Page 6 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)

Chapter six

Cam

T he shop smells like fresh paint, sawdust, and the ghosts of a hundred dreams.

Mine and Zae’s, mostly.

I’m standing in the middle of the front room, arms crossed, trying to decide if the display table should be angled slightly to the left or if I’ve lost my mind entirely.

The sunlight filters through the huge front windows, catching on specks of dust still floating from the weekend’s sanding and painting.

The walls are a warm buttery cream now—after three test swatches and a minor existential crisis—and the trim is a soft rose gold that’s just shy of being too much.

It’s beautiful.

And terrifying.

The back room smells of pine from the new counters Jamie helped me source, and the beginnings of a kitchen space that isn’t quite real yet. I have lists—so many lists—and a vision, and approximately an ounce of chill left to my name.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself, holding a labeled jar up to the light. “Gummies here. Fudge there. The retro bin wall can go...” I trail off, then spin in a slow circle. “...somewhere.”

I sink to the floor, my legs folding under me like I’ve done this exact motion a thousand times before. Which I have. Just not here. Not since Zae.

The folder of old sketches and plans lies open next to me, a polaroid half-tucked between the pages. She’s in it, beaming, holding up a tray of laughably lumpy bonbons like they were Olympic gold. We were sixteen. My handwriting in the corner reads: Zae's Disaster Truffles – 7/14.

I touch the edge of the photo and feel the burn in my chest tighten.

“You’d be laughing at me right now,” I whisper. “Or calling me a genius. Or both.”

The tears start before I can stop them. Quiet, salty, inevitable.

It’s been five years. But this is the first time I’ve tried to do it alone. To follow the dream I’d buried with her.

I press the heel of my hand to my eyes. I just need a second. Just a second to breathe and regroup and—

The bell over the door jingles.

I freeze. Heart in my throat. I swipe at my eyes and scramble to my feet, tucking the photo under the nearest jar.

“Hello?” I call, trying to sound upbeat and not like I was ugly crying on the kitchen floor a minute ago.

The man who steps in is tall, broad, and immediately radiates alpha. The kind that carries authority in the set of his shoulders, the steady weight of his steps, and the way his eyes sweep the space like he owns it.

Which—considering he does—makes sense.

“You must be Camellia,” he says, his voice low and gravel-warm.

I nod, pulling my shoulders back. “Cam. And you’re...?”

“Dane.”

He steps forward and offers a hand. It’s large, rough-skinned, and warm.

“Co-owner,” he adds, like it’s both a warning and a resume.

I take his hand because I’m not about to be intimidated in my own candy shop. “Nice to meet you.”

His eyes linger on mine a second longer than necessary. And then—he blinks.

Oh.

He smells me.

I feel it, like a pulse in the air. The way his posture shifts subtly, nostrils flaring for a heartbeat before he masks it under a sharp glance at the unfinished counter.

He recovers quickly. But not quickly enough that I miss the spark.

“So,” he says, looking around with faint skepticism. “This is the candy empire.”

I cross my arms. “It will be. Once the counters are in. And the signage. And the kitchen is certified.”

His brow lifts. “You have a kitchen plan?”

“Yes.” I pull out the folder—thankfully not tear-stained—and open to the sketch I created. “Window into the kitchen here. Demo that back divider. I want customers to see the process. Transparency builds trust.”

He studies the meticulous, accurate drawing. Then me. “You did this?”

“Yes.”

He grunts, noncommittal, but I catch the flicker of something in his eyes—approval, maybe?

“You’ve got vision,” he says.

“Thanks,” I reply, trying not to get flustered.

“Execution?” he asks.

“Working on it.”

He moves around the shop like he’s assessing it for a home inspection. Pauses at a slightly uneven shelf and runs his fingers along the bracket.

“This needs to be reinforced,” he mutters. “Too much weight and it’ll bow.”

“I was going to do that tomorrow,” I lie.

“Mm-hm.” He moves on.

Bossy. Definitely bossy. And kind of infuriating.

But also... he’s not wrong.

“Anything else you’d like to critique while you’re here?” I ask sweetly.

“Plenty. But I’ll pace myself.”

I bark a laugh before I can stop myself. “Wow. You’re charming.”

Dane glares. I grin.

And for a moment, the tension shifts—twists—into something else.

“Jamie said that out of the three co-owners, you’d be the tough sell,” I add. “I can see why.”

His mouth twitches. “I’m not a sell. I’m the one who keeps things from falling apart.”

“And I’m the one trying to build something.”

We lock eyes.

Fireworks. Static. Something slow and hot rising under my skin.

Dane blinks first.

“Well,” he says. “Let’s see if you can.”

And despite everything—my messy heart, his stormy eyes—I think he’s already curious.

Which is exactly the kind of dangerous spark I wasn’t expecting today.

He takes another lap around the room, pausing by the front window.

“You’re facing west,” he says. “Gets golden light in the late afternoon. Good for window displays.”

I blink. “That’s... actually a helpful observation.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean, you did start by pointing out all my flaws.”

“I started by making sure you don’t have a lawsuit on your hands when someone pulls a shelf down on themselves.”

“Touché.”

He walks to the table I’ve been fussing with for the past twenty minutes. Tilts it slightly.

“There. That’s your angle.”

I look. Damn it. He’s right.

He catches my expression and smirks.

“I hate that you’re good at this,” I grumble.

“You’ll live.”

We end up working side by side for over an hour. Him checking the shelf stability and grabbing his drill from his truck like he just happens to keep it on him. Me fussing with labels and layout while we volley soft barbs back and forth.

Somewhere in the middle of arguing about bin height and kid-accessibility, he crouches to adjust a screw and mutters, “if you put the sour ropes that low, you’ll get a toddler riot.”

“I see your knowledge of construction extends to rope placement,” the words slips out of my mouth before I can think better of them.

I freeze. He’s quiet for a beat too long, the air growing thicker in the shop. Then Dane clears his throat and taps the wall. “You’re gonna want insulation back here. Winter’s brutal by the lake.”

I nod, grateful for the shift.

“You’re not so bad,” I say as he packs up the drill.

He raises a brow. “Don’t let that get out.”

“I won’t. Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t a scout.”

“I was a Brownie for three months. It counts.”

He snorts. And then—he smiles. Just a little.

“You’re trouble,” he says.

“Only the fun kind.”

He heads for the door, pauses in the frame. Turns back.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to check the brackets. And don’t forget to reinforce that bottom shelf. Or I’ll do it and charge you double.”

“Yes, sir,” I say with a mocking salute.

His eyes flicker with something almost playful.

Then he’s gone.

And I’m left standing in the middle of my almost-candy shop with my heart thudding and my cheeks warm and a stack of reinforced shelves that feel like they might actually hold something real, and not just a shadow of a dream long-abandoned dream.