Page 57 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)

Chapter fifty-seven

Jamie

C am’s breathing has evened out into that soft, slow rhythm that means she’s gone under.

Her head is tucked against my chest, her hair a tangle of silk under my chin, and one arm is curled between us like she’s afraid I might slip away if she doesn’t keep me anchored.

The lounger creaks every time I shift, but I’m careful not to.

If she’s comfortable here, that’s where we stay.

The blanket’s one of the thicker ones from the linen cupboard—soft, a little worn at the edges, smelling faintly of cedar and sunshine.

I pulled it over her when her shoulders twitched in her sleep.

Her scent’s mellowed since earlier, still warm but calmer, more settled.

It threads through the salt of the sea breeze and the faint tang of the herbal tea she had before drifting off.

I’ve got the best seat in the world.

By the time Theo and Dane step in from the back door, arms full of canvas bags, my body’s half-asleep with her weight.

They’re talking over each other—something about the boat engine and whether it’s getting cranky again—but the moment they spot us, Theo’s mouth curls into a knowing grin. Dane tries for subtle, fails instantly.

“Glad to see you kept busy,” Theo says in that too-innocent tone that’s never actually innocent.

I tilt my head without dislodging Cam. “Busy holding down the fort,” I reply in a whisper. “It’s an important job.”

Dane smirks as he sets a bag on the counter. “Mm. Fort smells… interesting.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no bite to it. “Maybe that’s just your cooking supplies.”

“We brought good stuff,” Theo chimes in, ignoring the jab. He starts unpacking bread, cheese, some cured meats, and a jar of something that looks suspiciously like peach preserves. “And sent a message on the radio so her Gram wouldn’t worry.”

I glance down at Cam. Still out, her face smoothed into that rare, unguarded softness she doesn’t let many people see. My chest does something inconvenient and warm. “She’ll be glad to hear that,” I say quietly.

Dane’s already got a skillet heating on the stove. “We figured we’d make something hot before it gets too late. You eat yet?”

“Not since earlier,” I admit. My stomach growls right on cue, which earns me matching smirks from both of them.

The air shifts around us—soft teasing, quiet clinks of plates, the hiss of butter in the pan.

It’s absurdly domestic, and I can’t stop cataloguing it: Theo’s low whistle as he slices bread, Dane’s casual hum while he stirs, the way the light from the stove pools gold against the cooler blues of the windows.

I’ve been in rougher places, lonelier places.

And if you’d told me a month ago that I’d be here, leg busted up, wrapped in a blanket with an omega sleeping against me while my packmates fuss in the kitchen…

I’d have said you were telling a fairy tale.

Turns out, I like this fairy tale.

Cam stirs when Dane sets a plate on the low table near us, the smell of melted cheese and fresh bread cutting through the air. She blinks up at me first, disoriented for a heartbeat before her eyes track toward the kitchen.

“You’re back,” she says, voice scratchy with sleep.

Theo turns with a grin. “And bearing gifts.”

She shifts to sit up, and I steady her with one arm until she’s settled with the blanket still wrapped around her. “Smells amazing,” she admits.

“Eat before it cools,” Dane instructs, in his usual don’t-argue tone. She takes the plate without protest, tearing into the bread first. Her eyes flutter shut for a second. “Okay, that’s good,” she says around the bite.

We all end up clustered, plates balanced on knees, banter flowing in easy currents.

Theo tells a half-exaggerated story about nearly dropping the peach preserves in the water; Dane claims he would’ve dived in after them; I point out that would’ve been the dumbest possible way to get hypothermia.

Cam laughs into her mug of tea, and the sound sinks straight into the part of me that’s been holding tension since getting injured.

When the plates are cleared and the last of the tea’s gone, Theo glances toward the windows. The light outside is already dimming, that summer twilight where the world feels like it’s holding its breath. “Too late for a proper project,” he says, “but we could do something cozy.”

“Cards?” Dane offers.

“Or a fire,” Theo counters. “Tell stories until we can’t keep our eyes open.”

Cam’s smile is small but real. “That sounds… perfect.”

I lean back into the lounger, blanket still draped over both of us, and watch them start to gather what we’ll need—cards, matches, an extra quilt from the hall cupboard.

My leg throbs in the background, but for once I don’t curse it.

Without it, I might not have been right here, right now. And I wouldn’t trade this for anything.