Page 63 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)
Chapter sixty-three
Cam
T he cards keep shuffling until the sun shifts, light slanting deeper into the cabin. At some point, Theo collects the deck and sets it aside, and it’s the natural kind of pause that happens when everyone’s stomach starts rumbling again.
“I’ll make lunch,” I say automatically, though I’m not sure I’m ready to be on my feet for long stretches. Heat drains me and makes me feel like a shadow of my usual self.
Theo shakes his head. “You cooked breakfast yesterday. Sit.”
Jamie tilts his head toward the counter. “We can all help.”
Before I can protest, Dane is already pulling out the cutting board, moving with quiet purpose. Theo gathers ingredients — bread, cheese, tomatoes, a hunk of cured meat — and lays them out in a neat row. Jamie directs from his seat, which earns him a sharp look from Theo, but it doesn’t stop him.
“Slice those tomatoes thinner,” Jamie says to Dane. “You’re not making steak here.”
Dane’s knife stills, and he looks at Jamie with an expression so blank it’s almost comic. “Do you want to get up and do it yourself?”
Jamie spreads his hands, grinning. “Nope. Just offering my expertise.”
Theo makes a noise that’s half amusement, half exasperation, and I cover a smile with my hand.
I try to get up and help, but Theo gently guides me back down with a hand on my shoulder. “You’re on tea duty. That’s it.”
Tea I can do. I move slowly, pulling the tin from the shelf, measuring leaves into the pot. The kettle hums to life. The smell of herbs rises, weaving into the sharper scents of sliced tomato and the buttery richness of cheese being laid out.
It’s domestic, almost achingly so. Dane’s precise knife work.
Theo’s efficient assembly line. Jamie’s easy chatter from the couch.
I realize, watching them, that this is the kind of rhythm people settle into over years.
Yet somehow, in the space of a few days, I’ve fallen into it like I was always meant to be here.
When the sandwiches are sizzling on the skillet, the air turns mouth-wateringly warm. I carry the pot of tea to the table, pouring for everyone, and Theo slides the first plate in front of me before taking his own. Dane follows, setting a jar of pickles down like it’s treasure.
We eat together, shoulders brushing in the tight space.
The bread is crisp, the cheese perfectly melted, the tomato warm and sweet.
Jamie keeps up a stream of commentary about how his sandwich is clearly the superior one, and Theo fires back without missing a bite.
Dane chews in silence but slides the pickle jar toward me when he sees me eyeing it.
By the time the plates are cleared, the light outside has softened. It’s the golden edge of afternoon, when the forest seems to hold its breath.
Theo leans back in his chair. “It’s too late to start anything big outside, and it looks like it’s about to rain anyway. We should do something in here.”
“Cards again?” Jamie suggests.
“We could,” Dane says slowly, “or we could tell stories. Trade them.”
Theo glances at me. “You get to choose.”
I look around at them — all of them waiting for my answer — and feel that same slow, warm knot in my chest from earlier. “Stories,” I say.
Jamie grins. “Alright. But I’m going first, before the tea knocks me out.”
And so it begins — the kind of afternoon where the world outside doesn’t exist. Stories and laughter, tea refills, and the steady background rhythm of rain starting to tap at the windows.
Every so often, one of them glances my way, like they’re checking without asking if I’m still comfortable, still warm enough, still okay. And every time, I am.
It’s not until I excuse myself to wash my hands that I realize just how easy it’s become to feel like I belong here.