me ease down, and I land in front of him just as someone turns a light on outside Derek’s house, illuminating his face just enough for me to make out the gray-blue irises of his hooded eyes, the sharp line of his jaw. Geez, he’s handsome.

By the time I remember myself, his full lips—which have been pressed into a rigid line—open in a snarl. “You want a picture, Barbie? Fucking run.”

“What?”

“Run,” he barks. “And don’t look back.”