Page 7 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)

Chapter seven

Cam

T he scent of butter and sugar wraps around me like a blanket.

It’s late—past dinnertime, definitely—and the little kitchen in Gram’s house is a whirlwind of bowls, spoons, and half-measured ingredients. There’s powdered sugar on my cheek, raspberry puree on the stove, and a forgotten pot of honey just beginning to bubble too high.

“Shoot!” I yelp, rushing to pull it off the heat. I swirl the pan, willing it to calm down, the amber liquid sloshing with sticky menace. “Calm, calm, calm…”

The honey settles—barely—and I exhale like I just defused a bomb.

I’ve been in the kitchen for hours, testing old recipes, adjusting them slightly, trying to recreate something from memory and heartache.

The raspberry-lavender chews are too tart, the salted caramel isn’t silky enough, and the honey crunch?

Well, that one’s always been temperamental.

Zae’s recipe, of course. She called it her “chaos candy.” Said it had mood swings.

It either turned out perfectly or burned into oblivion.

I stir the honey carefully, listening to the soft tick of the clock above the sink, the crickets outside, the occasional creak of the old floorboards. The house smells like childhood and dreams deferred. Like home.

That’s when I hear the knock.

It’s soft—two light raps—and a voice follows a second later. “Cam?”

Jamie.

I wipe my hands on a towel, eyeing the honey pan like it might misbehave again the second I look away. “Come in!” I call.

The back door creaks as it opens, and Jamie steps in with a cautious smile, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting or rescuing me.

“Hey,” he says, eyes scanning the kitchen. “Whoa. This is... impressive.”

I glance around. There’s sugar on the counter, three half-filled baking trays, a rack of failed caramels, and one valiant pan of fudge that actually looks edible.

“Don’t judge me,” I say. “It’s controlled chaos.”

Jamie chuckles, stepping inside and letting the door ease shut behind him. He’s wearing jeans and a soft flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, and there’s flour—or maybe sawdust—on his forearm. Of course he looks unfairly good in a kitchen I’ve turned into a war zone.

“I came to check if Dane scared you off,” he says, walking over to the island.

“He definitely tried.” I offer him a teasing smile, then turn to the tray of raspberry chews. “But I’ve survived worse. Like these.”

He picks one up, sniffs it cautiously, then pops it in his mouth. His eyebrows lift.

“Hey. That’s good.”

I squint at him. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about candy.”

“Well, good, because I’ve got four more for you to try. But you have to be honest.”

He pulls up a stool, resting his forearms on the counter. “Hit me with your best shot.”

I serve him a sample plate, moving through each recipe with growing self-consciousness. But Jamie? He’s fully present. Tasting, considering, giving actual feedback—sometimes even funny commentary.

“This one could use more salt.”

“This one is hiding something... orange zest?”

“This one tastes like heartbreak but in a good way.”

That last one makes me laugh—and wince a little.

“It’s Zae’s,” I say quietly, nodding to the honey crunch.

Jamie nods, his expression softening. “The famous twin.”

I nod, stirring the caramel again so I don’t have to meet his eyes. I’m not surprised he knows. He’s older than me, by maybe almost as ten years, but it was a small town and her story had made the front page.

People remembered everyone who died, especially when plucked away before reaching twenty.

“She was the brave one,” I say. “The loud one. The one who always believed everything would work out.”

There’s a silence, but not the awkward kind. The kind that’s full of space—space to breathe, to remember.

“She loved this recipe,” I continue. “Even when it failed. Said it had personality. That sometimes, you have to be a little unpredictable to be interesting.”

Jamie’s hand brushes the edge of the counter near mine, just a breath away. “She sounds like she was amazing.”

“She was.” My throat tightens. “She was everything.”

Another quiet moment. I feel the tears threaten, and I blink hard, forcing a smile.

“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to dump that on you.”

“You didn’t.”

I glance at him.

He’s still watching me, steady and sure. Like he’s not afraid of the mess—of me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I will be,” I say. “Eventually.”

“Good.” He offers a small smile. “Because I’m expecting to see this shop filled with people and kids and pastel jars full of chaos candy.”

I huff a soft laugh. “That’s the goal.”

We clean up side-by-side—he dries while I wash, our movements syncing like we’ve done this before. Like it’s easy.

Eventually, the kitchen is calm again. Still scented with sugar and lemon and lavender. Still full of ghosts, but... a little warmer now.

We sit at the kitchen table afterward, both nursing warm mugs of tea Gram left steeping in her favorite rosebud china pot. I didn’t plan on company, but I don’t want to ask him to leave. Jamie rests his elbow on the table and leans his chin into his hand, watching the steam curl from his cup.

“She used to sneak candy into school,” I say suddenly. “Zae. Stuffed it in her boots like a little outlaw. She said no test was ever hard when you had lemon drops in your socks.”

Jamie grins. “She sounds like a menace.”

“The best kind,” I say, smiling.

We fall quiet again. It’s a still sort of silence, heavy but not uncomfortable. The kind you can lean into.

Jamie doesn’t fidget or press. He just exists beside me, solid and safe, and it’s honestly more comforting than I expected.

After a while, I whisper, “I miss her so much.”

“I can tell. And from the little you’ve told me, I get why.”

I nod, and my fingers brush the edge of the folded recipe page on the table.

“This was her dream, too. I just want this to be good enough,” I add. “For her. For me. For this town.”

“It will be.” Jamie’s voice is low but sure. “Because it matters to you.”

I glance at him then, heart pinching.

He sees me. And maybe even believes in me more than I do.

The clock ticks gently. The tea cools. I don’t want to move.

But eventually I set down my cup.

“I should find more recipes,” I say quietly. “Try again tomorrow.”

Jamie stands, stretching slowly. “Want me to stay and help?”

I hesitate.

“No,” I say, soft but grateful. “But thank you. Really.”

He nods. Then pulls out a notepad from his back pocket and scribbles something, tearing it off and handing it to me.

“My number,” he says. “My personal one.”

I take it carefully. “Thanks.”

“If you need help. Or someone to try more heartbreak candy.”

“Got it.”

He moves toward the door, then pauses.

“I’m not far,” he says. “Anytime.”

Then he’s gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

I stand in the quiet, his number in one hand, a warm spot blooming in my chest.

Maybe not everything has to be done alone.

Maybe some recipes taste better shared.