Page 25 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)

Chapter twenty-five

Theo

C am’s arm slips into mine like it belongs there. The warmth of her, the light scent of sugar and citrus that clings to her skin—it’s distracting in the best and worst ways. I try not to think too much about how natural it feels. About how badly I want to lean into it.

She points ahead. “That’s it. Starling Grove’s library.”

I follow her gaze. The building rises like something out of time.

Grand, three stories high, with climbing ivy across its stone facade.

Wide steps stretch out in front, worn smooth from decades of feet.

Pillars frame a massive oak door inlaid with stained glass.

The whole place smells faintly of books, pine, and waxed wood—even from outside.

“It’s gorgeous,” she murmurs.

“And older than most of the town,” I say. “I used to come here just to stare at the ceiling.”

She grins. “That sounds like something a broody child would do.”

“I was a charmingly serious teenager, thank you.”

We climb the stairs together. Inside, the place is warm and hushed. Sunlight filters through high windows, casting gold over rows and rows of shelves. The air smells like paper and quiet magic.

As we cross into the main hall, Cam gently slips her arm from mine. The absence of her touch is immediate. A small ache. I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from reaching back.

We spread out across different sections, starting with cookbooks and botanical references.

She pulls out a hefty book titled Sweets Through the Ages while I comb through Botanical Additives in Historic Cooking .

We sit at one of the long oak tables, flipping pages and taking notes.

She mumbles to herself while reading, completely absorbed. I find it endearing.

“Anything yet?” I ask.

She blows a curl out of her face. “Lots of weird ingredients, but nothing about petal sugar. It’s like it doesn’t exist.”

“Maybe it has another name,” I suggest. “Or maybe it’s a regional thing. Try the index for floral sweets.”

We swap books and keep going. She leans over my shoulder to glance at a botanical illustration, and I catch a hint of lavender and vanilla from her hair. My heart stutters.

“Still nothing,” she mutters after another ten minutes. “Either Zae made it up or it’s so old it predates digital records.”

“Or,” I say, standing, “it’s in the basement archive.”

She looks up, curious. “Basement?”

“Yep. Come on.”

We make our way to the desk where an older librarian with steel-grey hair looks up and smiles. I worked here for a year before college, and knew my way around the place.

“Theo Wells,” she says. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Hey, Mrs. Hannity. Think we can get into the old inventory?”

She gives me a look. “Still chasing obscure mysteries?”

“You know me. This one’s candy-related. Might be urgent.”

She chuckles and gestures to the door behind her. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Mind the steps.”

Cam follows me through the back and down a narrow staircase. The basement is cool and smells of old wood and ink. We flick on a row of flickering lights, their glow soft and warm.

Against the far wall sits a dusty card catalog.

“You’re kidding,” Cam says, eyes wide. “This is real?”

“Tell me you’ve never used one.”

She lifts her chin. “I’m twenty-four, not ninety.”

I mock gasp. “You’re just a baby.”

“You’re not that much older.”

“I’m thirty-one. That’s seven years of wisdom.”

Her smile softens. “You don’t look it.”

“Good moisturizer,” I say, then lower my voice. “It’s not a problem unless it is for you.”

She blushes, pink flooding her cheeks as she turns toward the cabinet. “It’s not.”

We search in silence. Her fingers trace the yellowing cards, delicate but intent. Then she lets out a soft sound.

“I found something. Local sweets and customs. Says there’s a book in the folklore section.”

Together, we drift through old shelves, breathing in the dust and leather bindings. It’s dim, quiet, and there’s no one down here but us. The hush feels sacred.

Cam stops in front of a tall shelf. The book is just out of reach. She stretches on tiptoe, and I step in, my body close behind hers.

Her breath catches.

I reach forward, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her back. “Let me.”

My hand brushes hers as I pluck the book free. She turns slightly, and we’re face to face. Inches apart. Her eyes search mine, wide and uncertain. Her lips part. The air between us tightens.

She’s going to kiss me.

I don’t move. I want it too badly to risk rushing her.

But something flickers in her gaze. A shadow. Doubt. She freezes.

I shift gently, pulling the book back and taking a slow step to the side.

The spell breaks without snapping.

“Here,” I say softly, offering her the book.

She takes it, fingers brushing mine. Her smile is small but grateful.

We don’t speak as we head back toward the stairs.

But the tension? That lingers like electricity in the dark.