Page 41 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)
Chapter forty-one
Dane
T he forest swallows us whole.
The path winds tight between moss-dark trunks and tangles of roots, our boots squelching through damp patches where last night’s rain still lingers.
Every breath tastes of green and loam, rich as oversteeped tea.
Somewhere overhead, a jay screeches, sharp and metallic, but otherwise the woods press in quiet around us.
Jamie’s gait is uneven, but he keeps moving, Theo steadying him from one side, Cam from the other. She’s a constant, protective shadow, her hand occasionally brushing his elbow. I bring up the rear, scanning for hazards and listening for any shift in the rhythm of our group.
That’s when it catches me again—her scent.
Different now, warmer, with a spiced sweetness like cinnamon bark left in a sun-warmed jar.
It doesn’t match the surroundings. My brain files it under stress response; her body’s been through a lot today.
But it sticks in my awareness the way a song hook does—impossible to ignore.
***
Thanks to Theo’s obsessive review of the plans, he leads us to a newer structure, probably a guest house built more recently, and probably not about to collapse like the centuries’ old mansion. The boat is too far for Jamie right now, and we need a safe, dry place to patch him up.
What we hope will be our safehouse appears around a bend, squat and weathered, almost blending into the slope of the hill it leans against. Its cedar siding has gone silver-gray with age, and the tin roof bears rust freckles like old blood.
One shutter clings stubbornly to a hinge, rattling faintly in the breeze.
Up close, the cedar scent hits first—dry, resinous, almost medicinal. When I push open the door, cool, still air drifts out, laced with the faint tang of old smoke from the stone fireplace.
The main room is a single space—wooden bunks stacked along the back wall, a scarred pine table in the center, shelves to one side holding a few mismatched mugs and a lantern without fuel. Dust softens every corner, but the structure feels solid underfoot. No ominous groans, no bowing beams.
Theo steps past me, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe as if greeting it. “Better than I expected,” he murmurs, already angling toward the side room to check the flooring. We check the bathroom (quaint enough for a guest house), and the only other room—a bedroom with a double bed.
Jamie lowers himself onto the nearest bunk with a groan. “Hell, I might just stay here.”
Cam perches beside him, knees brushing his. A loose strand of her hair curls against her cheek, catching the dim light. That cinnamon note rises faintly again, warm and sweet, and I make myself focus on unlatching the nearest shutter instead.
***
Dinner is a mismatched spread—jerky, crackers, and the can of peaches Theo unearths from his pack.
The syrup’s scent fills the small room, sweet and cloying, cutting through the dust and cedar.
Jamie is patched up, his leg being the biggest problem.
Walking long distances wouldn’t be possible for at least a day, despite his protests.
As we eat, the edges of tension start to dull.
Conversation hums, laughter slips in at odd intervals.
Theo tells one of his “remember when” stories, complete with sweeping hand gestures, about the time a storm stranded us on the mainland and we had to sleep in the back of a delivery truck.
Jamie laughs until he wheezes, and even Cam smiles, though the light in her eyes still holds something guarded.
I lean back, letting their voices wash over me. This is the kind of night I grew up in—the pack gathered after a long day, the table worn but steady under our elbows. My chest eases, even as my mind circles back to the offer waiting in the city.
Contracts. Schedules. Glass and concrete instead of cedar and salt air. My own office with my name on the door. I try to picture it without Theo’s laugh in the next room, without Jamie leaning over my shoulder, without Cam’s voice in my ear.
The image feels wrong, hollow.