Page 15 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)

Chapter fifteen

Cam

T he front door clicks shut behind us, and the silence that follows makes my ears ring.

Gram’s house smells like cinnamon and lemon oil and the faintest trace of her rosewater perfume.

But the cozy warmth is undercut by the chaos in the kitchen—the mess left behind from her fall.

Chairs askew, tea spilled across the table and floor, the cookie tin dented on the linoleum like it was dropped in a rush. My chest tightens at the sight.

“Oh no,” I whisper, stepping into the kitchen. “I should’ve cleaned this up before we left...”

I move fast, grabbing a dish towel, righting a chair, crouching down to mop the floor like I can somehow fix what happened just by erasing the signs.

The knot in my chest pulls tighter. Gram always kept a clean house—immaculate, even—and I know she’d hate the idea of anyone seeing it like this. Especially strangers.

“Cam,” Theo says gently behind me.

“It’s fine,” I mutter, too fast. “It’ll only take a second. I don’t want her to come home to this. It’s just—”

I’m reaching for the cookie tin when Jamie tries to pick up a fallen recipe card from the floor. His eyes pause on the open photo album on the table, one I left there hours ago.

I lurch forward. “Don’t—please. It’s personal.”

He immediately lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry.”

I blink hard, swallowing down the sharp sting in my throat. “It’s not you. That album is full of Zae. We used to tape our favorite candy recipes into the margins. I thought maybe if I looked through it, I could find inspiration. Or just feel closer to her.”

Jamie nods, his voice soft. “Of course. I get it.”

I sigh, brushing hair out of my face. “I didn’t mean to snap. You’re all just trying to help.”

“We are,” Dane says, crossing the room with a dishcloth slung over his shoulder. “So go. Wash up. Let us handle clean up and cooking. You have to eat.”

“You’re cooking?” I ask, the corner of my mouth twitching despite everything.

“I make a mean grilled cheese,” Dane says, confidently heading for the fridge.

“Jamie makes a decent salad,” Theo adds, already wiping down the counters.

“And Theo thinks boiling pasta is wizardry,” Jamie chimes in with a wink.

“I do not,” Theo grumbles.

“You once set off the smoke alarm boiling water,” Jamie fires back.

“The pot was defective,” Theo replies.

I snort, hugging the dish towel to my chest.

“I appreciate this,” I murmur, but instinct kicks in again as I try to clear the rest of the floor. “Just let me get the tea stain—”

“You’re literally on your knees with a dish towel,” Dane says, stepping over and plucking the rag from my hands. “This is an intervention.”

“It’s not that bad,” I argue.

Jamie raises a brow. “Cam, it looks like a tornado made of cookies touched down.”

“Gram would be mortified if strangers saw her house like this,” I protest.

“Are we still strangers?” Jamie asks, crossing his arms.

“Technically, we’re your landlords,” Dane says. “But emotionally, I’m somewhere between concerned friend and backup sous chef.”

“And I’m a volunteer in this intervention,” Theo adds.

I try not to laugh, but it bursts out anyway. A real laugh, one that surprises me with how much I needed it.

“Fine,” I sigh, shaking my head. “But if you mess up her spice rack, she’ll come for you, and she can still move quickly.”

“Duly noted,” Dane says, already inspecting labels like he’s defusing a bomb.

I step toward the hallway, pausing one last time to look back. Jamie’s at the sink, sleeves rolled up, a faint smile on his lips. Theo’s wiping down the kitchen table with practiced care. Dane’s muttering something about cumin ratios and garlic powder.

They’re a whirlwind of movement and ease. And somehow, they’ve managed to make the house feel less like a hospital waiting room and more like home.

As I move toward the stairs, I glance once more at the photo album. The open page shows me and Zae, covered in powdered sugar, laughing like we had forever.

I draw in a breath, hold it for a beat, then let it out. Upstairs, I’ll wash up, change into something soft, and try to gather the frayed edges of myself. Downstairs, there are three alphas making dinner in my grandmother’s kitchen.

And for tonight, I let them help.

They're just here to give me a hand, after all. This doesn’t need to be anything more than... whatever this is.