Page 4 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)

Chapter four

Cam

T here’s something about Gram’s kitchen that makes the world feel a little gentler.

Maybe it’s the smell—freshly baked bread and that lemon polish she’s sworn by since before I was born.

Or the warmth that seems to radiate from the floorboards and the teacups and her presence itself.

Or maybe it’s the hum she sings under her breath while laying out lemon bars, pretending this is just another cozy afternoon and not the moment I sign my life over to a very real, very terrifying dream.

The kitchen looks the same as it did when I was eight, sticky with jam and dreams. Pale yellow walls cradle old watercolor prints, and the shelves—robin’s egg blue—are cluttered with mismatched mugs, recipe cards curling at the corners, and flour-dusted bowls.

The floor is worn smooth in all the places a person stands to cook, to knead dough, to lean against the counter while confessing something important.

I’m seated at the old oak table with the lease in front of me and a pen poised in my fingers, my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. Jamie sits across from me, his smile patient and encouraging, like he knows I’m two seconds from bolting but trusts I’ll hold my ground.

Which is unfair, because how am I supposed to think clearly when he smells like cedar and cinnamon and safety? Like warmth wrapped in strength wrapped in every spicy idea I’m not supposed to entertain right now.

“Everything make sense?” he asks gently.

I look up, blinking fast. “Oh—yes. I just... want to be sure. It’s a big step.”

He nods. “It is. But you don’t have to rush. This is your space. Take all the time you need.”

Before I can answer, Gram bustles in with another tray of lemon bars like we haven’t barely touched the first. “You could read that lease backward and it’d still be a good deal, sweetheart. Jamie here’s practically giving it away. I’ve seen less generous contracts from kittens.”

“Gram—” I warn, already feeling the blush creep up my neck.

She’s undeterred. “And he brought the papers himself. That’s not just neighborly, that’s downright charming.”

“Gram.” I shoot her a pleading look.

Jamie chuckles. “I don’t mind. I like the personal touch.”

She pours tea with theatrical flair, the scent of bergamot and honey rising like steam from memory. Then she winks. Actually winks. “Personal touch is important. Especially when the landlord’s young, handsome, and single.”

The pen slips from my fingers and clatters against the table.

Gram just pats my shoulder and drifts back toward the counter, humming something that sounds strangely like a love song with notes from the wedding march. My face is on fire.

“She’s... enthusiastic,” I mutter, glaring at the lease.

Jamie’s voice is amused but warm. “She’s great. Reminds me of my Nonna. Matchmaking was kind of her whole personality.”

I shoot him a look. “Please don’t encourage her.”

“No promises.”

I huff a laugh and try to focus on the words in front of me.

My hands are shaking just a little, but I grip the pen, swallow, and sign my full name.

Camellia Rose Vale . The last stroke of my name settles on the page, and I feel like I’ve just jumped off a high dive. Exhilarated. Terrified. Kind of free.

Jamie reaches out and closes the folder gently. “That’s it. You’re officially the tenant of 2 Waterfront Lane.”

I stare at the table, then glance up at him. “It feels unreal. Like I’m waiting for someone to yank it away and say, ‘Just kidding.’”

“Nope,” he says. “It’s yours. I believe in it. And I believe in you.”

Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back. He’s shown me more kindness in the few days I’ve known him than Eric had our entire relationship.

“Thank you, Jamie. Really.”

“Anytime.” I can tell he means it.

Gram claps her hands from the stove. “Well, this calls for a celebration! Jamie, you’ll stay for supper?”

I nearly knock over my teacup. “Gram!”

Jamie laughs. “I’d love to, but I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding, you’re investing,” Gram says with a wink. “Hope and roast chicken—both essential in my book.”

I cover my face. “I’m going to need new walls. You’ve embarrassed me out of these.”

Jamie leans in slightly, and that warm cinnamon scent brushes against my skin. “We could do a celebration another day. Coffee, lunch, whatever works for you.”

My brain short-circuits. “I’m going to be really busy. Like, schedule-packed, supply-run, candy-theory busy.”

He smiles like I’ve said something adorable. “No rush. Anytime’s good to celebrate. I’ll be around.”

Something in his tone makes me look up. Really look. And for a second, the warmth in his eyes makes it hard to breathe.

“Okay,” I say. Soft. Honest.

Gram beams like she’s already picking out centerpieces.

And I try not to imagine what celebrating with Jamie might feel like. But the thought’s already rooted, warm and slow and sugary sweet.

***

Later, when Jamie’s gone and the kitchen is quiet again, I linger at the table with my fingers curled around a second cup of tea that’s long since gone cold.

The lease sits in front of me like proof that something new is possible.

I trace the curve of my signature with one finger. It still doesn’t feel real.

“Gram,” I call, not turning around.

“Yes, baby?” she answers from the living room, where the soft murmur of a game show plays.

“Did you mean for this to happen?”

A pause. Then: “You mean Jamie? Or the shop?”

“Both.”

She chuckles. “I meant to give you a little push toward things you actually want. That’s all.”

I smile, then press my forehead to the heel of my hand. “It’s a big push.”

“That’s because I believe in you, Camellia Rose.”

Tears sneak up again, but I blink them away.

I stand and drift back upstairs to the room I slept in as a girl. It’s smaller than I remember, or maybe I’m just heavier with life now.

I sit on the bed and open the old candy shop notebook Zae and I used to scribble in—recipes, sketches, names. Her handwriting is bubbly, mine more rigid. We had no idea what we were doing, but we were so sure it would happen someday.

I press my palm to the page and whisper, “I’m doing it, Zae. We’re doing it.”

And for the first time in years, I feel like maybe I’m not floating.

I’m landing.

Right where I’m supposed to be.