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

Chapter two

Cam

T he attic smells like dust, lemon polish, and the ghost of a life I haven’t lived in five years.

I sit on the old cedar chest by the window, surrounded by boxes of mismatched photo albums, out-of-season wreaths, and things that once mattered.

My hands are wrapped around a chipped mug of lukewarm tea I brought up two hours ago, and I can’t seem to make myself move.

The late afternoon light filters through the gauzy curtains, turning everything the soft color of memory.

My nose tingles with the scent of old paper and lavender sachets, faded with age but still clinging to the corners of cardboard and linen.

Gram calls this room the treasure trove. To me, it’s more like a landmine field of grief and bad timing.

I let out a breath and lean forward, squinting at the faded label on the top box. Zae’s handwriting, loopy and sure, spells out: Spring Formal, 2009 - Danger: Frizz.

My chest tightens.

We’d spent an entire afternoon trying to tame her curls with a flat iron she bought on clearance and a prayer.

She ended up looking like she'd wrestled a balloon in a wind tunnel, but she laughed so hard she nearly peed herself.

I didn't think I'd miss that laugh this much.

I didn't think it could still sneak up on me like this.

I came home to help Gram clean out the attic. To escape the big city and Eric’s betrayal. Now I’m here, in this attic that smells like memory and regret, wondering how everything unraveled so fast.

“Still hiding out up there?” Gram’s voice floats up the stairs like the scent of her cinnamon scones.

I smile despite the ache. “Not hiding. Strategically avoiding.”

“Well, your tea’s probably turned to mud by now. Come get something warm.”

I don’t need more convincing. My legs are stiff when I stand, and I carefully sidestep the precarious tower of forgotten holiday decor. As I head down the stairs, the creak of the wooden steps is as familiar as the rhythm of my own name.

Gram’s in the kitchen, her silver hair pinned in the same loose twist she’s worn since I was a kid, and her floral apron dusted in flour. The kitchen smells like home—brown sugar, vanilla, and the butter she never skimps on. The scent wraps around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed.

She’s pulling a tray of scones from the oven when I walk in. “Thought I’d tempt you with your favorite.”

“Cinnamon pecan?” I ask, heading for the kettle.

“With extra pecans, just the way you like.”

I prepared two mugs of chamomile tea and then sink into the cushioned bench by the window as she sets the scones to cool and joins me.

The mug warms my fingers as the window fogs faintly with the change in temperature.

Outside, the forsythia are just starting to bloom.

Starling Grove always wakes up in spring like it’s remembering how to be beautiful.

We sit in comfortable silence punctuated only by the quiet clink of teaspoons and the distant call of a mourning dove.

“You okay, sweetheart?” she asks gently.

I nod, then shake my head. “It’s just... a lot.”

Gram reaches over and pats my hand. “Grief doesn’t stay in boxes. Even ones in the attic.”

I press my lips together, fighting the sting behind my eyes. “I didn’t think it would hit this hard. I mean, it’s been five years.”

“It’s not about time. It’s about space. And this place holds a lot of Zae.”

Yeah. Too much. Her laughter is still in the walls. Her presence still lingers in every corner—painted on the doorframes in dandelion yellow, scribbled in notes tucked inside cookbooks, half-finished embroidery loops, and a cracked record of our favorite summer song still tucked behind the radio.

And now there’s a fresh layer of ache. Not just from missing Zae. But from the life I thought I had built. The one that crumbled in an office doorway, right before my eyes.

I stare down at my tea and say, “I thought I was just coming back to help you for a few weeks. Clear out the attic, eat some scones, then keep wandering.”

“About that,” Gram says, setting her mug down with a gentle clink. “I’ve been thinking.”

Here it comes.

“You’re the only grandchild I’ve got. And you’ve been through hell these past few years. I want to give you something—your inheritance. Early.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

She smiles, soft and a little mischievous. “I want to see what you’ll do with it. I think maybe it’s time you had something of your own.”

She slides forward and old fashion cheque, signed carefully by her hand. I blink, the words slow to register. “Gram, that’s... a lot of money.”

“It’s just money. You’re the treasure.”

The tears that threatened earlier slip loose. She always knows exactly how to knock the air out of me—kindly, gently, like she's brushing dust from a shelf.

“But,” she says, handing me a napkin like she always does when I cry, “I have one request. Stay in Starling Grove for a few months. Help me finish clearing out the house. After that, if you want to go, I won’t stop you.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

“You don’t have to decide anything today. Sleep on it. Let the idea breathe.”

We finish our tea and delicious scones in silence. The kind that only exists between people who love each other completely.

Later, after Gram’s gone off to call one of her bridge friends, I wander back upstairs. The attic is quiet again, the shadows longer, more golden.

I sit down on the cedar chest and pick up the photo album Zae labeled.

It opens to a picture of us at fifteen, in hideous taffeta dresses, grinning like fools.

She had bubble-gum pink braces, and I had a pimple the size of a marble on my forehead, poorly disguised by pressed powder and wishful thinking.

I run a finger over our faces, tracing the memory of freckles and mischief.

“We were going to open a candy shop,” I whisper. “Remember that?”

Zae had the recipes—caramel brittle with sea salt, peppermint fudge, sugar cookies decorated like tiny spring blossoms. I had the stubbornness, the business spreadsheets, the color-coded binders.

And maybe... maybe I still do.

The thought roots in me quietly, curling into something warm. Not quite hope. But maybe something like it.

I close the album, hold it to my chest, and for the first time in years, I let the spark of an idea take root.

Maybe it’s time to come home for real.

Maybe it’s time to build something sweet.