Page 66 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)

Chapter sixty-six

Cam

T he first thing I’m aware of is warmth.

Not the too-hot, too-bright fever warmth of my heat — that’s faded to a low, steady ember — but a softer, heavier kind.

Jamie’s chest is solid under my cheek, his arm slung loose around me like it got tired halfway through the night and just stayed there.

The steady thump of his heartbeat is slow and reassuring, the kind of sound you could get lost in if you let yourself.

The couch shouldn’t fit two grown adults, but somehow we’ve made it work.

His injured leg is propped up on a folded blanket, and I’ve tucked myself along the other side so I’m not crowding him.

My blanket’s half on the floor, half under us, but his scent — woodsmoke and something sharp, like the edge of a winter morning — is a better comforter than anything fabric could manage.

I blink toward the window. Pale gold light streaks across the wall, catching the dust motes that drift in lazy spirals. Somewhere outside, a gull calls.

The chair in the corner is empty. Theo’s book is still on the seat, a map peeking out from between the pages. I don’t need to guess where he is — if I know him at all now, he’s out there somewhere with that same map, muttering under his breath about rivers and ridges and “possible growth patterns.”

I shift carefully, not wanting to wake Jamie, but he makes a sleepy sound and tightens his arm.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

“And you’re a space heater,” I say softly.

His mouth curves, eyes still closed. “Guess I’m good for something.”

The door creaks faintly. Dane steps in, hair damp from what I’m guessing is an icy well-water rinse. His gaze flicks between me and Jamie, but there’s no judgement there — just that steady, assessing alpha watchfulness. “Theo’s outside,” he says, like it’s news. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Of course he didn’t.

Dane sets down a crate on the counter. Inside, I spot a jar of honey, some dried meat, and a loaf of bread so fresh it still smells faintly of yeast. “Figured we’d all eat before heading out,” he adds. “Supplies are limited, but we can stretch it.”

Jamie cracks an eye open. “Where’s he planning to drag us now?”

Dane shrugs, but I see the flicker in his expression — not quite worry, not quite resignation. “Looking for places the flower might grow. Says he’s got a couple of promising leads on the island. And it’s a warm weather bloom, so we have to get to it before the cool air scares it off.”

Theo comes in then, the map rolled under his arm. His hair’s a windblown mess, eyes bright in a way I recognize now as the closest he gets to hopeful. “Found a spot,” he says, without preamble. “A day’s hike will give Jamie plenty of resting time. Terrain’s rough, but… I think it’s worth it.”

Jamie groans theatrically. “Rough terrain, my favorite.”

Theo ignores him. His gaze skims over me, lingering just long enough that I feel it. “We’ll rest today. Leave in the morning.”

There’s a small, unexpected relief in that — one more day in this half-broken house, with its creaky floors and mismatched furniture and the quiet hum of safety. One more day before we start chasing what might be nothing… or might be everything.

I catch Theo watching me again, and for just a moment, I think maybe it’s not the flower he’s most intent on finding.

He blinks and slides the map back into its tube, Dane sets the bread and honey on the counter, Jamie shifts his leg and mutters something about “doctor’s orders,” and I feel a low knot in my chest loosen.

One more day inside this small world we’ve made.

One more day where the future can wait on the other side of the door.

“First things first,” Dane says, like a foreman assigning shifts. “Breakfast, then gear check, then rest.”

“Rest sounds fake,” Jamie says, eyes bright with mischief. “Is that the one where I win at cards again?”

Theo’s mouth curves. “That’s the one where you do your physical therapy and don’t pretend you forgot how to count to ten.”

“I can count to ten,” Jamie says, affronted. “It just takes me a while to get there.”

We move without really discussing it—Dane pulls the skillet, Theo puts the kettle on, I reach for the knives.

Jamie directs us from the stool with the exaggerated seriousness of a general planning a campaign, and Theo tolerates exactly twenty-two seconds of it before setting a mug of tea in front of him to keep his mouth busy.

The safehouse breathes around us: old wood, soft light, a weathered rug that grips my toes when I pivot, the faint scent of last night’s fire, the steady sea-salt air that wanders in through the cracked window.

I slice apples thin enough that the edges curl; Dane sears them with butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Theo folds herbs into eggs until the color is spring-green. Jamie steals a strip of bacon and then guiltily offers it to me when Theo clears his throat without looking up.

We eat crowded at the low table, shoulders bumping, forks clinking. The food is simple and perfect—creamy eggs, sweet apples, salt and smoke and heat—and every bite feels like a reason to stay alive. When we’re done, Theo tips the pan to show me a perfect, clean surface.

“Not a speck,” he says, smug.

Jamie lifts his mug. “To not a speck, and to the speckless cook who made it happen.”

Dane’s mouth almost smiles. “Less speeches. More water. Hydrate before you complain about headaches and Theo keeps us grounded longer.”

“Alpha romance,” Jamie stage-whispers to me. “Stay hydrated.”

“Makes me swoon,” I whisper back, and Dane pretends not to hear us both.